Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

INTRODUCTION.—Encomium on the Beauties of English Landscape. —Description of the Valley, Mountains, and Views round Abergavenny.— Scenery, and Reflections on the Road to Caerfily.—The Castle.—The Vale leading to the Pont-y-prid.—The Bridge.—Ewenny Priory.—The Fairies.—The Fall of Melincourt.—Caraig-cennin—its Cave.—The Vale of Towy.

Maria! for thy simple ear I seize
The pastoral reed, with no reluctant lip
At thy command, made vocal. Far from thee
While my lone feet o'er Cambria roam, the Muse
Soothing the way, selected flow'rets wreaths,
An offering for the goddess I adore,
Nature:—Maria! thou art Nature's child;
Be thine the chaplet gather'd for her shrine.

As in my lonely pilgrimage succeeds
Each sylvan view, mild, or of grace severe,
That charms with loveliest interchange, I hail
Thee, Albion! favour'd isle. Sublimely rise,
Tow'ring o'er bleak Helvetia, rocks on rocks;
Through the deep vales, in wide expansion, rush
Impetuous streams; and from the mountain brow
Dashes the foaming torrent: O'er thy skies,
Ausonia! suns, without a cloud, diffuse
Rich tints of glowing lustre; and the wreck
Of times remote, fanes and triumphal arcs
Strew thy historic ground; yet not the less,
Albion! o'er thee profusely Nature show'rs
Her gifts; with livelier verdure decks thy soil,
With every mingled charm of hill and dale,
Mountain and mead, hoar cliff, and forest wide;
And thine the ruins, where rapt genius broods
In pensive haunts romantic: rifted tow'rs
That beetling o'er the rock, rear the grey crest

Embattled, and within the secret glade
Conceal'd the abbey's ivy-mantled pile.

Here while I wake the reed, beneath the brow
Of the rent Norman tow'r that overhangs
The lucid Uske, th'enamour'd eye pursues
Along th'expanse the undulating line
That Nature loves. Whether with gentle bend
She slopes the vale, or lifts the gradual hill;
Winds the free rivulet, or down the bank
Spreads the wild woods luxuriant growth, or breaks
With interrupting heights the even bound
Of the outstretch'd horizon. Far and wide
Black'ning the plain beneath, proud Blorench low'rs,
Behind whose level length the Western sun
Dips his slope beam: there the opposed Mount
Eastern of craggy Skirid, sacred soil,

Oft trod by pilgrim foot. O'er the smooth swell
Of Derry glide the clouds, that gath'ring hang
Round yon steep brow amid the varied scene
Tow'ring aloft. As gradual up the height,
Of the rough hills ascending, Ceres leads
The patient step of labour, the wide heaths,
Where once the nibbling flock scant herbage cropt,
Wave in the breeze, with golden harvest crown'd.

How various winds the way, changing the view!
In the clear springs that o'er the pebbled road
Glide to the fretted brook that brawls beneath,
The Zephyr wets his wing, and sportive shakes
Drops of refreshing coolness through the air.

As from the fir-clad brow ling'ring I turn,
Ere the lov'd view recedes, to bid the spires
At distance gleaming o'er Uske's hidden vale

A last farewell, the mingled melodies
From bleating mead, swift rill, and vocal wood,
By breath of gentle winds slow wafted, come
In sweet confusion to the charmed ear.
Now the soft murmurs, faint and fainter heard,
Die, while in contrast harsh from yon lone isle,
Loudly, with ceaseless revolution whirl'd,
Bursts the cogg'd wheel, and on the anvil blows,
Falling at measur'd intervals, and oft
More mark'd by casual interruptions, fling
Heavily forth their weight of sound. Soft falls
Upon the dewy earth descending eve,
And onward as I wander, wavering mists
Shadow the face of Nature, and diffuse
The blue thin veil, that half concealing adds
To the dim scene imaginary charms.

