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DEJECTION;

'T is sweet to hear a brook, 't is sweet

To hear the Sabbath-bell, 'T is sweet to hear them both at once,

Deep in a woody dell.

AN ODE.

His limbs along the moss, his head

Upon a mossy heap, With shut-up senses, Edward lay: That brook e'en on a working day

Might chatter one to sleep.

Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon,
With the old Moon in her arms;
And I fear, I foar, my Master dear!
We shall bave a deadly storin.

Baliad of Sir Patrick Spens.

And he had pass'd a restless night,

And was not well in health; The women sat down by his side,

And talk'd as 't were by stealth.

« The sun peeps through the close thick leaves,

See, dearest Ellen! see! 'T is in the leaves, a little sun,

No bigger than your c'e;

I.
WELL! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made

The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence,
This night, so tranquil now, will not go

hence
Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade
Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes,
Or the dull sobbing draught, that moans and rakes

Upon the strings of this Æolian lute,

Which better far were mute.
For lo! the New-moon winter-bright!
And overspread with phantom light,
(With swimming phantom light o'erspread

But rimined and circled by a silver thread)
I sce the old Moon in her lap, foretelling

The coming on of rain and squally blast. And oh! that even now the gust were swelling,

And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast! Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they awed,

And sent my soul abroad, Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give, Might starte this dull pain, and make it move and live!

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II.
A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear,

A stifled, drowsy, unimpassion'd grief,
Which finds no natural outlet, no relief,

In word, or sigh, or tear-
O Lady! in this wan and heartless mood,
To other thoughts by yonder throstle wood,

All this long eve, so balmy and serene,
Have I been gazing on the western sky,

And its peculiar tint of yellow green : And still I gaze-and with how blank an eye! And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars, That give away their motion to the stars; Those stars, that glide behind them or between, Now sparkling, now bedimm'd, but always seen: Yon crescent Moon, as fix'd as if it crew In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue; I see them all so excellenıly fair, I see, not feel how beautiful they are!

Both groan'd at once, for both knew well

What thoughts were in bis mind; When he waked up, and stared like one

That liath been just struck blind.

He sat upright; and ere the dream

Had had time to depart, O God, forgive me! (he exclaim'd) I have torn out her heart.»

Then Ellen shriek'd, and forth with burst

Into ungentle laughter;
And Mary shiver'd, where she sat,

And never she smiled after.

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Carmen reliquum in fatorum tempus relegatum. To-morrow! and To-morrow! and To-morrow!

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to the

Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud! Mad Lutanist! who in this month of showers,

And would we aught behold, of higher worth, Of dark brown gardens, and of peeping flowers, Than that inanimate cold world allowed

Makest Devils' yule, with worse than wintry song, To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd,

The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among. Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth,

Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds! A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud

Thou mighty Poet, e'en to Frenzy bold ! Enveloping the Earth

What tellist thou now about? And from the soul itself must there be sent

'T is of the Rushing of an Host in rout, A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth,

With groans of trampled men, with smarting woundsOf all sweet sounds the life and element!

At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the

cold ! V.

But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence ! O pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of me

And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd, What this strong music in the soul may be!

With groans, and tremulous shudderings-all is overWhat, and wherein it doth exist,

It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud! This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist,

A cale of less affright,
This beautiful and beauty-making power.

And temper'd with delight,
Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne'er was given, As Otway's self had framed the tender lay,
S:
pure, and in their purest hour,

"T is of a little child Life, and Life's Effluence, Cloud at once and Shower, Upon a lonesome wild, Joy, Lady! is the spirit and the power,

Not far from home, but she hath lost her way: Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower

And now moans low in bitter grief and fear, A new Earth and new Heaven,

And now scrcams loud, and hopes to make her mother Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud

hear. Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud

VII. We in ourselves rejoice!

'T is midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep: And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight, All melodies the echoes of that voice,

Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep!

Visit her, gentle Sleep! with wings of healing, All colours a suffusion from that light.

And may this storm be but a mountain-birth,

May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling, VI. There was a time when, though my path was rough,

Silent as though they watch'd the sleeping Earth!

With light heart may she rise, This joy within me dallied with distress,

Gay fancy, cheerful eyes,
And all misfortunes were but as the stuff

Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice :
Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness:
For hope grew round me, like the twining vine,

To her may all things live, from Pole to Pole,

Their life the eddying of her living soul! And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine.

O simple spirit, guided from above, But now afflictions bow me down to earth :

Dear Lady! friend devoutest of my choice,
Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth,

Thus mayest thou ever, evermore rejoice.
But oh! each visitation
Suspends what nature gave me at my birth,
My shaping spirit of Imagination.

ODE TO GEORGIANA, DUCHESS OF For not to think of what I needs must feel,

DEVONSHIRE, But to be still and patient, all I can;

ON THE TWENTY-FOURTH STANZA IN HER « PASSAGE And haply by abstruse research to steal

OVER MOUNT GOTHARD,» From my own nature all the natural Man

This was my sole resource, my only plan: Till that which suits a part infects the whole,

And hail the Chapel ! hail the Platform wild!

