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Singing of Glory, and Futurity,

• Most musical, most melancholy,' bird! To wander back on such unhealthful road,

A melancholy bird? Oh! idle thought! Plucking the poisons of self-harm! And ill

In nature there is nothing melancholy. Such intertwine beseems triumphal wreaths

But some night-wandering man, whose heart was pierced Strew'd before thy advancing!

With the remembrance of a grievous wrong,

Or slow distemper, or neglected love
Nor do thou,

|(And so poor Wretch! filled all things with himself, Sage Bard ! impair the memory of that hour

And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale Of thy communion with my nobler mind

Of his own sorrow), he, and such as he,
By Pity or Grief, already felt too long !

First named these notes a melancholy strain.
Nor let my words import more blame than needs. Apd many a poet echoes the conceit;
The tumult rose and ceased: for Peace is nigh Poet who hath been building up the rhyme
Where Wisdom's voice has found a listening heart. When he had better far have stretch'd his limbs
Amid the howl of more than win try storms,

Beside a brook in mossy forest-diell,
The Halcyon hears the voice of vernal hours

By Sun or Moon-light, to the intluxes Already on the wing.

Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements

Surrendering his whole spirit, of bis song
Eve following eve,

And of his fame forgetful! so his fame
Dear tranquil time, when the sweet sense of Home Should share in Nature's immortality,
Is swectest! moments for their own sake baild A venerable thing! and so his song
And more desired, more precious for thy song, Should make all Nature lovelier, and itself
In silence listening, like a devout child,

Be loved like Nature! But 't will not be so;
My soul lay passive, by thy various strain

And youths and maidens most poetical, Driven as in surges now beneath the stars,

Who lose the deepening twilights of the spring With momentary Stars of my own birth,

In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still, Fair constellated Foam,' still darting off

Full of meek sympathy, must heave their sighs Into the darkness; now a tranquil sea,

O'er Philomela's pity-pleading strains. Outspread and bright, yet swelling to the Moon.

My friend, and thou, our Sister! we have learnt And when--O Friend! my comforter and guide! A different lore: we may not thus profane Strong in thyself, and powerful to give strength! Nature's sweet voices, always full of love Thy long sustained song finally closed,

And joyance! 'T is the merry Nightingale "And thy deep voice had ceased-yet thou thyself That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates Wert still before my eyes, and round us both

With fast thick warble his delicious notes, That happy vision of beloved faces

As he were fearful that an April night Scarce conscious, and yet conscious of its close Would be too short for him to utter forth I sate, my being blended in one thought

His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul (Thought was it? or Aspiration? or Resolve ?)

Of all its music!
Absorb'd, yet hanging still upon the sound-
And when I rose, I found myself in prayer.

And I know a grove
Of large extent, hard by a castle huge,
Which the great lord inhabits not; and so

This grove is wild with tangling underwood,

And the trim walks are broken up, and grass,

Thin grass and king-cups grow within the paths.

But never elsewhere in one place I knew

So many Nightingales; and far and near,
No cloud, no relique of the sunken day

In wood and thicket, over the wide grove, Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip

They answer and provoke each other's song, Of sullen light, no obscure trembling hues.

With skirmish and capricious passagings, Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge!

And murmurs musical and swift jug jug, You see the glimmer of the stream beneath,

And one low piping sound more sweet than allBut bear no murmuring: it flows silently,

Stirring the air with such a harmony, O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still,

That should you close your eyes, you might almost A balmy night! and though the stars be dim,

Forget it was not day! On moonlight bushes, Yet let us think upon the vernal showers

Whose dewy leaflets are but half disclosed, That gladden the green carth, and we shall find You may perchance behold them on the twigs, A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.

Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright and full, And hark! the Nightingale begins its song,

Glistening, while many a glow-worm in the shade

Lights up her love-torch. "A beautiful white cloud of foam at momentary intervals 1 This passage in Milton possesses an excellence far superior to coursed by the side of the vessel with a roar, and liule stars of that of mere description. It is spoken in the character of the mefame danced and sparkled and went out in it: and erery now and lapeboly man, and has therefore a dramatic propriety. The author then light detachments of this white cloud-like foam darted off from makes this remark, to rescue bimself from the charge of having althe vessel's side, each with its own small constellation, over the luded with levity 10 a line in Milton : a charge than which pone sea, and scoured out of sight like a Tartar troop over a wilder- could be more painful to him, except perhaps that of having ridiness..--The Friend, p. zao.

culed his Bible.