'Tis now the time, when from the narrow world
Withdrawn, and its close fett'ring cares, the mind,

Swift as a prisoner from long bondage scap'd,
Exulting in its liberty, at will
Arrays its wild creation; yet the bard
That roams at eventide, through pathless woods,
His secret way, shapes not ideal scenes
More suited to the pensive range of thought,
Than yonder Castle, 'mid the ruins vast
Lifting its hoary brow. The mellow tints
That time's slow pencil lays from year to year
Upon the ancient tow'rs, spread o'er the wreck
A grateful gloom, and the thick clouds that sweep
Along the darken'd battlements, extend
The melancholy grandeur of the scene.
Hail, solemn wreck! Thou silent hour, belov'd
Of fancy, hail! and thou, that o'er yon hill,
Mild orb, slow rising, with soft radiance gleam'st
Upon the Castle, while each varied shape
Of turret, and nich'd battlement that fronts

The light's full stream, its shadowy image casts
On the retiring walls. As all unseen
I lie reclin'd beneath the hanging tow'r,
That o'er its base projects, doubtful in act
To fall; the stately pile; yon graceful hall,
“Suited for Sewrs and Seneschals,” enchant
The raptur'd spirit: Bold in all the pride
Of feudal strength the castle tow'rs, around
Ring the loud trumpets, and the crowded field
Shouts, while in long procession rang'd, fair dames,
Heralds, and steel-clad knights, and plumed steeds,
Move on in chivalry's emblazon'd pomp.

Soft was the breath of Eve, and soft the beam
Of the mild Moon, that gleaming on the wreck
Silver'd the Castle's crest: Grateful the hour,
Whose noiseless wings accompanied her course,
Hallow'd of fancy; yet the musing mind,
Oft mid the pensive pleasures that attend

The close of day, with many a mournful thought
Opprest, sad dwells on life's swift passing scene,
And dreams of bliss delusive; but reviv'd
From balmy rest, when at the peep of dawn
The traveller bounds with active spirits light
O'er the fresh meads that round his path diffuse
Fragrance, gay Hope attunes her fairy voice
Delightful, and the heart responsive beats
To the sweet cadence of her syren song.
Thus light at early dawn my footsteps haste
Along the pathway stealing to the vale,
Where, from his mountain source, impetuous, Taaffe
Flings the prone flood: Now the inclosing hills
Advance their brows, now bending back display
The sunny lawns, here bare of foliage, here
Darken'd with woods, that feath'ring fringe the brink
Of the swift river, where the lofty bridge

Bursts on the sight amid the lowly glen,
Like some stupendous work the pilgrim views
Wond'ring, o'er Balbeck's waste, or desert soil
Of Palmyrene. Great architect! illum'd
By nature's light, thy daring genius scorn'd
An imitated grace: No sculptur'd form,
Triton, or Nereid, or wrought River-god,
With meretricious ornament disturb
The simple grandeur of thy bold design.
Impatient of its bondage, twice the flood
Rush'd o'er the ruin'd bridge; again thy hand
Th'indignant torrent yok'd, and rear'd the work
Triumphant, that amid the waves shall stand
Secure, while time, by genius turn'd aside,
Shall spare (long may he spare!) th'unrival'd arch.

Still as the temper sways, the traveller haunts
Congenial scenes. While in the murky cells
Of old Ewenny, superstition's slave

Starts at the thunder of his lonely tread
Echoed along the vaults, and horrid shapes
Flash on his wilder'd eye; mournful I seek
The desert spot in village records mark'd,
Where oft the Fairies in fantastic dance
Circled the moonlight green. Ye gentle sprites!
Sweet visitants, who watchful o'er the rest
Of infant sleep, wav'd from your blissful wands
Enchanting visions: Ye, in youthful days,
Who led my willing steps from the pure fount
Of Castaly, and woods of Greece ador'd,
By fawn and dryad trod, to list the song
Breath'd by the native genius of the isle,
Sweet Fays! o'er your forsaken shrine I heave
A farewell sigh, as this memorial lay
Guides the lone stranger 'mid the dreary waste.