Where Tall directed the avenging Dart, And now is almost grown the habit of my Soul.

With well-strong arm, that first preserved his Cbild,

Then aim'd the arrow at the Tyrant's beart.
VII.
Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind,

SPLENDOUR's fondly foster'd child!
Reality's dark dream!

And did you hail the Platform wild,
I turn from you, and listen to the wind,

Where once the Austrian fell Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream

Beneath the shaft of Tell ? Of agony by torture lengthen'd out

O Lady, nursed in pomp and plcasure !
That lute sent forth! Thou Wind, that ravest without,

Whence learnt you that heroic measure ?
Bare crag, or mountain-tairn,' or blasted tree,
Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb, Light as a dream your days their circlets ran,
Or lonely house, long held the witches' home,

From all that teaches Brotherhood to Man ;
Methinks were fitter instruments for thee,

Far, far removed from want, from hope, from fear!

Enchanting music lulld your infant ear, | Tairn is a small lake, generally, if not always, applied to the Obeisance, praises soothed your infant heart : lakes up in the mountains, and which are the feeders of those in the

Emblazonments and old ancestral crests, valleys. This address to the Storm-wind will not appear extravagaat to those who bave beard it at night, and in a mountainous with many a bright obtrusive form of art, country

Detain'd your eye from nature : stately vests,

That veiling strove to deck your charms divine,
Rich viands, and the pleasurable wine,
Were

yours unearn’d by toil; nor could you see The unenjoying toiler's misery. And

yet, free Nature's uncorrupted child, You hail'd the Chapel and the Platform wild,

Where once the Austrian fell

Beneath the shaft of Tell !
O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure !
Whence learnt you that heroic measure?

O beautiful! 0 Nature's child! 'T was thence

you

hail'd the Platform wild, Where once the Austrian fell

Beneath the shaft of Tell!
O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure!
Thence learnt you that heroic measure.

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There crowd your finely-fibred frame,

All living faculties of bliss;
And Genius to your cradle came,
His forehead wreathed with lambent flame,

And bending low, with godlike kiss

Breathed in a more celestial life; But boasts not many

a fair

compeer,
A heart as sensitive to joy and fear?
And some, perchance, might wage an equal strife,
Some few, to nobler being wrought,
Co-rivals in the nobler gift of thought.

Yet these delight to celebrate
Laurell's War and plumy State;
Or in verse and music dress

Tales of rustic happiness-
Pernicious Tales ! insidious Strains!

That steel the rich man's breast,

And mock the lot unblest,
The sordid vices and the abject pains,
Which evermore must be
The doom of Ignorance and Penury!

free Nature's nocorrupted child, You hail'd the chapel and the Platform wild,

Where once the Austrian fell

Beneath the shaft of Tell!
O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure!
Where learnt you that heroic measure?

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But you,

The feeling heart, the searching soul,
To thee I dedicate the whole!
And while within myself I trace
The greatness of some future race,
Aloof with bermit-eve l scan

The present works of present man-
A wild and dream-like trade of blood and guile,
Too foolish for a tear, too wicked for a smile!

TO A YOUNG FRIEND,

ON HIS PROPOSING TO DOMESTICATE WITH THE

AUTHOR.

You were a Mother! That most holy name,

Which Heaven and Nature bless, I may not vilely prostitute to those

Whose Infants owe them less
Than the poor Caterpillar owes

Its gaudy Parent Fly.
You were a Mother! at your bosom fed

The Babes that loved you. You, with laughing eye,
Each twilighe-thought, each nascent feeling read,
Which you yourself created. Oh! delight!
A second time to be a Mother,

Without the Mother's bitter groans :
Another thought, and yet another,

By touch, or taste, by looks or tones
O'er the growing Sense to roll,
The Mother of your

infant's Soul!
The Angel of the Earth, who, while he guides

His chariot-planet round the goal of day, All trembling gazes on the Eye of God,

A moment luro'd his awful face away;
And as he view'd you, from his aspect sweet

New influences in your being rose,
Blest Intuitions and Communions fleet
With living Nature, in her joys and woes!

Thenceforth your soul rejoiced to see
The shrine of social Liberty!

COMPOSED IN 1796.
A MOUNT, not wcarisome and bare and steep,

But a green mountain variously up-piled,
Where o'er the jutring rocks soft mosses creep,
Or colour'd lichens with slow oozing weep;

Where cypress and the darker yew start wild; And ʼmid the summer torrent's gentle dash Dance brightend the red clusters of the ash;

Beneath whose boughs, by those still sounds beguiled, Calm Pensiveness might muse herself to sleep;

Till haply startled by some fleecy dam, That rustling on the bushy clift above, With melancholy bleat of anxious love,

Made meek inquiry for her wandering lamb:

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Such a green mountain't were most sweet to climb, E'en while the bosom ached with lonelinessHow more than sweet, if some dear friend should bless

The adventurous toil, and up the path sublime Now lead, now follow: the glad landscape round, Wide and more wide, increasing without bound !