A most gentle Maid, By its own moods interprets, every where Who dwelleth in her hospitable home

Echo or mirror seeking of itself, Hard by the castle, and at latest eve

And makes a toy of Thought. (Even like a lady vow'd and dedicate To something more than Nature in the grove)

But O! how oft, Glides through the pathways; she knows all their notes, How oft, at school, with most believing mind That gentle Maid ! and oft a moment's space,

Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars, What time the Moon was lost behind a cloud,

To watch that fluttering stranger! and as oft Hath heard a pause of silence; till the Moon

With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt Emerging, hath awaken'd earth and sky

Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-lower, With one sensation, and these wakeful Birds

Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy,

From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day, As if some sudden gale had swept at once

So sweetly, that they stirr'd and haunted me A hundred airy barps! And she hath watch'd With a wild pleasure, falling on mine car Many a Nightingale perch'd giddily

Most like articulate sounds of things to come! On blossomy twig still swinging from the breeze, So gazed I, till the soothing things, I dreamt, And to that motion tune his wanton song

Lull'd me to sleep, and sleep prolong'd my dreams! Like tipsy joy that reels with tossing head.

And so I brooded all the following morn,

Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye Farewell, o Warbler! till to-morrow eve,

Fix'd with mock study on my swimming book : And you, my friends! farewell, a short farewell!

Save if the door half open'd, and I snatch'd We have been loitering long and pleasantly,

A hasty glance, and still my heart leap'd up, And now for our dear homes.—That strain again? For still I hoped to see the@tranger's face, Full fain it would delay mc! My dear babe,

Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved, Who, capable of no articulate sound,

My play-mate when we both were clothed alike! Mars all things with his imitative lisp, How he would place his hand beside his ear,

Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled hy my side, His little hand, the small forefinger up,

Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm, And bid us listen! And I deem it wise

Fill up the interspersed vacancies
To make bim Nature's Play-mate. He knows well And momentary pauses of the thought!
The evening-star; and once, when he awoke

My babe so beautiful! it thrills my heart
In most distressful mood (some inward pain

With tender gladness, thus to look at thee, Had made up that strange thing, an infant's dream), And think that thou shalt learn far other lore, I hurried with him to our orchard-plot,

And in far other scenes! For I was rear'd And he beheld the Moon, and, hush'd at once,

In the great city, pent'mid cloisters dim, Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently,

And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars. While his fair eyes, that swam with undropp'd tears But thou, my babe! shalt wander like a breeze Did glitter in the yellow moon-beam! Well! - By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags It is a father's tale: But if that Heaven

Of ancicni mountain, and beneath the clouds, Should give me life, his childhood shall grow up Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores Familiar with these songs, that with the night

And mountain crags : so shalt thou see and hear Ne may associate joy! Once more farewell,

The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible Sweet Nightingale! Once more my friends! farewell. Of that eternal language, which thy God

Utters, who from eternity doth teach

Himself in all, and all things in himself.

Great universal Teacher! he shall mould
The Frost performs its secret ministry,

Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask.
Unbelp'd by any wind. The owlet's cry
Came loud-and hark, again! loud as before.

Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,
The inmates of my cottage, all at rest,

Whether the summer clothe the general earth Have left me to that solitude, which suits

With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing Abstruser musings: save that at my side

Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch My cradled infant slumbers peacefully.

Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch 'T is calm indeed! so calm, that it disturbs

Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the cave-drops fall And vexes meditation with its strange

Heard only in the trances of the blast, And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood,

Or if the secret ministry of frost
This populous village ! Sca, and hill, and wood, Shall hang them up in silent icicles,
With all the numberless goings on of life,

Quietly shining to the quiet Moon.
Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flame
Lies on my low burnt fire, and quivers not;
Only that film, which Mutter'd on the grate,

Sull futters there, the sole unquict thing.

TOGETHER WITH AN UNFINISHED POEM. Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature Gives it dim sympathies with me who live,

Thus far my scanty brain hath built the rhyme Making it a coinpanionable form,

Elaborate and swelling: yet the heart Whose puny paps and freaks the idling Spirit

Not owns it. From thy spirit-breathing powers

Embow'rs me from noon's sultry inQuence!
For, like that nameless riv'let stealing by,
Your modest verse, to musing Quiet dear,
is rich with tints leaven-borrowd: the charm'd eye

gaze undazzled there, and love the soften'd sky.

Circling the base of the Poetic mount
A streain there is, which rolls in lazy flow
Its coal-black waters from Oblivion's fount:
The vapour-poison'd birds, that fly too low,
Fall with dead swoop, and to the bottom go.
Escaped that heavy stream on pinion fleet,
Beneath the Mountain's lofty-frowning brow,
Ere aught of perilous ascent you meet,
A mead of mildest charm delays th' unlab'ring feet.

