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

Too well those lovely lips disclose
The triumphs 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 « No-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.



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 lot-
Chain'd to a log within a narrow spot
Where the close-eaten grass is scarcely seen,
While sweet around her waves the tempting green!

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?»
Innocent 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 equality to dwell,
Where Toil shall call the charmer Health his Bride,
And Laughter tickle Plenty'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!

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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RICHER 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-shrivell'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:

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To higher zest shall Memory wake thy soul,
And Virtue mingle in the ennobled bowl.
But if, like me, through life's distressful scene
Lonely and sad thy pilgrimage hath been;

And if thy breast with heart-sick anguish fraught,
Thou journeyest onward tempest-toss'd in thought;
Here cheat thy cares! in generous visions melt,
And dream of goodness, thou hast never felt!


ONCE more, sweet Stream! with slow foot wandering


I bless thy milky waters cold and clear. Escaped the flashing of the noontide hours With one fresh garland of Pierian flowers (Ere from thy zephyr-haunted brink I turn) My languid hand shall wreath thy mossy urn. For not through pathless grove with murmur rude Thou soothest the sad wood-nymph, Solitude; Nor thine unseen in cavern depths to well, The Hermit-fountain of some dripping cell! Pride of the Vale! thy useful streams supply The scatter'd cots and peaceful hamlet nigh. The elfin tribe around thy friendly banks With infant uproar and soul-soothing pranks, Released from school, their little hearts at rest, Launch paper navies on thy waveless breast. The rustic here at eve with pensive look Whistling lorn ditties leans upon his crook, Or, starting, pauses with hope-mingled dread To list the much-loved maid's accustom'd tread: She, vainly mindful of her dame's command, Loiters, the long-fill'd pitcher in her hand. Unboastful Stream! thy fount with pebbled falls The faded form of past delight recalls, What time the morning sun of Hope arose, And all was joy; save when another's woes A transient gloom upon my soul imprest, Like passing clouds impictured on thy breast. Life's current then ran sparkling to the noon, Or silvery stole beneath the pensive Moon: Ah! now it works rude brakes and thorns among, Or o'er the rough rock bursts and foams along!



EDMUND! thy grave with aching eye I scan,
And inly groan for Heaven's poor outcast-Man!
'Tis tempest all or gloom: in early youth,
If gifted with the Ithuriel lance of Truth,
We force to start amid her feign'd caress
Vice, siren-hag! in native ugliness;

A brother's fate will haply rouse the tear,

And on we go in heaviness and fear!

But if our fond hearts call to Pleasure's bower

Some pigmy Folly in a careless hour,

The faithless guest shall stamp the enchanted ground
And mingled forms of Misery rise around:
Heart-fretting Fear, with pallid look aghast,
That courts the future woe to hide the past;

Remorse, the poison'd arrow in his side,
And loud lewd Mirth, to Anguish close allied:
Till Frenzy, fierce-eyed child of moping pain,
Darts her hot lightning flash athwart the brain.
Rest, injured shade! Shall Slander squatting near
Spit her cold venom in a dead Man's ear?
'T was thine to feel the sympathetic glow
In Merit's joy, and Poverty's meek woe;
Thine all that cheer the moment as it flies,
The zoneless Cares, and smiling Courtesies.
Nursed in thy heart the firmer Virtues grew,
And in thy heart they wither'd! Such chill dew
Wan Indolence on each young blossom shed;
And Vanity her filmy net-work spread,
With eye that roll'd around in asking gaze,
And tongue that traffick'd in the trade of praise.
Thy follies such! the hard world mark'd them well!
Were they more wise, the proud who never fell?
Rest, injured shade! the poor man's grateful prayer
On heaven-ward wing thy wounded soul shall bear.
As oft at twilight gloom thy grave I pass,
And sit me down upon its recent grass,
With introverted eye I contemplate
Similitude of soul, perhaps of-Fate!

To me hath Heaven with bounteous hand assign'd
Energic Reason and a shaping mind,

The daring ken of Truth, the Patriot's part,
And Pity's sigh, that breathes the gentle heart.
Sloth-jaundiced all! and from my graspless hand
Drop Friendship's precious pearls, like hour-glass sand.
weep, yet stoop not! the faint anguish flows,


A dreamy pang in Morning's feverish doze.

Is this piled earth our being's passless mound?
Tell me, cold grave! is Death with poppies crown'd?
Tired sentinel! mid fitful starts I nod,
And fain would sleep, though pillow'd on a clod!


