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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 flash athwart the brain.
And if thy breast with heart-sick anguish fraught, Rest, injured shade! Shall Slander squating near
Thou journeyest onward tempest-toss'd in thought; Spit her cold venom in a dead Man's ear?
Here cheat thy cares! in generous visions meli, "Twas 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 de's LINES TO A BEAUTIFUL SPRING IN A

Wan indolence on each young blossom shed;

And Vanity her filmy nel-work spread,

With eye that rollid around, in asking gaze, ONCE more, sweet Stream! with slow foot wander- And tongue that traffick'd in the trade of praise. ing near,

Thy follies such! the hard world mark'd them well I bless thy milky waters cold and clear.

Were they more wise, the proud who never fell ? Escaped the flashing of the noontide hours Rest, injur'd shade! the poor man's grateful prayer With one fresh garland of Pierian flowers

On heavenward wing thy wounded soul shall bear (Ere from thy zephyr-haunted brink I turn)

As oft at twilight gloom thy grave I pass, My languid hand shall wreath thy mossy urn. And sit me down upon its recent grass, For not through pathless grove with murmur rude With introverted eye I contemplate Thou soothest the sad wood-nymph, Solitude; Similitude of soul, perhaps of Fate! Nor thine unseen in cavern depths to well, To me hath Heaven with bounteous hand assign'd The Hermit-fountain of some dripping cell! Energic Reason and a shaping mind, Pride of the Vale! thy useful streams supply The daring ken of Truth, the Patriot's part, The scatter'd cots and peaceful hamlet nigh. And Pity's sigh, that breathes the gentle heart. The ellin tribe around thy friendly banks Sloth-jaundic'd all! and from my graspless hand With infant uproar and soul-soothing pranks, Drop Friendshi--'s precious pearls, like hour-glass Released from school, their little hearts at rest,

sand. Launch paper navies on thy waveless breast. I weep, yet stoop not! the saint anguish flows, The rustic here at eve with pensive look

A dreamy pang in Morning's feverish doze.
Whistling lorn ditties leans upon his crook,
Or, starting, pauses with hope-mingled dread

Is this piled earth our being's passless mounds To list the much-loved maid's accustom'd tread :

Tell me, cold grave! is Death with poppies crown'd She, vainly mindful of her dame's command, Tired sentinel! 'mid fitful starts I nod, Loiters, the long-fill'd pitcher in her hand.

And fain would sleep, though pillow'd on a clod! 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 passmg clouds impictured on thy breast.

TO A YOUNG LADY, WITH A POEM ON 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, Much on my early youth I love to dwell,
Or o'er the rough rock bursts and foams along ! 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 hy on 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, WHO DIED OF A FRENZY FEVER INDUCED BY CALUM- 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, EDMUND! thy grave with aching eye 1 scan, Breathed from the heart and glisten'd in the tear And inly groan for Heaven's poor outcast-Man! No knell that willd, but fill'd my anxious eye, "Tis tempest all or gloom: in early youth,

And suffering Nature wept that one should die !1 If gifted with the Ithuriel lance of Truth, We force to start amid her feign'd caress

Thus to sad sympathies I soothed my breast, Vice, siren-hag! in native ugliness ;

Calm, as the rainbow in the weeping West : A brother's fate will haply rouse the tear,

When slumbering Freedom roused with high disdair. And on we go in heaviness and fear!

With giant fury burst her triple chain! But if our fond hearts call to Pleasure's bower Some pigmy Foly in a careless hour, The faithless guest shall stamp the enchanted ground • Lee Boo, the son of Abba Thule, Prince of the Pelew 11And mingled forms of Misery rise around :

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

small-pox, and is buried in Greenwich churchryard.- See Keate's

Account. That courts the future woe to hide the past;

t 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'u; 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 batiles 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 !

Fallen is the oppressor, friendless, ghastly, low,

THOUGH roused by that dark Vizir, Riot rude And my heart aches, though Mercy struck the blow. Have driven our Priest over the ocean swell With wearied thought once more I seek the shade, Though Superstition and her wolfish brood Where peaceful Virtue weaves the myrtle braid.

Bay his mild radiance, impotent and fell; And 0! if eyes whose holy glances roll,

Calm in his halls of brightness he shall dwell Swift messengers, and eloquent of soul;

For lo ! Religion at his strong behest If smiles more winning, and a gentler mien

Starts with mild anger from the Papal spell, Than the love-wilder'd Maniac's brain hath seen

And flings to earth her tinsel-glittering vest,

Her mitred state and cumbrous pomp unholy ;
Shaping celestial forms in vacant air,
If these demand the impassion'd poet's care-

And Justice wakes to bid the Oppressor wail,
If Mirth and soften'd Sense and Wit refined,

Insulting aye the wrongs of patient Folly: The blameless features of a lovely mind ;

And from her dark retreat by Wisdom won, Then haply shall my trembling hand assign

Meek Nature slowly lifts her matron veil
No fading wreath to beauty's saintly shrine.

