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And He the glitter of the Dew Scatters on the Rose's hue. Bashful, lo ! she bends her lead, And darts a blush of deeper red!

From the pomp of scepter'd state,
From the rebel's noisy hate.
In a cottaged vale She dwe!ls
Listening to the Sabbath bells!
Still around ber sleps are seen
Spotless Honour's meeker mien,
Love, the sire of pleasing fears,
Sorrow smiling through her tears,
And, conscious of the past employ,
Memory, bosom-spring of joy.

Too well those lovely lips disclose
The triumplis of the opening Rose;
O fair! O graceful! bid them prove
As passive to the breath of Love.
In tender accents, faint and low,
Well-pleased I hear the whispered « No!.
The whisper'd « Nor-how little meant!
Sweet falsehood that endears consent !
For on those lovely lips the while
Dawns the soft relenting smile,
And tempts with feigned dissuasion coy
The gentle violence of Joy.

THE SIGH. When Youth his faery reign began Ere sorrow had proclaim'd me man; While Peace the present hour beguiled, And all the lovely prospect smiled; Then Mary!'mid my lightsome glee I heaved the painless Sigh for thee.

TO A YOUNG ASS. ITS MOTHER BEING TETHERED NEAR IT. Poor little foal of an oppressed race! I love the languid patience of thy face : And oft with gentle hand I give thee bread, And clap thy ragged coat, and pat thy head. But what thy dulled spirits hath dismay'd, That never thou dost sport along the glade? And (most unlike the nature of things young) That earthward still thy moveless head is hung? Do thy prophetic fears anticipate, Meek Child of Misery! thy future fate? The starving meal, and all the thousand aches

Which patient merit of the unworthy takes ?» Or is thy sad heart thrill'd with filial pain To see thy wretched mother's shorten'd chain ? And truly, very piteous is her lotChain'd to a log within a narrow spot Where the close-eaten grass is scarcely seen, While sweet around her waves the tempting green!

And when, along the waves of woe,
My harass'd heart was doom'd to know
The frantic burst of outrage keen,
And the slow pang that gnaws unseen;
Then shipwreck'd ov life's stormy sea
I heaved an anguish'd Sighi for thee!
But soon reflection's power imprest
A stiller sadoess on my breast;
And sickly hope with waning eye
Was well content to droop and die:
I yielded to the stern decree,
Yet heaved a languid Sigh for thee!

And though in distant climes to roam,
À wanderer from my native home,
I fain would soothe the sense of Care
And lull to sleep the Joys that were!
Thy Image may not banish'd be-

Still, Mary! still I sigh for thee.
June, 1794.

EPITAPH ON AN INFANT. Ere Sin could blight or Sorrow fade,

Death came with friendly care ; The opening bud to Heaven convey'd

And bade it blossom there.

Poor Ass! thy master should have learnt to show
Pity-best taught by fellowship of woe!
For much I fear me that he lives like thee,
Half famish'd in a land of luxury !
How askingly its footsteps hither bend?
It seems to say, « And have I then one friend ?»
Ionocent Foal! thou poor despised forlorn!
I hail thee brother-spite of the fool's scorn!
And fain would take thee with me, in the dell
Of peace and mild cquality to dwell,
Where Toil shall call the charmer Health his Bride,
And Laughter tickle Pleniy's ribless side!
How thou wouldst toss thy heels in gamesome play,
And frisk about, as lamb or kitten gay!
Yea! and more musically sweet to me
Thy dissonant harsh bray of joy would be,
Than warbled melodies that soothe to rest
The aching of pale fashion's vacant breast!

LINES WRITTEN AT THE KING'S ARMS, ROSS.