By the rent arch, that o'er yon billowy heap
Of sand, sad tow'rs, the melancholy wreck

Of old Fitzhammon's glory, where the brook
With slow pace winds along the matted weeds,
Three springs into a narrow circle pour
Their bubbling rills; the current once renown'd
Lur'd to the hallow'd fount the village swains:
Three fairies on the verdant margin sat,
And kindly mingled in the suff'rer's cup
The drops of health: The tender bud of spring
There earliest bloom'd, and autumn's ling'ring flow'r
There shed its latest sweets, while many a wreath
Hung votive o'er the consecrated fane:
Now nettles and rude thistles thicken round,
And not a wild flow'r peeps along the waste.
Much musing on the dreams that charm'd my youth,
Far from Neath's mart tumultuous, and the scenes
Where nature mourns, while from the molten ore
Sulphureous blasts, that dim the noon-day sun,
Load the infected gale, lur'd by the fall
Of the far flood, through pathless glens I roam,

Where Melincourt's loud echoing crags resound.
Not bolder views Salvator's pencil dash'd
In Alpine wilds romantic. Far descry'd
Through the deep windings of the gloomy way,
The hoar Cledaugh, swoln by autumnal storms,
Down the precipitous rock's declivity
Curves the hurl'd cataract, and on the stones
Rent from th'o'er-hanging mass prone rushing, flings
The shiver'd spray around. Here could I muse
The livelong day, and wand'ring down the dell,
Along the grassy margin trace the stream
Meand'ring; now confin'd from crag to crag,
Where bursts the headlong flood, or widely spread
Mid the broad channel, where th'undimpled wave
Bathing the wild flow'rs-bending o'er the brink
Glides silent by; and ever and anon
As gently, borne by interrupted gales,
Murmur'd the distant torrent, would I catch
The sounds that echo from her secret cave

Responsive breath'd. Vain the fond wish! Rent clouds
Drench the chill limbs, and the rack'd temples throb,
Pain'd with the raging torrent's ceaseless roar.
Reluctantly with ling'ring step I leave
Thy haunts, wild Melincourt! but memory long
Shall dwell upon thy charms, and long shall rush,
Cledaugh, thy water-fall on fancy's ear.

Bold on the summit of the mountain brow
Frowns many a hoary tow'r, where Cambria's chiefs
Waving the banner'd dragon dar'd to arms
The Norman host. Breathing his native strains,
There the descendant of the British bards,
Hoel, or lofty Taliessin, oft
At the dim twilight hour in pensive mood,
Amid the silent hall o'ergrown with bryars,
Recalls the festivals of old, when blaz'd
The giant oak, and chieftains crown'd with mead
The sculptur'd horn, while the high vaulted roof
Re-echo'd to the honour'd minstrel's harp.

O'er yonder crag, steep, lonely, wild, impends
The ruin'd fortress, like th'aërial shape
Of battlement or broken citadel,
That when at eve autumnal gales arise,
Crowns the grey fleeces of the floating clouds.
Stranger! beneath yon tow'r a vaulted path
Down the steep mountain leads; with flaming torch
Amid the windings of the cliff descend,
Where, in its deep recess, the hollow'd rock
Catches the gather'd damps, that drop by drop
Fall through the porous stone. Gilt by the blaze,
The radiant cave, the dews that gem the roof
Shedding around from long pellucid points
The mimic diamonds, veins of sparry ore,
That glittering down the arches' crystal sides
Their interlacing fret-work weave, renew
The visionary scenes to childhood dear,

