(Mid which the May-thorn blends its blossoms white)
Where broad smooth stones jut out in mossy seats,
I rest-and now have gain'd the topmost site.
Ah! what a luxury of landscape meets

My gaze! Proud Towers, and Cots more dear to me,
Elm-shadow'd Fields, and prospect-bounding Sea!
Deep sighs my lonely heart I drop the tear:
Enchanting spot! O were my Sara here!

LINES

IN THE MANNER OF SPENSER.

O PEACE! that on a lilied bank dost love
To rest thine head beneath an Olive Tree,
I would, that from the pinions of thy Dove
One quill withouten pain ypluck'd might be !
For O! I wish my Sara's frowns to flee,
And fain to her some soothing song would write,
Lest she Lesent my rude discourtesy,

Who vow'd to meet her ere the morning light,
But broke my plighted word-ah! false and recreant
wight!

Last night as I my weary head did pillow
With thoughts of my dissever'd Fair engross'd,
Chill Fancy droop'd wreathing herself with willow,
As though my breast entomb'd a pining ghost.

. From some blest couch, young Rapture's bridal boast,

Rejected Slumber! hither wing thy way;
But leave me with the matin hour, at most!·
As night-closed Floweret to the orient ray,

My sad heart will expand, when I the Maid survey."

But Love, who heard the silence of my thought,
Contrived a too successful wile, I ween:
And whisper'd to himself, with malice fraught-
"Too long our Slave the Damsel's smiles hath seen :
To-morrow shall he ken her alter'd mien!"
He spake, and ambush'd lay, till on my bed
The morning shot her dewy glances keen,
When as I'gan to lift my drowsy head-
*Now, Bard! I'll work thee woe!" the laughing
Elfin said.

Sleep, softly-breathing God! his downy wing
Was fluttering now, as quickly to depart;

When twang'd an arrow from Love's mystic string,
With pathless wound it pierced him to the heart.
Was there some magic in the Elfin's dart?
Or did he strike my couch with wizard lance?
For straight so fair a Form did upwards start
(No fairer deck'd the Bowers of old Romance)
That Sleep enamour'd grew, nor moved from his
sweet trance!

My Sara came, with gentlest look divine;
Bright shone her eye, yet tender was its beam:
I felt the pressure of her lip to mine!
Whispering we went, and Love was all our theme
Love pure and spotless, as at first, I deem,

He sprang from Heaven! Such joys with Sleep did 'bide,

That I the living Image of my Dream
Fondly forgot. Too late I woke, and sigh'd-
O: how shall I behold mv Love at eventide!"

IMITATED FROM OSSIAN.

THE stream with languid murmur creeps,
In Lumin's flowery vale:
Beneath the dew the Lily weeps,

Slow-waving to the gale.

"Cease, restless gale!" it seems to say,
"Nor wake me with thy sighing!
The honors of my vernal day
On rapid wing are flying.

"To-morrow shall the Traveller come
Who late beheld me blooming:
His searching eye shall vainly roam
The dreary vale of Lumin."

With eager gaze and wetted cheek
My wonted haunts along,
Thus, faithful Maiden! thou shalt seek
The Youth of simplest song,

But I along the breeze shall roll

The voice of feeble power; And dwell, the moon-beam of thy soul, In Slumber's nightly hour..

THE COMPLAINT OF NINATHOMA How long will ye round me be swelling,

O ye blue-tumbling waves of the Sea? Not always in Caves was my dwelling,

Nor beneath the cold blast of the Tree. Through the high-sounding halls of Cathloma In the steps of my beauty I stray'd; The Warriors beheld Ninathoma,

And they blessed the white-bosom'd Maid!

A Ghost! by my cavern it darted!

In moon-beams the Spirit was drestFor lovely appear the departed

When they visit the dreams of my rest! But, disturb'd by the Tempest's commotion, Fleet the shadowy forms of Delight— Ah cease, thou shrill blast of the Ocean! To howl through my Cavern by Night.

IMITATED FROM THE WELSH IF, while my passion I impart,

You deem my words untrue, O place your hand upon my heart— Feel how it throbs for you!

Ah no! reject the thoughtless claim,
In pity to your lover!

That thrilling touch would aid the flame
It wishes to discover.

TO AN INFANT.