To smile with fondness on her gazing son!
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.

When British Freedom for a happier land
Spread her broad wings, that flutter'd with affright,

ERSKINE! thy voice she heard, and paused her fligbt

Sublime of hope! For dreadless thou didst stand SONNET.

(Thy censer glowing with the hallow'd Aame) 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 his weak harp at times, or lonely Tyre He struck with desultory hand, and drew

Her sons shall venerate, and cheer thy breast Somo soften'd tones to Nature not untrue.

With blessings heavenward breathed. And when Bowles.

the doom

Of Nature bids thee die, beyond the tomb My heart has thank'd thee, Bowles! for those soft Thy light shall shine : as sunk, beneath the West, strains,

Though the great Summer Sun eludes our gaze,
Whose sadness soothes me, like the murmuring 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 path I
went :

And when the mightier throes of man began,
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 charm, such as the pang consign'd

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

Thy temples with Hymettian 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 gla lo; As the great Spirit erst with plastic sweep

Sweet, as at dawn the lovelorn serenade
Moved on the darkness of the unform’d deep.

That wafts soft dreams to Slumber's listening out
Now patriot mge and indignation high
Swell the full tones! And now thine eye-beam


Meaning of Scorn and Wit's quaint revelry!

Writhes inly from the bosom-probing glance

The A postate by the brainless rout adored, As late I lay in slumber's shadowy vale,

As erst that elder fiend beneath great Michael's sword With wetted cheek and in a mourner's guise,

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 alter'd voice Thou badst Oppression's hireling crew rejoice, O What a loud and fearful shriek was there, Blasting with wizard spell my laurelld 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 sworl The stormy Pity and the cherish'il lure

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

SWEET Mercy! how my very heart has bled The dirge of murder'd Ilope! while Freedom pale To see thee, poor Old Man! and thy gray hairs Bends in such anguish o'er her destined bier, Hoar with the snowy blast: while no one cares As if from eldest time some Spirit meek

To clothe thy shrivell'd limbs and palsied head. Had gather'd in a mystic urn each tear

My Father! throw away this tatter'd vest That ever on a Patriot's furrow'd cheek

That mocks thy shivering! take my garment-use
Fit channel found ; and she had drain’d the bowl A young man's arm! I'll melt these frozen dews
In the mere wilfulness, and sick despair of soul! That hang froin 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 men's doors,

And call'd them Friends, and heal'd 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;

Thou bleedest, my poor Heart! and thy distress His Fellows' freedom soothes the Captive's cares :

Reasoning I ponder with a scornful sinile, Thou, Fayette! who didst wake with startling voice and probe thy sore wound sternly, though the while Life's better sun from that long wintry night,

Swoln be mine eye and dim with heaviness. Thus in thy Country's triumphs shalt rejoice,

Why didst inou listen to Hope's whisper bland? And mock with raptures high the dungeon's might: When Jealousy with feverish fancies pale

Or, listening, why forget the healing tale,
For lo! the morning struggles into day,
And Slavery's spectres shriek and vanish from the Jarr'd thy fine fibres with a maninc's hand?

Faint was that Hope, and rayless!—Yer 't was fair ray!

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 ans' sickly droops upon her breast!
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; SCHILLER! that hour I would have wished to die,'
Of joys, that glimmer'd in Hope's twilight ray, If through the shuddering midnight I had sent
Then left me darkling in a vale of tears.

From the dark dungeon of the tower uime-rent O pleasant days of Hope-for ever gone!

That fearful voice, a famish'd Father's cryCould I recall you But that thought is vain. Lest in some after moment aught more mean Availeth not Persuasion's sweetest tone

Might stamp me morial! A triumphant shout
To lure the fleet-wing'd travellers back again: Black Horror scream'd, and all her goblin rout
Yet fair, though saint, their images shall gleam Diminish'd shrunk from the more withering scene!
Like the bright rainbow on a willowy stream. Ah Bard tremendous in sublimity!

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!

Pale Roamer throngh 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!

COMPOSED WHILE CLIMBING THE LEFT ASCENT OF The world is pitiless: the Chaste one's pride, BROCKLEY COOMB, SOMERSETSHIRE, MAY, 1795. Mimic of Virtue, scowls on thy distress : Thy loves and they, that envied thee, deride:

With many a pause and oft-reverted eye And Vice alone will shelter wretchedness!