Of subterranean palaces, the haunts
Of Genii brooding o'er their secret wealth.
Fantastic dreams! delight of Eastern bards,
Persic, or those of Araby! Oh haste,
Fly the enchanting fount! nor stoop to cool
Thy languid lip with the enticing draught
Of the chill wave; the unsun'd spring, more fell
Than cup Circean, shall infect thy blood:
Go where the gale with odoriferous breath,
Blows o'er the flow'rs that bloom on Towy's banks.
Where shall I guide thy foot, where fix thy gaze,
That wanders lost along the lengthening meads?
Not lovelier that muse-haunted vale renown'd
Thessalian Tempe. O'er the sunny lawns
The scatter'd groves of graceful foliage bloom,
Mingling with sweet variety: The hills
Sink softly melting to the plain beneath,
Lost gradual in its level, as the stream
That glides into the bosom of the sea:

High low'r the wilder steeps, darken'd with oaks
Majestic, as bold nature unconfin'd
Spreads in his forest range; and at the base
Of yon wood-waving cliff, where the proud wreck
Of ancient Dinevawr sublimely lifts
Its ivied battlements, swift Towy winds
Voluminous, in many a lucid fold
Wildly meand'ring; while beyond arise
The verdant heights that guard the shelter'd vale,
And fade away, dim'd by the distant clouds.

The Fissures in this mountain are supposed, by the superstition of the Roman Catholics, to have been caused by the convulsion of nature on the Crucifixion.

The Pen-y-vale, commonly from its shape called the Sugar-Loaf.

Caerfily Castle.

The Pont-y-prid, or the New Bridge, of one arch of stone, erected in 1750, by William Edwards, a common mason of Glamorganshire; it is a segment of a circle, the chord 140 feet in breadth, the height 34.

Caraigcennin, the remains of a British fortress.

BOOK THE SECOND.

CONTENTS OF THE SECOND BOOK.

Milford Haven.—Prison at Haverfordwest.—Encomium on Mr. Howard. —Description of the Country leading to St. David's.—The Cathedral.— The Maniac.—Pont-aberglaslyn.—Snowdon.—Carnarvan.—Mona.—Conclusion.

If life were but a transient dream, and man,
With active pow'rs endued, might unarraign'd
“Lose and neglect the creeping hours,” how pleas'd
The bard, by Shakespear's lay pathetic lull'd,
On Milford's flow'ry bank, in sweet neglect
Would lose the summer days! Lone as I wind
Along the flood's smooth margin, on the soul
A mild and soothing melancholy steals,

While memory saddens o'er thy tender plaint,
Meek Imogen! and the sweet dirge that mourn'd
Thy loss, melodious as the dove at night
Mourning her absent mate. Thee, to the shores
Of this unnotic'd stream, a nobler aim
Than barren sighs to heave o'er fancied woe
Impell'd, oh, virtuous Howard! on thou went'st
To yon dark fortress, by compassion led
To wipe the tear that meek repentance pour'd,
Pining in silence, or with angel hand
Touching the flinty bed of guilt, to still
The writhings of despair. From fields of blood,
And the wild havoc of ambition, fame
Has turn'd aside, and wond'ring at her course,
Pursued thy noiseless path, while tyrants quak'd
Before thee: To their awe-struck soul, thy step
Seem'd as of one commission'd from above,
To make just inquisition upon earth;

But in the prison to the child of woe
Thou cam'st like pity veil'd in human form,
Healing the heartfelt-wound; at thy approach,
Tears other than of grief were seen to flow,
At thy approach the fetters' torturing weight
Dropt; purer breath of genial air dispell'd
The spotted plague, and through the cells of death
Burst the new day.

Alas! thy earthly toil
Is finish'd. Now, even now, from Cherson, groans
Of deep regret by the embattled hosts
Re-echoed, Turk and Christian, foes no more,
While o'er thy tomb, thou patriot of the world!
They mix their common sorrows, strike the shore
Of Britain. Go! receive the prize on high
Destin'd for virtue! While thy country rears
Aloft thy sculptur'd tomb, and o'er the world
Her tuneful bards proclaim thy praise, beyond
The power of magic numbers, and the peal

Of fame the spirits of the good record
To list'ning heav'n thy deeds in secret done
That smite not earth's dull ear; and mercy bears
Up to the throne of God the silent pray'r
Breath'd from the grateful heart.