LINES TO W. L. ESQ.
WHILE HE SANG A SONG TO PURCELL'S MUSIC.
While my young check retains its healthful hues,

And I have many friends who hold me dear;

L---! methinks, I would not often hear
Such melodies as thine, lest I should lose
All memory of the wrongs and sore distress,

For which my miserable brethren weep!

But should uncomforted misfortunes steep
My daily bread in tears and bitterness;
And if at death's dread moment I should lie

With no beloved face at my bed-side,
To fix the last glance of my closing eye,

Methinks, such strains, breathed by my angel-guide, Would make me pass the cup of anguish hy,

Mix with the blest, nor know that I had died !

ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG MAN OF FORTUNE

O then 't were loveliest sympathy, to mark
The berries of the half-uprooted ash
Dripping and bright; and list the torrent's dash,-

Beneath the cypress, or the yew more dark,
Seated at ease, on some smooth mossy rock;
In social silence now, and now to unlock
The treasured heart; arm link'd in friendly arm,
Save if the one, his muse's witching charm
Muttering brow-bent, at unwatch'd distance lag;

Till high o'er head his beckoning friend appears, And from the forehead of the topmost crag

Shouts eagerly: for baply there uprears That shadowing pine its old romantic limbs,

Which latest shall detain the enamour'd sight Seen from below, when eve the valley dims,

Tinged yellow with the rich departing light;

And haply, bason'd in some upsuon'd cleft,
A beauteous spring, the rock's collected tears,
Sleeps shelter'd there, scarce wrinkled by the gale!

Together thus, the world's vain turmoil left,
Stretch'd on the crag, and shadow'd by the pine,

And bending o'er the clear delicious fount,
Ah! dearest youth! it were a lot divine
To clieat our noons in moralizing mood,
While west-winds fann'd our temples toil-bedew'd:

Then downwards slope, oft pausing, from the mount,
To some lone mansion, in some woody dale,
Where smiling with blue eye, domestic bliss
Gives this the Husband's, that the Brother's kiss !

WHO ABANDONED HIMSELF TO AN INDOLENT AND

CAUSELESS MELANCHOLY.

Hence that fantastic wantonness of woe,

O Youth to partial Fortune vainly dear! To plunder'd Want's half-shelter'd hovel go,

Go, and some hunger-bilten Infant hear

Moan haply in a dying Mother's car: Or when the cold and dismal fog-damps brood O'er the rank church-yard with sere elm-leaves strew'd, Pace round some widow's grave, whose dearer part

Was slaughter'd, where o'er his uncoffin'd limbs The flocking flesh-birds scream'd! Then, while thy heart

Groans, and thine eye a fiercer sorrow dims, Know (and the truth shall kindle thy young mind) What nature makes thee mourn, she bids thee heal!

O abject! if, to sickly dreams resign'd, All effortless thou leave life's common-weal A prey to Tyrants, Murderers of Mankind.

Thus rudely versed in allegoric lore, The Hill of Knowledge I essay'd to trace; That verdurous hill with many a resting-place, And many a stream, whose warbling waters pour

To glad, and fertilize the subject plains; That hill with secret springs, and nooks untrod, And many a fancy-blest and holy sod,

Where Inspiration, his diviner strains Low murmuring, lay; and starting from the rocks Stiff evergreens, whose spreading foliage mocks Want's barren soil, and the bleak frosts of age, And Bigotry's mad fire-invoking rage!

have past,

SONNET TO THE RIVER OTTER.
DEAR native Brook! wild Streamlet of the West!
How
many

various-fated years
What happy, and what mournful hours, since last
I skimm'd the smooth thin stone along thy breast,
Numbering its light leaps! yet so deep imprest
Sink the sweet scenes of childhood, that mine eyes

I never shut amid the sunny ray,
But straight with all their tints thy waters rise,

Thy crossing plank, thy marge with willows grey,
And bedded sand that vcin'd with various dyes
Gleam'd through thy bright transparence! On my way,

Visions of childhood! oft have ye beguiled Lone manlıood's cares, yet waking fondest sighs :

Ah! that once more I were a careless child!

O meek retiring spirit! we will climb,
Cheering and cheerd, this lovely bill sublime;

And from the stirring world up-lifted high
(Whose noises, faintly wafted on the wind,
To quiet musings shall attune the mind,

And oft the melancholy theme supply),
There, while the prospect through the gazing eye

Pours all its bealthful greenness on the soul, We'll smile al wealth, and learn to smile at fame, Our hopes, our knowledge, and our joys the same,

As neighbouring fountains image, each the whole : Then when the mind hath drunk its fill of truth

We'll discipline the heart to pure delight, Rekindling sober joy's domestic dame. They whom I love shall love thee. Honour'd youth!

Now may Heaven realize this vision bright!

SONNET.

COMPOSED ON A JOURNEY HOMEWARD; THE AUTHOR

HAVING RECEIVED INTELLIGENCE OF THE BIRTH OF

A SON, SEPTEMBER 20, 1796.
Oft o'er my brain docs that strange fancy roll

Which makes the prescut (while the flash doth last)

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