FORMERLY THE HOUSE OF THE « MAN OF ROSS.» PICHER than miser o'er his countless hoards, Nobler than kings, or king-polluted lords, Here dwelt the Man of Ross! O Traveller, hear! Departed merit claims a reverent tear. Friend to the friendless, to the sick man health, With generous joy he view'd his modest wealth; He hears the widow's heaven-breathed prayer of praise, He mark'd the shelter'd orphan's tearful gaze, Or where the sorrow-slirivell'd captive lay, Pours the bright blaze of Freedom's noon-tide ray. Beneath this roof if thy cheer'd moments pass, Fill to the good man's name one grateful glass :

DOMESTIC PEACE. Tell me, on what holy ground May Domestic Peace be found? Halcyon Daughter of the skies, Far on fearful wings she flies,

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To higher zest shall Memory wake thy soul,

Remorse, the poison'd arrow in his side, And Virtue mingle in the ennobled bowl.

And loud lewd Mirth, to Anguisha close allied : But if, like me, through life's distressful scene

Till Frenzy, fierce-eyed child of moping pain,
Lonely and sad thy pilgrimage hath been;

Darts her hot lightning flash athwart the brain.
And if thy breast with hiearl-sick anguish fraught, Rest, injured shade! Shall Slander squatting near
Thou journeyest onward tempest-toss'd in thought; Spit her cold venom in a dead Man's car?
Here cheal thy cares! in generous visions melt,

'T was thine to feel the sympathetic glow And dream of goodness, thou hast never felt!

10 Merit's joy, and Poverty's meek woe;
Thine all that cheer the moment as it tlies,

The zoneless Cares, and smiling Courtesies.
LINES TO A BEAUTIFUL SPRING IN A VILLAGE.

Nursed in thy heart the firmer Virtues crew,

And in thy heart they wither'd! Such chill dew Once more, sweet Stream! with slow fool wandering Wan Indolence on each young blossom shed; near,

And Vanity her filmy net-work spread, I bless thy milky waters cold and clear.

With eye

that rollid around in asking gaze, Escaped the flashing of the noontide hours

And tongue that traffick'd in the trade of praise. With one fresh garland of Pierian flowers

Thy follies such ! the hard world mark'd them well! (Ere from thy zephyr-haunted brink I turn)

Were they more wise, the proud who never fell? My languid hand shall wreath thy mossy urn.

Rest, injured shade! the poor man's grateful prayer For not through pathless grove with murmur rude On heaven-ward wing thy wounded soul shall bear. Thou soothest the sad wood-nymph, Solitude;

As oft at twilight gloom thy grave I pass, Nor thine unseen in cavern depths to well,

And sit me down upon its recent grass, The Hermil-fountain of some dripping cell!

With introverted eye I contemplate Pride of the Vale! thy useful streams supply

Similitude of soul, perhaps of-Fate! The scatter'd cots and peaceful hamlet nigh.

To me hath Heaven with bounteous hand assign'd The elfin tribe around thy friendly banks

Energic Reason and a shaping mind, With infant uproar and soul-sooibing pranks,

The daring ken of Truth, the Patriot's part, Released from school, their liule hearts at rest,

And Pity's sigh, that breathes the gentle heart. Launch paper navies on thy waveless breast.

Sloth-jaundiced all! and from my graspless hand The rustic here at eve withi pensive look

Drop Friendship's precious pearls, like hour-glass sand. Whistling lorn dirties leans upon his crook,

I

weep, yet stoop not! the faint anguish flows, Or, starting, pauses with hope-mingled dread

A dreamy pang in Morning's feverish doze.
To list the much-loved maid's accustom'd tread :
She, vainly mindful of her dame's command,

Is this piled earth our being's passless mound?
Loiters, the long-fillid pitcher in her hand.

Tell me, cold grave! is Death with poppies crown'd ?
Unboastful Stream! thy fount with pebbled falls Tired sentinel! mid fitful starts I nod,
The faded form of past delight recalls,

And fain would sleep, though pillow'd on a clod!
What time the morning sun of llope arose,
And all was joy; save when another's woes
A transient gloom upon my soul imprest,

TO A YOUNG LADY, WITH A POEM ON THE
Like passing clouds impictured on thy breast.