Ан cease thy tears and Sobs, my little Life' I did but snatch away the unclasp'd Knife : Some safer Toy will soon arrest thine eye, And to quick Laughter change this peevish

Poor Stumbler on the rocky coast of Woe,
Tutor'd by Pain each source of Pain to know!
Alike the foodful fruit and scorching fire
Awake thy cager grasp and young desire;
Alike the Good, the Ill offend thy sight,
And rouse the stormy sense of shrill affright!
Untaught, yet wise! 'mid all thy brief alarms
Thou closely clingest to thy Mother's arms,
Nestling thy little face in that fond breast
Whose anxious heavings lull thee to thy rest!
Man's breathing Miniature! thou makest me sigh-
A Babe art thou-and such a thing am I!
To anger rapid and as soon appeased,
For trifles mourning and by trifles pleased,
Break Friendship's Mirror with a techy blow,

Yet snatch what coals of fire on Pleasure's altar glow!

You roused each gentler sense As, sighing o'er the Blossom's bloom, Meek Evening wakes its soft perfume With viewless influence.

And hark, my Love! The sea-breeze moans
Through yon reft house! O'er rolling stones
In bold ambitious sweep,
The onward-surging tides supply
The silence of the cloudless sky
With mimic thunders deep.

Dark reddening from the channell❜d Isle* (Where stands one solitary pile

Unslated by the blast)

The Watch-fire, like a sullen star
Twinkles to many a dozing Tar

Rude cradled on the mast.

Even there-beneath that light-house towerIn the tumultuous evil hour

Ere Peace with Sara came,

Time was, I should have thought it sweet
To count the echoings of my feet,

And watch the storm-vex'd flame.

And there in black soul-jaundiced fit
A sad gloom-pamper'd Man to sit,

And listen to the roar :
When Mountain Surges bellowing deep
With an uncouth monster leap

Plunged foaming on the shore.

Then by the Lightning's blaze to mark
Some toiling tempest-shatter'd bark;
Her vain distress-guns hear;
And when a second sheet of light
Flash'd o'er the blackness of the night-
To see no Vessel there!

But Fancy now more gaily sings:
Or if awhile she droop her wings,

As sky-larks 'mid the corn,

On summer fields she grounds her breast: The oblivious Poppy o'er her nest

Nods, till returning morn.

O mark those smiling tears, that swell.
The open'd Rose! From heaven they fell,
And with the sun-beam blend.
Bless'd visitations from above,
Such are the tender woes of Love

Fostering the heart, they bend!

When stormy Midnight howling round
Beats on our roof with clattering sound,
To me your arms you'll stretch:
Great God! you'll say-To us so kind,
O shelter from this loud bleak wind
The houseless, friendless wretch!

The tears that tremble down your cheek, Shall bathe my kisses chaste and meek

The Holmes, in the Bristol Channe.

For they are holy things before the Lord,

Hell;

God's Altar grasping with an eager hand,

Fear, the wild-visaged, pale, eye-starting wretch,
Sure-refuged hears his hot pursuing fiends

Yell at vain distance. Soon refresh'd from Heaven,
He calms the throb and tempest of his heart.
His countenance settles; a soft solemn bliss
Swims in his eye-his swimming eye upraised:
And Faith's whole armor glitters on his limbs!
And thus transfigured with a dreadless awe,
A solemn hush of soul, meek he beholds
All things of terrible seeming: yea, unmoved
Views e'en the immitigable ministers

That shower down vengeance on these latter days.
For kindling with intenser Deity

From the celestial Mercy-seat they come,
And at the renovating Wells of Love
Have fill'd their Vials with salutary Wrath,
To sickly Nature more medicinal

Than what soft balm the weeping good man pours
Into the lone despoiled traveller's wounds!

Thus from the Elect, regenerate through faith,
Pass the dark Passions and what thirsty Cares
Drink up the spirit and the dim regards
Self-centre. Lo they vanish! or acquire
New names, new features-by supernal grace
Enrobed with light, and naturalized in Heaven.
As when a shepherd on a vernal morn

Through some thick fog creeps timorous with slow foot,

Darkling he fixes on the immediate road
His downward eye: all else of fairest kind
Hid or deform'd. But lo! the bursting Sun!
Touch'd by the enchantment of that sudden beam,
Straight the black vapor melteth, and in globes
Of dewy glitter gems each plant and tree;
On every leaf, on every blade it hangs!
Dance glad the new-born intermingling rays,
And wide around the landscape streams with glory!