O thou who seek'st
Yon rude coast's verge extreme that o'er the flood
Projects its craggy brow, cautious explore
The solitary path; no print appears
Of human step, save where thy stranger mein
Scares the shy wildness of the lonely child,
Who with her lean flock creeps for warmth beneath
The wither'd hedge. She knows not to direct
Thy doubtful way, alone the narrow bound
Of her rude range she knows, nor dreams of worlds
Beyond the limits of the barren waste.

An old castle at Haverfordwest, converted into a prison.

O'er mournful solitudes, o'er desert heaths,
Where not a wild tree waves its leafy shade,
Chill'd by the desolating blast that sweeps

With whirlwind wings athwart the stony beach
Of Newegal, when sad and faint thou droop'st
At yon sequester'd shrine, away with dreams
Of this world and its pleasures! loudly roars
The billowy sea, and the bleak winds that rush
Through the rent arches of the aisle, invade
The stillness of the aweful fane, where once
The lonely Monk heard but the dropping bead
That clos'd his orison, save when the shriek
Of the wreck'd sailor dash'd against the rocks
Burst on the vigils of his midnight hour.
Yet these lone wastes, this horror-breathing gloom,
And the wide scene of desolation, suit
The tenor of my soul, while sad I join
The maids and village swains, who annual meet—
Lucy!—to scatter o'er thy funeral sod
Fresh flowers: I knew thee in thy happier days,

Ere melancholy love had wrought thee woe.
Oh! if the muse had taught my lip to breathe
Those sounds which hang upon the ear of time,
That magic melody which makes the past
Present, reanimates the dead, and gives
To immortality; thee, hapless maid!
Thee from oblivion, my memorial note
Of pity should preserve. His country forc'd
Her lover from her arms; in foreign lands
The soldier fell; but Lucy liv'd, if that
May life be deem'd, when madd'ning o'er its grief
Broods dark despair. Yet a mild beam of peace
Gleam'd transient on her soul, when unrestrain'd,
Amid the lov'd retreats where William dwelt,
Frequent she linger'd. Oft on Teivy's banks
At early dawn the lonely angler met
Poor Lucy, wreathing mid her locks fresh flow'rs;
And at the dusky close of eve, again
On the same spot, from her dishevel'd hair

Scatt'ring the faded blossoms in the stream:
There long she roam'd, and time had gradual shed
A lenient balm upon her closing wounds,
When mid the merry crowd who yearly throng'd
The village feast, the wand'rer chanc'd to stray
Unmindful of her woe, where his rude strain
An old blind minstrel sung, simple the tale,
Of a lone maid who on a sea-beat cliff
Wept o'er her lover's loss; artless the tune,
Yet it fell wond'rous forceful on the heart:
Swift rushing through the crowd, ‘'tis mine,’ 'tis mine,
‘To sing her woe,’ the raving Lucy cried,
And in deep notes of frenzy pour'd aloud
Her bleeding miseries. From that sad hour
No more, poor Maid! mid Teivy's sweeter scenes
Lay thy rude path; but oft wert thou beheld
Lone bending o'er the crag in deep despair,
While wint'ry storms from old Cilgarran drove
To the dark flood the shiver'd fragment; oft

On Aberystwith's solitary tow'r
To watch all mournful by the midnight lamp,
That flings its blaze along the troubled sea;
Or by the perilous bridge that overhangs
The black abyss, climbing the slippery crags
Worn by the cataract; thy daily food
The mountain berry, and thy bed at night
The cave, white with the foam of Monach's flood:
There floating down the stream thy breathless corse
The wand'ring shepherd found. Beneath this turf
At length thy sorrows rest. Poor Maid, farewell!