I ask not now, my friend! the aiding verse,
Tedious to thec, and from thy anxious thought
Of dissonant mood. In fancy (well I know)
From business wand'ring far and local cares,
Thou crecpest round a dear-loved Sister's bed
With noiseless step, and watchest the faint look,
Soothing cach pang with fond solicitude,
And tenderest tones medicinal of love.
I too a Sister had, an only Sister--
She loved me dearly, and I doated on her!
To her I pour'd forth all my puny sorrows
(As a sick patient in his nurse's arms),
And of the heart those hidden maladies
That shrink ashamed from even Friendship's eye.
Oh! I have woke at midnight, and liave wepe
Because she was NOT !--Chcerily, dear Charles!
Thou thy best friend shalt cherish many a year:
Such warm presages feel I of high Hope.
For not uninterested the dear maid
I've vicw'd-ber soul affectionate yet wise,
Her polish'd wit as imi!d as lambent glories,
That play around a sainted infant's head.
He knows (the Spirit that insecret sces,
Of whose omniscient and all-spreading Love
Auglit to implore' were impotence of mind)
That iny mute thoughts are sad before his throne,
Prepared, when he his healing ray vouchsafes,
To pour forth thanksgiving with lifted heart,
And praise Ilim Gracious with a Brother's joy!

December, 1794.

Not there the cloud-climb'd rock, sublime and vast,
That like some giant king, o'erglooms the hill;
Nor there the pine-grove to the midnight blast
Makes solemn music! But th' unceasing rill
To the soft wren or lark's descending trill
Murmurs sweet undersong 'mid jasmin bowers.
In this same pleasant meadow, al your will,
I ween, you wanderd-there collecting flow'rs
Of sober tint, and herbs of med'cinable powers !

There for the monarch-murder'd Soldier's tomb
You wove th' unfinish'd wreath of saddest hues ;'
And to that holier chaplet? added blooin,
Besprinkling it with Jordan's cleansing dews.
But lo! your Henderson 3 awakes the Muse--
His spirit beckon'd from the mountain's height !
You left the plain and soar'd 'mid richer views!
So Nature mourn'd, when sank the first day's light,
With stars, unseen before, spangling her robe of night!



Dim hour! that slecp'st on pillowing clouds afar,
O rise and yoke the turiles to thy car!
Bend o'er the traces, blame each lingering dove,
And give me to the bosom of my love!
My gentle love, caressing and carest,
With heaving heart shall cradle me to rest;
Shed the warm tear-drop from her smiling cyes,
Lull with fond woe, and med'cine me with sighis:
While finely-tlushing float her kisses meck,
Like melted rubies, o'er my pallid check.
Chill'd by the night, the drooping rose of May
Mourns the long absence of the lovely day;
Young Day, returning at her promised hour,
Weeps o'er the sorrows of her fav'rite flower ;
Weeps the soft dew, the balmy gale she siglis,
And darts a trembling lustre from her eyes.
New life and joy th' expanding Now'ret feels :
His pitying Mistress mourns, and mourning heals!

Still soar, my friend, those richer views among,
Strong, rapid, fervent, flashing Fancy's beam!
Virtue and Truth shall love your geniler song;
But Poesy demands th' impassion'd theme:
Waked by Heaven's silent dews at eve's mild gleam,
What balmy sweets Pomona breathes around !
But if the vext air rush a storiny stream,
Or Autumn's shrill gust moan in plaintive sound,
With fruits and fowers she loads the tempest-lionour'd





My honour'd friend! whose verse concise, yet clear,
Tunes to smooth melody unconquer'd sense,
May your fame fadeless live, as never-sere »
The ivy wreathes yon oak, whose broad defence
"I utterly recant the sentiment contained in the lines

of wbose omniscient and all-spreading love

Aught to implore were impotence of mind, it being written in Scriptare, - Ask, and it shall be given you, and my human reason being moreover convinced of the propriety of offering petitions as well as thaoksgivings 10 the Deity.

[TBE Autbor has pablished the following humble fragment, encouraged by the decisive recommendation of unore than one of our most celebrated living Poets. The language was intended to be dramatic; that is, suited to the narrator ; and the motre corresponds to the homeliness of the diction. It is therefore presented as the fragment, not of a Poom, but of a common Ballad-talo. Whether this is sufficient to justify tbe adoption of such a style, in nny metrical composition not professedly ludicrous, the Author is himself in some doubt. At all events, it is not presented as Poetry, and it is in no way connected with the Author's judgment concerning Poetic diction. Its merits, if any, are exclusively Psychological.

War, a Fragment.

* John the Baptist, a room, 3 Monody on John Henderson.

On the hedge-elms in the narrow lane

Still swung the spikes of corn: Dear Lord ! it seems but yesterday

Young Edward's marriage-morn.

Up through that wood behind the church,

There leads from Edward's door A mossy track, all over-bough'd For half a mile or more.


And from their house-door þy that track

The Bride and Bridegroom went; Sweet Mary, though she was not gay,

Seem'd cheerful and content.

But when they to the church-yard came,

I've heard poor Mary say,
As soon as she stepp'd into the sun,

Her heart it died away.