FRENCH REVOLUTION.
Life's current then ran sparkling to the noon,
Or silvery stole beneath the pensive Moon :

Much on my early youth I love to dwell,
Ah! now it works rude brakes and thorps among, Ere yet 1 bade that friendly dome farewell,
Or o'er the rough rock bursts and foams along! Where first, beneath the echoing cloisters pale,

I heard of guilt and wonder'd at the tale!
Yet though the hours flew by on careless wing,

Full heavily of Sorrow would I sing.
LINES ON A FRIEND,

Aye as the star of evening flung its beam

lu broken radiance on the wavy stream, WHO DIED OF A FRENZY FEVER INDUCED BY CALUM

My soul amid the pensive twilight gloom
NIOUS REPORTS.

Mourn'd with the breeze, O Lee Boo!' o'er thy toml).
EDMUND! thy grave with aching eye I scan,

Where'er I wander'd, Pity still was near, And inly groan for Heaven's poor outcast-Man! Breathed from the heart and glisten'd in the tear: 'I' is tempest all or gloom : in early youth,

No knell that tolld, but fill'd my anxious eye,
If gifted with the Ithuriel lance of Truth,

And suffering Nature wept that one should die! 2
We force to start amid her feign'd caress
Vice, siren-hag! in native ugliness;

Thus to sad sympathies I soothed my breast,
A brother's fate will haply ruuse the tear,

Calm, as the rainbow in the weeping West : And on we go in heaviness and fear!

When slumbering Freedom roused with high disdain,
But if our fond hearts call to Pleasure's bower

With giant fury burst her triple chain!
Some pigmy Folly in a careless hour,
The faithless guest shall stamp the enchanted ground

I Lee Boo, the son of Abba Thule, Prince of the Pelew Islands,
And mingled forms of Misery rise around :

care over to England with Captain Wilson, died of the small-pox, Heart-fretling Fear, with pallid look aghast,

and is buried in Greenwich church-yard.-See KEATE's Account. That courts the future woe to liide the past;

· Souibey's Retrospect,

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Fierce on her front the blasting Dog-star glow'd; Of Pomp, and proud Precipitance of soul
Her banners, like a midnight meteor, flow'd;

Wilder'd with meteor fires. Ah spirit pure!
Amid the yelling of the storm-rent skies !

That error's mist had left thy purged eye :
She came, and scatter'd battles from her eyes !

So might I clasp thee with a mother's joy!»
Then Exultation waked the patriot fire
And swept with wilder hand the Alcæan lyre :
Red from the tyrant's wound I shook the lance,

SONNET.
And strode in joy the reeking plains of France!

Thouge roused by that dark Vizir, Riot rude Fallen is the oppressor, friendless, ghasily, low,

Have driven our Priest o'er the ocean swell; And my heart aches, though Mercy struck the blow.

Though Superstition and her wolfislı brood With wearied thought once more I seek the shade,

Bay his mild radiance, impotent and fell; Wbcre peaceful Virtue weaves the myrtle braid.

Calm in his halls of brightness he shall dwell! And 0! if eyes whose holy glances roll,

For lo! Religion at his strong behest Swift messengers, and eloquent of soul;

Starts with mild anger from the Papal spell, If smiles more winning, and a gentler mien

And flings to earth her tinsel-glittering vest, Than the love-wilder'd Maniac's brain hath seen

Her mitred state and cumbrous pomp unholy; Shaping celestial forms in vacant air,

And Justice wakes to bid the Oppressor wail If these demand the empassion'd poet's care

Insulting aye the wrongs of patient Folly: If Mirth and softened Sense and Wit refined,

And from her dark retreat by Wisdom won, The blameless features of a lovely mind;

Meek Nature slowly lifts her matron veil
Then haply shall my trembling hand assign

To smile with fondness on her gazing son!
No fading wreath to beauty's saintly shrine.
Nor, Sara! thou these early flowers refuse-
Ne'er lurk'd the snake beneath their simple hues;

SONNET.
No purple bloom the child of nature brings
From Flatlery's nighai-shade: as he feels he sings.