There is one Mind, one omnipresent Mind,
Omnific. His most holy naine is Love.
Truth of subliming import! with the which
Who feeds and saturates his constant soul,
He from his small particular orbit flies
With bless'd outstarting! From Himself he flies,
Stands in the Sun, and with no partial gaze
Views all creation; and he loves it all,
And blesses it, and calls it very good!
This is indeed to dwell with the Most High!
Cherubs and rapture-trembling Seraphim
Can press no nearer to the Almighty's Throne.
But that we roam unconscious, or with hearts
Unfeeling of our universal Sire,
And that in his vast family no Cain
Injures uninjured (in her best-aim'd blow
Victorious Murder a blind Suicide),
Haply for this some younger Angel now
Looks down on Human Nature: and, behold!
A sea of blood bestrew'd with wrecks, where mad
Embattling Interests on each other rush

With unhelm'd rage!

"Tis the sublime of man, Our natide Majesty, to know ourselves

Our charities and bearings. But 't is God
Diffused through all, that doth make all one whole;
This the worst superstition, him except
Aught to desire, Supreme Reality!
The plenitude and perinanence of bliss!
O Fiends of Superstition! not that oft
The erring Priest hath stain'd with brother's blood
Your grisly idols, not for this may wrath
Thunder against you from the Holy One!
But o'er some plain that steameth to the sun,
Peopled with Death; or where more hideous Trade
Loud-laughing packs his bales of human anguish :
I will raise up a mourning, O ye Fiends!
And curse your spells, that film the eye of Faith,
Hiding the present God; whose presence lost,
The moral world's cohesion, we become
An anarchy of Spirits! Toy-bewitch'd,
Made blind by lusts, disherited of soul,
No common centre Man, no common sire
Knoweth! A sordid solitary thing,

'Mid countless brethren with a lonely heart
Through courts and cities the smooth Savage roams,
Feeling himself, his own low Self the whole;
When he by sacred sympathy might make
The whole one Self! Self that no alien knows!
Self, far diffused as Fancy's wing can travel!
Self, spreading still! Oblivious of its own,
Yet all of all possessing! This is Faith!
This the Messiah's destin'd victory!

But first offences needs must come! Even now
|(Black Hell laughs horrible-to hear the scoff!)
Thee to defend, meek Galilæan! Thee
And thy mild laws of love unutterable,
Mistrust and Enmity have burst the bands
Of social Peace; and listening Treachery lurks
With pious Fraud to snare a brother's life;
And childless widows o'er the groaning land
Wail numberless; and orphans weep for bread;
Thee to defend, dear Savior of Mankind!
Thee, Lamb of God! Thee, blameless Prince of
Peace!

From all sides rush the thirsty brood of War!
Austria, and that foul Woman of the North,
The lustful Murderess of her wedded Lord!
And he, connatural Mind! whom (in their songs
So bards of elder time had haply feign'd)
Some Fury fondled in her hate to man,
Bidding her serpent hair in mazy surge
Lick his young face, and at his mouth inbreathe
Horrible sympathy! And leagued with these
Each petty German princeling, nursed in gore!
Soul-harden'd barterers of human blood!

* January 21st, 1794, in the debate on the Address to his Majesty, on the speech from the Throne, the Earl of Guildford moved an Amendment to the following effect:-"That the House hoped his Majesty would seize the earliest oppor. tunity to conclude a peace with France," etc. This motion was opposed by the Duke of Portland, who "considered the war to be merely grounded on one principle-the preservatio of the Christian Religion." May 30th, 1794, the Duke o. Bedford moved a number of Resolutions, with a view to the Establishment of a Peace with France. He was opposed (among others) by Lord Abingdon in these remarkable words, "The best road to Peace, my Lords, is War! and War carried on in the same manner in which we are taught to worship our Creator, namely, with all our souls, and with all our minds, and with all our hearts, and with all our strength."

Fate!

Nor least in savagery of holy zeal,
Apt for the yoke, the race degenerate,

Whom Britain erst had blush'd to call her sons!
Thee to defend the Moloch Priest prefers
The prayer of hate, and bellows to the herd
Tha: Deity, Accomplice Deity

In the fierce jealousy of waken'd wrath
Will
go forth with our armies and our fleets,
To scatter the red ruin on their foes?
O blasphemy to mingle fiendish deeds
With blessedness!

Lord of unsleeping Love,* From everlasting Thou! We shall not die. These, even these, in mercy didst thou form, Teachers of Good through Evil, by brief wrong Making Truth lovely, and her future might Magnetic o'er the fix'd untrembling heart.

