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And when, along the waves of woe,
My harass'a heart was doom'd to know
The frantic burst of outrage keen,
And the slow pang that gnaws unseen;
Then shipwreck'd op life's stormy sea
I heaved an anguish'd Sighi for thee!

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 carthward 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 beart 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!

But soon reflection's power imprest
A stiller saddess 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,
A 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 ?»
Jonocent 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 Plenty's ribless side!
How thou wouldst toss thy heels in gamesome play,
Aod 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!



Ricoer than miser o'er his countless hoards,
Nobler than kings, or king-polluted lords,
Tere dwelt the Man of Ross! O Traveller, hcar!
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,
lle mark'd the shelter'd orphan's tearful gaze,
Or where the sorrow-slıriveli'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 Anguish 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 flashı aihwart the brain.
And if thy breast with heari-sick anguish fraught, Rest, injured shade! Shall Slander squatting near
Thou journeyest onward tempest-lossd in thought; Spit her cold venom in a dead Man's ear?
Here cheat thy cares! in generous visions mell, 'T was thine to feel the sympathetic glow
And dream of goodness, thou hast never felt!

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 Once more, sweet Stream! with slow foot wandering Wan Indolence on each young blossom shed; near,

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



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 band 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 scalier'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-soothing 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 diities leans upon

his crook,


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

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

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! pow 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 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. 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: 'T' is tempest all or gloom : in early youth,

No knell that tolld, but fill'd


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
And mingled forms of Misery rise around:

"Lee Boo, the son of Abba Thule, Prince of the Pelew Islands,

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

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

· Southey's Retrospect.

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,

And strode in joy the reeking plains of France!

Though 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 wolfish brood With wearied thought once more I seek the shade, Bay his mild radiance, impotent and fell; Wbere 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 ;

No purple bloom the child of nature brings
From Flattery's night-shade: as he feels he sings.

When British Freedom for a happier land
September, 1792.

Spread her broad wings, that flutter'd with affright,
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)

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 barp 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.


of Nature bids thee die, beyond the tomb My heart has thanked thee, Bowles! 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,
Of wild-bees in the sunny showers of spring!

Still burns wide Heaven with his distended blaze.
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!

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

O'er thy young mind such wildly various power! A mingled charın, 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

Meanings of Scorn and Wit's quaint revelry! As late I lay in slumber's shadowy vale,

Writhes inly from the bosom-probing glance

The Apostate 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,

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 laurella fame.

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

Fallen Kosciusko! Through the burthen'd air




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 draind the bowl In the mere wilfulness, and sick despair of soul!

SONNET. 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 latter'd vest That mocks thy shivering! take my garment-use A young man's arm! I'll melt thicse frozen dews That hang from thy white beard and numb thy breast. My Sara too shall tend thee, like a Child: And thou shall 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 turo'd from rich man's doors, And called them Friends, and healed their noisome




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 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 ber sweet infant heir
That wan and sickly droops upon her breast!




Tuou gentle Look, that didst my soul beguile, Why hast thou left me? Still in some fond dream

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 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.

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TO THE AUTHOR OF THE ROBBERS. » 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 cryLest in some after moment aught more mean Might stamp me mortal! A triumphant shout Black Ilorror scream'd, and all her goblin rout Diminish'd shrunk from the more withering scene! Ah Bard tremendous in sublimily! Could I behold thee in thy loftier mood Wandering at eve with finely frenzied eye Beneath some vast old tempest-swinging wood! Awhile with mute awe gazing I would brood : Then weep aloud in a wild ecstasy!


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Pale Roamer through the Night! thou poor Forlorn!
Remorse that man on his death-bed

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!

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

Where broad smooth stones jut out in mossy scats,
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 bere!

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

Nor wake me with thy sighing!
The lionours of my vernal day

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 beneath 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 0! I wish my Sara's frowns to flee,

My wonted haunts 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

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;


ye blue-tumbling waves of the Sea ? But leave me with the matin hour, at most!

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 Nipathóma, Contrived a too successful wile, 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 my rest! When as l'gan to lift my drowsy lead

But, disturb'd by the Tempest's commotion, Now, Bard! I 'll work thee woe!» the laughing Elfin Fleet the shadowy forms of Delightsaid.

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?

Ip, while my passion I impart,

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

words untrue,

my 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

In pity to your Lover!

That thrilling touch would aid the flame My Sara came, with gentlest look divine;

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-

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!

Ab cease,

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