When British Freedom for a happier land
September, 1792.

Spread her broad wings, that flutter'd with affricht,
Erskine! thy voice she heard, and paused her flight
Sublime of hope! For dreadless thou didst stand

(Thy censer glowing with the hallow'd flame)
SONNET.

A hireless Priest before the insulted shrine,

And at her altar pour the stream divine
Content, as random Fancies might inspire,

Of unmatch'd eloquence. Therefore thy name
If bis weak harp at times, or lonely lyre,

Her sons shall venerate, and cheer thy breast
He struck with desultory hand, and drew

With blessings heaven-ward breathed. And when the
Some softened tones to Nature not untrue.

doom

Of Nature bids (hee die, beyond the tomb My heart has thanked thee, Rowles! for those soft strains | Thy light shall shine : as sunk, beneath the West, Whose sadness soothes me, like the murmuring

Though the great Summer Sun eludes our gaze,

Still burns wide Heaven with his distended blaze,
Of wild-bees in the sunny showers of spring!
For hence not callous to the mourner's pains
Through Youth's gay prime and thornless paths I went:
And when the mightier Throes of mind began,

SONNET.
And drove me forth, a thought-bewilder'd man!

It was some Spirit, SHERIDAN! that breathed Their mild and manliest melancholy lent

O'er thy young mind such wildly various power! A mingled charin, such as the pang consign'd

My soul hath mark'd thee in her shaping hour, To slumber, though the big tear it renewed;

Thy temples with Hymmettian flow'rets wreathed : Bidding a strange mysterious Pleasure brood

And sweet thy voice, as when o'er Laura's bier Over the wavy and tumultuous mind,

Sad music trembled through Vauclusa's glade; As the great Spirit erst with plastic sweep

Sweet, as at dawn the love-lorn serenade
Moved on the darkness of the unformed deep.

That wafts soft dreams to Slumber's listening ear.
Now patriot rage and indignation high

Swell the full tones! And now thine eye-beams dance
SONNET.

Meanings of Scorn and Wil's quaint revelry!

Writhes inly from the bosom-probing glance As late I lay in slumber's shadowy vale,

The Apostale by the brainless rout adored, With wetted cheek and in a mourner's guise,

As erst that elder Fiend beneath great Michael's sword.
I saw the sainted form of Freedom rise :
She spake! not sadder moans the autumnal gale-
• Great Son of Genius! sweet to me thy name,

SONNET.
Ere in an evil hour with altered voice
Thou badst Oppression's hireling crew rejoice

O what a loud and fearful shriek was there,
Blasting with wizard spell my laurell'd fame.

As though a thousand souls one death-groan pour'd! Yet never, Burke! thou drank'st Corruption's bowl ! Ah me! they view'd beneath a hireling's sword The stormy Pity and the cherished lure

Fallen Kosciusko! Through the burthen'd air

BOWLES.

As

pauses the tired Cossack's barbarous yell Of triumph) on the chill and midnight gale Rises with frantic burst or sadder swell The dirge of murdered Hope! while Freedom pale Bends in such anguish o'er her destined bier, As if from eldest time some Spirit meek Had gathered in a mystic urn each tear That ever on a Patriot's furrow'd cheek Fit channel foiind; and she had draind the bowl In the mere wilfulness, and sick despair of soul!

SONNET.
Sweer Mercy! how my very heart has bled
To see thee, poor Old Man! and thy grey hairs
Hoar with the snowy blast: while no one cares
To clothe thy shrivelled limbs and palsied head.
My Father! throw away

this tatter'd vest
That mocks thy shivering! take my garment-use
A

young man's arm! I'll melt these frozen dews That hang from thy white beard and numb thy breast. My Sara too shall tend thee, like a Child : And thou shalt talk, in our fire-side's recess, Of purple Pride, that scowls on Wretchedness. He did not so, the Galilæan mild, Who met the Lazars turp'd from rich man's doors, And called them Friends, and healed their noisome

Sores!

SONNET.