The Cathedral of St. David's.

Fled are the fairy views of hill and dale;
Sublimely thron'd on the steep mountain brow
Stern Nature frowns; her desolating rage
Driving the whirlwind, or swoln flood, or blast
Of fiery air imprison'd, from their base
Has wildly hurl'd th'uplifted rocks around
The gloomy pass, where Aberglaslyn's arch

Yawns o'er the torrent. The disjointed crags
O'er the steep precipice in fragments vast
Impending, to th'astonish'd mind recall
The fabled horrors by demoniac force
Of Lapland wizards wrought; who borne upon
The whirlwind's wing, what time the vext sea dash'd
Against Norwegia's cliffs, to solid mass
Turn'd the swoln billows, and th'o'erhanging waves
Fix'd ere they fell. With rapture wild I gaze
On the rude grandeur of the mountain view,
And as a pilgrim, penance hard enjoin'd,
O'er dreary climes with many a wearied step
Far wand'ring, when he first descries aloft
The holy cross upon the distant hill,
Carmel, or Sion, with impassion'd lip
Blesses the spot: thus ardent I behold,
Rais'd o'er the rocky scenery sublime,
Thee, Snowdon! king of Cambrian mountain hail!
With many a lengthen'd pause my ling'ring feet

Follow th'experienc'd guide; a Veteran maim'd
With glorious wounds, that late on Calpe's height
Bled in his country's cause; though time has mark'd
With graceful touch his silver hair, yet health,
The child of temperance, has fix'd the rose
Of youth upon his cheek; keen beams his eye
Beneath his hoary brow, and firm his foot
Springs upon the steepness of the rough ascent.
Proud of his native land the Veteran points
To every mountain, wood, and winding stream,
That by tradition sacred made records
His great forefathers' deeds: for not deriv'd
Of simple lineage the brave warrior boasts
Hereditary blood of British chiefs,
Cadwallader or Roderic's ancient stem.
Tremendous Snowdon! while I gradual climb
Thy craggy heights, tho' intermingled clouds
Various of wa'try grey, and sable hue,
Obscure th'uncertain prospect, from thy brow

His wildest views the mountain genius flings.
Now high and swift flits the thin rack along,
Skirted with rainbow dyes, now deep below
(While the fierce sun strikes the illumin'd top)
Slow sails the gloomy storm, and all beneath,
By vaporous exhalation hid, lies lost
In darkness; save at once where drifted mists,
Cut by strong gusts of eddying winds, expose
The transitory scenes. Here broken cliffs
Caught at long intervals, anon a sea
Of liquid light, dark woods, and cities gay
With gleaming spires, brown moors, and verdant vales,
In swift succession rush upon the sight.
Now swift on either side the gather'd clouds,
As by a sudden touch of magic, wide
Recede, and the fair face of heaven and earth
Appears. Amid the vast horizon's stretch,
In restless gaze the eye of wonder darts
O'er th'expanse; mountains on mountains pil'd,

And winding bays, and promontories huge,
Lakes and meand'ring rivers, from their source,
Trac'd to the distant ocean: scatter'd isles
Dark rising from the watery waste, and seas
Dividing kingdoms, and Iërne crown'd
By Wicklowe's lofty range. Thou who aspir'st
To imitate the soft aërial hue,
Flung o'er the living scenes of chaste Lorraine;
Here, when the breath of autumn blows along
The blue serene, gaze on th'harmonious glow
Wide spread around, when not a cloud disturbs
The mellow light, that with a golden tint
Gleams through the grey veil of thin haze, diffus'd
In trembling undulation o'er the scenes.