And when the vicar join'd their hands,

ller limbs did creep and freeze; But when they pray'd, she thought she saw

Her mother on her knees.

The story which must be sapposed to have been narrated in the first and second parts is as follows.

Edward, a young farmer, meets at the bouse of Ellen, her bosomfriend, Mory, and commences an acquaintance, which ends in a mutual attachment. With her consent, and by the advice of their common friend Ellen, he announces his hopes and intentions to Mary's Mother, a widow-woman bordering on ber fortieth year, and from constant health, the possession of a competent property, and from having had no o her children but Mary and another daughter (the Father died in their infancy), reuining, for the greater part, her personal attractions and comeliness of appearance ; but a woman of low education and violeat temper. The answer wbich sbe at once returned to Edward's application was remarkable-. Well, Edward! you are a handsome young fellow, and you shall have my Daughter. From this time all ibeir wooing passed under the Mother's eye; and, in tipe, she became berself enamoured of her forure Son-in-law, and practised every art, both of endearment and of calamny, to transfer bis affections from her daughter to herself. (The outlines of the Tale are positive ficts, and of no very distant date, though the auibor has purposely altered the names and the scene of action, as well as invented the characters of the parties and the detail of the incidents.) Edward, bowever, though perplexed by ber strange detractions from bor daughter's good qualities, yet in the innocence of his own heart still mistiking her increasing fondness for motherly affertion; she. at length overcome by her miserable passion, after much abuse of Mary's lemper and moral tendencies, exclaimed with violent emotion- 0 Edward indeed, indeed, she is not fit for you--shebas not a heart to love you as you descrve. It is I that love you! Marry me, Edward ! and I will this very day selle all my property on you..--The Lover's eyes were now opened ; and thus taken hy surprise, whether from the effect of the borror which he felt, acting as it were hysterically on his nervous system, or that at the first moment he lost the sense of guilt of the proposal in the feeling of its strangeness and absurdity, he flung ber from bim and burst into a fit of laughter, Irritated by this almost to frenzy, the woman fell on her knees, and in a loud voice that approached to a scream, she prayed for a Curse both on him and on ber own Child. Mary bappened to be in ibe room direcily above them, beard Edward's laugh and her Mother's blasphemous prayer, and fainted away. He, hoaring the fall, ran up stairs, and taking her in his arms, carried hor off to Ellen's bome; and after some fruitless attempts on her part toward a reconciliation with lier Mother, she was married to him.- And bere ibe third part of the Tale begins.

I was not led to chuse this story from any partiality to tragic, much less to monstrous events (though at the time that I composed the verses, soinen hat more than twelve years ago, I was less averse 10 such subjects than at present), but from finding in it a striking proof of the possible effect on the imagination, from an Idea violently and suddenly impressed on it. I had been reading Bryan Edwards's account of the effect of the Oby Witchcraft on the Negroes in the West-Indies, and learne's deeply interesting Ancedotes of similar workings on the imaginatiou of the Copper Indians (those of my readers who have it in their power will be well repaid for the trouble of referring to those works for the passages alluded to), and I conceived the design of showing that instances of this kind are not peculiar to savage or barbarous tribes, and of illustrating the mode in which the mind is affected in these cases, and the progress and symptoms of the morbid action on the fancy from the beginning.

The Tale is supposed to be narrated by an old Sexton, in a country churcb-yard, lo a Traveller whose curiosity had been awakened by the appearance of three graves, close by each orber, 10 two only of wbich there were grave-stones. On the first of these was the name, and dates, as usual: on the second, no name, but only a date, and the words, The Mercy of God is infinite.)

And o'er the church-path they return'd

I saw poor Mary's back,
Just as she stepp'd beneath the boughs

Into the mossy track.

Her feet upon


track The married maiden set : That moment-I have heard her say

She wish'd she could forget.

The shade o'er-Oush'd her limbs with heal

Then came a chill like death : And when the merry bells rang out,

They seem'd to slop her breath.

Beneath the foulest Mother's curse

No child could ever thrive : A Mother is a Mother still,

The holiest thing alive.

So five months pass'd : the Mother still

Would never heal the strife; But Edward was a loving man,

And Mary a fond wife.
« My sister may not visit us,

My mother says her nay:
O Edward! you are all to me,
I wish for your sake I could be

More lifesome and more gay.
• I'm dull and sad! indeed, indeed

I know I have no reason ! Perhaps I am not well in health,

And 't is a gloomy season.» 'T was a drizzly time-noice, no snow!

And on the few fine days She stirr'd not out, lest she might meet

Her Mother in the ways. But Ellen, spite of miry ways

And weather dark and dreary, Trudged every day to Edward's house,

And made them all more cheery.


Toe grapes upon the vicar's wall

Were ripe as ripe could be ; And yellow leaves in sun and wind

Were falling from the tree.

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