As wlien far off the warbled strains are heard
That soar on Morning's wing the vales among,
Within his cage the imprison'd matin bird
Swells the full chorus with a generous song:
He bathes no pinion in the dewy light,
No Father's joy, no Lover's bliss he sbares,
Yet still the rising radiance cheers his sight;
His Fellows' freedom soothes the Captive's cares!
Thou, Fayette! who didst wake with startling voice
Life's better sun from that long wintry night,
Thus in thy Country's triumphs shalt rejoice
And mock with raplures high the dungeon's might :
For lo! the morning struggles into day,
And Slavery's spectres shriek and vanish from the ray!

SONNET. Tuou bleedest, my poor Heart! and thy distress Reasoning I ponder with a scornful smile, And probe thy sore wound sternly, though the while Swoln be mine eye and dim with heaviness. Why didst thou listen to Hope's wlrisper bland? Or, listening, why forget the healing tale, When Jealousy with feverish fancies pale Jarr'd thy fine fibres with a maniac's hand? Faint was that Hope, and rayless !--- Yet 't was fair And soothed with many a dream the hour of rest : Thou shouldst have loved it most, when most opprest, And nursed it with an agony of Care, Even as a Mother her sweet infant heir That wan and sickly droops upon her breast!

SONNET.

SONNET.

TO THE AUTHOR OF THE ROBBERS. »

Thou gentle Look, that didst my

soul beguile, Why hast thou left mc? Still in some fond dream Revisit

my sad heart, auspicious Smile! As falls on closing flowers the lunar beam: What time, in sickly mood, at parting day I lay me down and think of happier years; Of joys, that glimmered in Ilope's twilight ray, Then left me darkling in a vale of tears. O pleasant days of llope-for ever gone! Could I recall you!-- But that thought is vain. Availeth not Persuasion's sweetest tone To lure the fleet-wing'd travellers back again : Yet fair, though faint, their images shall gleam Like the bright rainbow on a willowy stream.

Schiller! that hour I would have wish'd to die,
If through the shuddering midnight I had sent
From the dark dungeon of the lower time-rent
That fearful voice, a famished Father's cry-
Lest in some after moment aught more mean
Might stamp me mortal! A triumphant shout
Black llorror scream'd, and all her goblin rout
Diminish'd shrunk from the more withering scene!
Ah Bard tremendous in sublimity!
Could I behold thee in thy loftier mood
Wandering at eve with finely frenzied eye
Beneath some vast old tempesi-swinging wood!
Awhile with mute awe gazing I would brood:
Then weep

aloud in a wild ecstasy!

SONNET.

LINES

Pale Roamer through the Night! thou

poor Forlorn! Remorse that man on his death-bed

possess,
Who in the credulous hour of tenderness
Betray'd, then cast thee forth to Want and Scorn!
The world is pitiless: the Chaste one's pride,
Mimic of Virtue, scowls on thy distress :
Thy Loves and they, that envied thee, deride :
And Vice alone will shelter wretchedness!
0! I am sad to think, that there should be
Cold-bosom'd lewd ones, who endure to place
Foul offerings on the shrine of Misery,
And force from Famine the caress of Love;
May He shed healing on the sore disgrace,
He, the great Comforter that rules above!

COMPOSED WHILE CLIMBING THE LEFT ASCENT OF

BROCKLEY COOMB, SOMERSETSHJRE, MAY 1795. With many a pause and oft-reverted eye I climb the Coomb's ascent: sweet songsters near Warble in shade their wild-wood melody: Far off the unvarying Cuckoo soothes my ear. Up scour the startling stragglers of the Flock That on green plots o'er precipices browze : From the forced fissures of the naked rock The Yew-tree bursts! Beneath its dark green bouglis

IN THE MANNER OF SPENSER.

('Mid which the May-thorn blends its blossoms white)

IMITATED FROM OSSIAN. Where broad smooth stones jut out in mossy seats, I rest :--and now have gain'd the topmost site.