In the primeval age a dateless while
The vacant Shepherd wander'd with his flock,
Pitching his tent where'er the green grass waved.
But soon Imagination conjured up
An host of new desires: with busy aim,
Each for himself, Earth's eager children toil❜d.
So Property began, two-streaming fount,
Whence Vice and Virtue flow, honey and gall,
Hence the soft couch, and many-color'd robe,
The timbrel, and arch'd dome and costly feast,
With all the inventive arts, that nursed the soul
To forms of beauty, and by sensual wants
Insensualized the mind, which in the means
Learnt to forget the grossness of the end,
Best pleasured with its own activity.

And hence Disease that withers manhood's arm,
The dagger'd Envy, spirit-quenching Want,
Warriors, and Lords, and Priests-all the sore ills
That vex and desolate our mortal life.
Wide-wasting ills! yet each the immediate source
Of mightier good. Their keen necessities
To ceaseless action goading human thought
Have made Earth's reasoning animal her Lord;
And the pale-featured Sage's trembling hand
Strong as an host of armed Deities,
Such as the blind Ionian fabled erst.

O'er waken'd realms Philosophers and Bards
Spread in concentric circles: they whose souls,
Conscious of their high dignities from God,
Brook not Wealth's rivalry! and they who long
Enamour'd with the charms of order hate
The unseemly disproportion: and whoe'er
Turn with mild sorrow from the victor's car
And the low puppetry of thrones, to muse
On that blest triumph, when the patriot Sage
Cail'd the red lightnings from the o'er-rushing cloud,
And dash'd the beauteous Terrors on the earth
Smiling majestic. Such a phalanx ne'er
Measured firm paces to the calming sound
Of Spartan flute! These on the fated day,

Have roused with pealing voice unnumber'd tribes
That toil and groan and bleed, hungry and blind
These hush'd awhile with patient eye serene,
Shall watch the mad careering of the storm;
Then o'er the wild and wavy chaos rush
And tame the outrageous mass, with plastic might
Moulding Confusion to such perfect forms,
As erst were wont, bright visions of the day!
To float before them, when, the Summer noon,
Beneath some arch'd romantic rock reclined,
They felt the sea-breeze lift their youthful locks;
Or in the month of blossoms, at mild eve,
Wandering with desultory feet inhaled
The wafted perfumes, and the rocks and woods
And many-tinted streams and setting Sun
With all his gorgeous company of clouds
Ecstatic gazed! then homeward as they stray'd
Cast the sad eye to earth, and inly mused
Why there was Misery in a world so fair.
Ah far removed from all that glads the sense,
From all that softens or ennobles Man,
The wretched Many! Bent beneath their loads
They gape at pageant Power, nor recognize
Their cots' transmuted plunder! From the tree
Of Knowledge, ere the vernal sap had risen
Rudely disbranch'd! Blessed Society!
Fitliest depictured by some sun-scorch'd waste,
Where oft majestic through the tainted noon
The Simoom sails, before whose purple pomp
Who falls not prostrate dies! And where by night
Fast by each precious fountain on green herbs
The lion couches; or hyena dips

Deep in the lucid stream his bloody jaws.
Or serpent plants his vast moon-glittering bulk,
Caught in whose monstrous twine Behemoth* yells
His bones loud-crashing!

O ye numberless,
Whom foul Oppression's ruffian gluttony
Drives from life's plenteous feast! O thou poo
wretch,

Who nursed in darkness and made wild by want,
Roamest for prey, yea thy unnatural hand
Dost lift to deeds of blood! O pale-eyed form,
The victim of seduction, doom'd to know
Polluted nights and days of blasphemy;
Who in lothed orgies with lewd wassailers
Must gaily laugh, while thy remember'd home
Gnaws like a viper at thy secret heart!
O aged Women! ye who weekly catch
The morsel toss'd by law-forced Charity,
And die so slowly, that none call it murder!
O lothely Suppliants! ye, that unreceived
Totter heart-broken from the closing gates
Of the full Lazar-house: or, gazing, stand
Sick with despair! O ye to Glory's field
Forced or ensnared, who, as ye gasp in death,
Bleed with new wounds beneath the Vulture's beak
O thou poor Widow, who in dreams dost view
Thy Husband's mangled corse, and from short doze
Start'st with a shriek; or in thy half-thatch'd ent
Waked by the wintry night-storm, wet and cold,
Cow'rst o'er thy screaming baby! Rest awhile

quadruped.