Ye that o'er Menaï's darken'd wave impend
Majestic battlements! Thou tow'r sublime,
From whose broad brows the slender turret springs
Light as the plumage from the warriors helm,

The pensive bard, of Edward's martial fame
Regardless, from your splendid ruin turns
Aside to mourn o'er sad Llewellyn's fate.
Heroic Prince! when o'er Caernarvon wav'd
The crimson flag of conquest, mid the pomp
Of festal sports when yon proud castle rung
To Edward's triumph, thy insulted head,
Gaze of vile crouds, stood on Augusta's tow'r
With ivy wreath and silver diadem
Adorn'd, in mockery of Brutus old
And Merlin's mystic verse.

O yet again,
Thou lov'd companion of my devious way,
Muse! deign with sounds of higher praise to swell
The reed, as wrapt in fearful awe I haste
To consecrated Mona. While the moon
Casts through the veil of clouds a sickly ray,
While solitude and midnight silence reign,

Mid rocky circles, the rais'd Carnedd's pile,
And the vast Cromlech's bulk, my lonely steps
Trace superstition's haunt: though mute the voice
Of Druid, nor an oak now rear aloft
Its head, beneath whose gloom the white-rob'd priest
Hymn'd his fierce gods, and with infernal rites
Pour'd forth the sacrifice of human blood
At dread Andraste's fane; yet sudden heard,
To viewless harps aerial murmurs sound,
Mourning the desolated shrines. The place
Is holy, inspiration breathes around;
Visions of old flash wild on fancy's eye:
Mid armed ranks to desperation wrought
The bards invoking vengeance from above
Lift their clasp'd hands to heaven, and thunder forth

Deep execrations on the foe; at once
With sudden light flash the wide caverns; clad
Like furies, with dishevel'd tresses loose,
Yelling in rage the frantic matrons toss
Athwart the gloom their sparkling brands: appall'd
The Roman warrior shudders as a child
Defenceless: Lo, th'avenging eagle sails
Along the lurid air, and fires the groves
Of Mona, while expiring on their shrines,
The Druids to th'infernal gods devote
The foe, and die triumphant. Cease the lay,
With Mona cease. And now beneath the cliff
That flings its shadow o'er the Menaï's flood,
Upon this Druid Sepulchre I hang
My reed; and oh! if ought its varied notes
Have not unaptly breath'd, of ruder strain,
Or softer sound, as changeful nature claim'd;
If those of gentle soul, and simple taste,
Whose friendship in my peaceful walk of life

Has flung unfading flow'rs; if chiefly thou,
Maria! with delight attend the song,
Blest be my reed, and blest the tuneful hours
When my lone foot o'er distant Cambria roam'd.

This is a faint attempt to imitate the masterly description of the invasion of Mona, by Tacitus. The admirers of Caractacus will recollect, towards the conclusion of that drama, an imitation of the above passage, equally spirited as judicious.

SONNETS.

SONNET I. ON THE SHIPS SAILING FOR BOTANY-BAY.

Fresh o'er the wave the winds that fav'ring blow
Fill the swoln sails. Genius of Albion, say
Why yon swift vessel cleaves the wat'ry way?
Is it to hurl thy vengeance on the foe;
To plunge 'mid untried seas th'adventurous prow;
Or to new isles where nature's children stray,
Arts yet untaught, and fruits unknown convey?
Alas, for Britain! fraught with guilt and woe,
Groans the o'erburden'd ship. The farewell sound
Rings mournfully. Father of Mercy, hear!
Chastis'd by labour, when the exiles earn
By their brows' sweat their bread, oh! may the tear
Of penitence drop on the soil, and turn
To blessing thy dread curse that smote the ground.

SONNET II. A MOTHER TO HER SLEEPING CHILD.

“Ah, happy child! when hanging o'er thy sleep
“A mother fondly bends, watching the while
“Upon thy glowing cheek the dimpled smile
“Soft playing, as the breeze that fans the deep
“In the mild summer noon: Oh! may this sigh,
“That will have way, not rudely smite thine ear;
“Nor dropping on thy placid brow this tear
“Wake thee: at sight of grief, thou know'st not why,
“Poor babe! thy sympathizing tear might flow:
“Sleep on, nor taste before thy time the woe
“That racks me, fearful of thy future doom.
“How bright thy dawn of life! ah, may thy eve
“Set thus, unclouded by misfortune's gloom!
“Sleep then in peace, nor hear the sigh I heave.”