Toe stream with languid murmur creeps, Ah! what a luxury of landscape meets

In Lumin's flowery vale : My gaze! Proud Towers, and Cots more dear to me,

Beneath the dew the Lily weeps,
Elm-shadow'd Fields, and prospect-bounding Sea!

Slow-waving to the gale.
Deep sighs my lonely heart: I drop the tear:
Enchanting spot! O were my Sara here!

u Cease, restless gale!, it seems to say,

Nor wake me with thy sighing !

The lionours of my vernal day
LINES

On rapid wing are flying.
« To morrow shall the Traveller come

Who late beheld me blooming:
O Peace! that on a lilied bank dost love

His searching eye shall vainly roam
To rest thine head bencath an Olive Tree,

The dreary vale of Lumin.»
I would, that from the pinions of thy Dove
One quill withouten pain ypluck'd might be !

With eager gaze and wetted cheek
For O! I wish my Sara's frowns to flee,

My wonted liaunts along, And fain to her some soothing song would write,

Thus, faithful Maiden! thou shalt seek Lest she resent my rude discourtesy,

The Youth of simplest song,
Who vow'd to meet her ere the morning light,
But broke my plighted word-ah! false and recreant But I along the breeze shall roll
wight!

The voice of feeble power ;

And dwell, the Moon-beam of thy soul, Last night as I my weary head did pillow

In Slumber's nightly hour.
With thoughts of my dissever'd Fair engross'd,
Chill Fancy droop'd wreathing herself with willow,
As though my breast entombed a pining ghost.

THE COMPLAINT OF NINATHOMA. « From some blest couch, young Rapture's bridal boast,

How long will ye round me be swelling,
Rejected Slumber! hither wing thy way;
But leave me with the matin hour, at most!

Oye blue-tumbling waves of the Sea ?

Not always in Caves was my dwelling, As night-closed Floweret to the orient ray,

Nor beneath the cold blast of the Tree. My sad heart will expand, when I the Maid survey."

Through the high-sounding halls of Cathlóma

In the steps of my beauty I strayed; But Love, who heard the silence of my thought,

The Warriors beheld Ninathóma, Contrived a too successful wile, I ween:

And they blessed the white-bosom'd Maid! And whisper'd to himself, with malice fraught, Too long our Slave the Damsel's smiles hath seen:

A Ghost! by my cavern it darted! To-morrow shall he ken her alter'd mien!,

In moon-beams the Spirit was drestHe spake, and ambush'd lay, till on my bed

For lovely appear the departed The morning shot her dewy glances keen,

When they visit the dreams of When as l'gan to lift my drowsy liead

But, disturb'd by the Tempest's commotion, Now, Bard! I 'll work thee woe!» the laughing Elfin

Fleet the shadowy forms of Delightsaid.

Ab cease, thou shrill blast of the Ocean !

To howl through my Cavern by Night. Sleep, softly-breathing God! his downy wing Was fluttering now, as quickly to depart; When twang'd an arrow from Love's mystic string,

IMITATED FROM THE WELSH. With pathless wound it pierced him to the heart. Was there some magic in the Elfin's dart?

ly, while my passion I impart,

You deem Or did he strike my couch with wizard lance?

my

words untrue, For straight so fair a Form did upwards start

O place your hand upon my heart(No fairer deck'd the Bowers of old Romance)

Feel how it throbs for you! That Sleep enamour'd grew, nor moved from his sweet trance!

Ah no! reject the thoughtless claim

Jn pity to your Lover! My Sara came, with gentlest look divine;

That thrilling touch would aid the flame

It wishes to discover.
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-

TO AN INFANT.
Love pure and spotless, as at first, I deem,
He

sprang from Heaven! Such joys with Sleep did 'bide, Au cease thy tears and Sobs, my little Life! That I the living Image of my Dream

I did but snatch away the unclasp'd Knife: Fondly forgot. Too late I woke, and sighd

Some safer Toy will soon arrest thine eye 0! how shall I behold my Love at even-tide!» And to quick Laughter change this peevish cry!

my rest!

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