MUCH on my early youth I love to dwell,
Ere yet I bade that friendly dome farewell,
Where first, beneath the echoing cloisters pale,
I heard of guilt and wonder'd at the tale!
Yet though the hours flew by ou careless wing,
Full heavily of Sorrow would I sing.
Aye as the star of evening flung its beam
In broken radiance on the wavy stream,
My soul amid the pensive twilight gloom

Mourn'd with the breeze, O Lee Boo! o'er thy tomb.
Where'er I wander'd, Pity still was near,
Breathed from the heart and glisten'd in the tear:
No knell that toll'd, but fill'd my anxious eye,

And suffering Nature wept that one should die! 2

Thus to sad sympathies I soothed my breast,
Calm, as the rainbow in the weeping West:
When slumbering Freedom roused with high disdain,
With giant fury burst her triple chain!

Lee Boo, the son of Abba Thule, Prince of the Pelew Islands, came over to England with Captain Wilson, died of the small-pox, and is buried in Greenwich church-yard.-See KEATE'S Account. Southey's Retrospect,

Fierce on her front the blasting Dog-star glow'd;
Her banners, like a midnight meteor, flow'd;
Amid the yelling of the storm-rent skies!
She came, and scatter'd battles from her eyes!
Then Exultation waked the patriot fire

And swept with wilder hand the Alcæan lyre :
Red from the tyrant's wound I shook the lance,
And strode in joy the reeking plains of France!

Fallen is the oppressor, friendless, ghastly, low,
And my heart aches, though Mercy struck the blow.
With wearied thought once more I seek the shade,
Where peaceful Virtue weaves the myrtle braid.
And O! if whose holy glances roll,


Swift messengers, and eloquent of soul;
If smiles more winning, and a gentler mien
Than the love-wilder'd Maniac's brain hath seen
Shaping celestial forms in vacant air,

If these demand the empassion'd poet's care-
If Mirth and softened Sense and Wit refined,
The blameless features of a lovely mind;
Then haply shall my trembling hand assign
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;
No purple bloom the child of nature brings
From Flattery's night-shade: as he feels he sings.
September, 1792.


Content, as random Fancies might inspire,
If his weak harp at times, or lonely lyre,
He struck with desultory hand, and drew
Some softened tones to Nature not untrue.

My heart has thanked thee, Bowles! for those soft strains
Whose sadness soothes me, like the murmuring
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,
And drove me forth, a thought-bewilder'd man!
Their mild and manliest melancholy lent
A mingled charm, such as the pang consign'd
To slumber, though the big tear it renewed;
Bidding a strange mysterious Pleasure brood
Over the wavy and tumultuous mind,
As the great Spirit erst with plastic sweep
Moved on the darkness of the unformed deep.

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Of Pomp, and proud Precipitance of soul Wilder'd with meteor fires. Ah spirit pure! That error's mist had left thy purged eye : So might I clasp thee with a mother's joy!»>


THOUGH roused by that dark Vizir, Riot rude
Have driven our PRIEST o'er the ocean swell;
Though Superstition and her wolfish brood
Bay his mild radiance, impotent and fell;
Calm in his halls of brightness he shall dwell!
For lo! Religion at his strong behest
Starts with mild anger from the Papal spell,
And flings to earth her tinsel-glittering vest,
Her mitred state and cumbrous pomp unholy;
And Justice wakes to bid the Oppressor wail
Insulting aye the wrongs of patient Folly:
And from her dark retreat by Wisdom won,
Meek Nature slowly lifts her matron veil
To smile with fondness on her gazing son!

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Ir was some Spirit, SHERIDAN! that breathed
O'er thy young mind such wildly various power!
My soul hath mark'd thee in her shaping hour,
Thy temples with Hymmettian flow'rets wreathed :
And sweet thy voice, as when o'er Laura's bier
Sad music trembled through Vauclusa's glade;
Sweet, as at dawn the love-lorn serenade
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
Meanings of Scorn and Wit's quaint revelry!
Writhes inly from the bosom-probing glance
The Apostate by the brainless rout adored,

As erst that elder Fiend beneath great Michael's sword.


O what a loud and fearful shriek was there,
As though a thousand souls one death-groan pour'd!
Ah me! they view'd beneath a hireling's sword
Fallen KOSCIUSKO! Through the burthen'd air

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 found; and she had drain'd the bowl In the mere wilfulness, and sick despair of soul!


As when 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 shares,
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 raptures high the dungeon's might:
For lo! the morning struggles into day,

And Slavery's spectres shriek and vanish from the ray!


THOU gentle Look, that didst my soul beguile,
Why hast thou left me? 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 Hope's twilight ray,
Then left me darkling in a vale of tears.
O pleasant days of Hope-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.


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!
O! 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!


SWEET 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 turn'd from rich man's doors,

And called them Friends, and healed their noisome Sores!


THOU 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 whisper 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!

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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,


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sprang from Heaven! Such joys with Sleep did 'bide, АH cease thy tears and Sobs, my little Life!

That I the living Image of my Dream

Fondly forgot. Too late I woke, and sigh'd—

O! how shall I behold my Love at even-tide!»>

I did but snatch away the unclasp'd Knife:
Some safer Toy will soon arrest thine eye
And to quick Laughter change this peevish cry!

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