I climb the Coomb's ascent: sweet songsters near O! I am sad to think, that there should be

Warble in shade their wild-wood melody : Cold-hosom'd lewd ones, who endure to place

Far off the unvarying Cuckoo soothes my ear. Fcul offerings on the shrine of Misery,

Up scour the startling stragglers of the Flock And force from Famine the caress of Love ; That on green plots o'er precipices browse : May He shed healing on the sore disgrace,

From the forced fissures of the naked rock He, the great Comforter that rules above ! | The Yew-tree bursts! Beneath its dark green boughs


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(Mid which the May-thorn blends its blossoms white) Where broad smooth stones jut out in mossy seats,

IMITATED FROM OSSIAN. I rest and now have gain'd the topmost site.

THE 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!

« 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 LINES

Who late beheld me blooming :
His searching eye shall vainly roam

The dreary vale of Lumin."
O PEACE! that on a lilied bank dost love
To re«t cline head beneath an Olive Tree,

With eager gaze and wetted cheek
I would, that from the pinions of thy Dove

My wonted haunts along, One quill withouten pain yoluck'd might be !

Thus, faithful Maiden! thou shalt seek For O! I wish my Sara's frowns to flee,

The Youth of simplest song.
And sain to her some soothing song would write,
Lest she Lesent my rude discourtesy,

But I along the breeze shall roll

The voice of feeble power;
Who vow'd to meet her ere the morning light,
But broku my plighted word—ah! false and recreant

And dwell, the moon-beam of thy soul, wight!

In Slumber's nightly hour.
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

How long will ye round me be swelling, boast,

O ye blue-tumbling waves of the Sea ? Rejected Slumber! hither wing thy way;

Not always in Caves was my dwelling,

Nor beneath the cold blast of the Tree. But leave me with the matin hour, at most! As night-closed Floweret to the orient ray,

Through the high-sounding halls of Cathlóma

In the steps of my beauty I stray'd ; My sad heart will expand, when I the Maid survey.”

The Warriors beheld Ninathòma, But Love, who heard the silence of my thought,

And they blessed the white-bosom’d Maid! Contrived a too successful wile, I ween:

A Ghost! by my cavern it darted ! And whisperd to himself, with malice fraught

In moon-beams the Spirit was drest“ Too long our Slave the Damsel's smiles hath seen :

For lovely appear the departed To-morrow shall he ken her alter'd mien!"

When they visit the dreams of my rest! He spake, and ambush'd lay, till on my bed

But, disturb'd by the Tempest's commotion, The morning shot her dewy glances keen,

Fleet the shadowy forms of DelightWhen as I 'gan to lift my drowsy head

Ah cease, thou shrill blast of the Ocean! “Now, Bard! I'll work thee woo!” the laughing

To howl through my Cavern by Night. 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,

IMITATED FROM THE WELSH With pathless wound it pierced him to the heart.

IF, while my passion I impart, Was there some magic in the Elfin's dart ?

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

O place your hand upon my heart, For straight so fair a Form did upwards start

Feel how it throbs for you! (No fairer deck'd the Bowers of old Romance) That Sleep enamour'd grew, nor moved from his Ah no! reject the thoughtless claim, sweet trance !

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


An 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 sigh'd- Some safer Toy will soon arrest thine eye, "O! how shall I behold mv Jove at eventide !" And to quick Laughter change this peevish »

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

With viewless influence.

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 eager grasp and young desire ;
Alike the Good, the Ill oflend 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 trilles pleased,
Break Friendship's Mirror with a techy blow,
Yet snatch what coals of fire on Pleasure's altar


And hark, my Love! The sea-breeze moans
Through yon reft house! O'er rolling stones

In bold ambitious sweep,
The onward-surging rides 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-lire, like a sullen star
Twinkles to many a dozing Tar

Rude cradled on the mast.

O thou that rearest with celestial aim
The future Seraph in my mortal frame,
Thrice-holy Faith! whatever thorns I eet
As on I totter with unpractised feet,
Still let me stretch my arms and cling to thee,
Meek Nurse of Souls through their long Infancy!

Even there—beneath that light-house tower-
In 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.

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But why with sable wand unbless'd
Should Fancy rouse within my breast

Dirn-visaged shapes of Dread?
Untenunting its beauteous clay
My Sara's soul has wing'd its way,

And hovers round my head!
I felt it prompt the tender Dream,
When slowly sunk the day's last gleam;

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

• The Ilolmes, in the Bristol Channe.

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