SONNET III. THE SUICIDE.

Sad daughter of distress! who in the bloom
Of beauty, bow'd with misery and woe,
In the dark grave art laid untimely low,
Rest! life's bleak storm is past, though by the doom
Of ruthless man, beneath unholy ground,
Thy corse amid the beaten pathway cast,
Lies where the wild birch quivers in the blast;
Yet soft descending through the stony mound,
The dew of heaven shall bathe thy clay-cold breast;
Yet shall thy suff'rings, scorn'd on earth, atone,
Where mercy dwells on high, for life's sad close;
And pity musing oft at eve alone,
On the green sod where grief and pain repose,
Shall soothe with hymns of peace thy soul to rest.

SONNET IV. THE FIRE-SIDE.

Let others hail the youthful year, when springs
Loveliest on hill and dale the blooming flow'r;
Or wand'ring where deep woods the path embow'r,
View the warm tints that autumn gradual flings
Upon the foliage of the quiv'ring trees:
Me, nor on hill and dale the flow'rs that blow,
Nor woods in autumn tints that warmly glow,
So charm, as Winter, when the bitter breeze
Mournfully howls along the barren plain;
And falls the flaky snow, and pelting rain
Beats hard the roof: then friends, long absent, crowd
Around my social hearth; now ling'ring keep
Vigils o'er plaintive tales that banish sleep;
Now join in Christmas mirth with laughter loud.

SONNET V. THE WINTER's MORN.

Artist unseen! that dipt in frozen dew
Hast on the glitt'ring glass thy pencil laid,
Ere from yon sun the transient visions fade,
Swift let me trace the forms thy fancy drew!
Thy tow'rs and palaces of diamond hue,
Rivers and lakes of lucid crystal made,
And hung in air hoar trees of branching shade,
That liquid pearl distil;—thy scenes renew,
Whate'er old bards, or later fictions feign,
Of secret grottos underneath the wave,
Where Nereids roof with spar the amber cave;
Or bow'rs of bliss, where sport the fairy train;
Who frequent by the moonlight wand'rer seen,
Circle with radiant gems the dewy green.

SONNET VI. ON DESCENDING INTO A MINE.

Swart Demon of the mine! oft wont to ride
Upon the wings of death, within the womb
Of earth invisible; or through the gloom
Of thy dank cell in fiery vapour glide;
Or, like the Fates, with restless labour guide
The venom'd thread of the destructive loom,
Weaving the web of destiny;—the doom
That now hangs o'er me tremulous, turn aside!

For not impell'd by avarice, I explore
The haunts, where brooding o'er thy mineral birth,
Thou gem'st the sparry vein with lucid ray:
Me nature leads beneath thy cavern's hoar
Not wond'rous more, on ocean, air, and earth,
Than in thy secret subterraneous way.

The fix'd air.

The inflammable air.

In the highest part of the roof of large drifts which branch out from the mine or main workings, something round is often seen hanging, about the bigness of a football, covered with a skin of the thickness and colour of a cobweb: this, if broken by any accident, immediately disperses itself, and suffocates the miners. Pryce's Mineralogia, p. 192.

SONNET VII. VORTIGERN's VALLEY.

To this deep hollow, hid from human view,
Where the bare cliffs, with loftiest mountains crown'd,
In their rude range the dreary glen surround,
From Britain's throne base Vortigern withdrew.
Oft flung on the steep rock in mad despair,
In every sail that flutter'd near the coast
Viewing the streamer of the Saxon host,
From his ag'd head he rudely rent the hair,
And to the cavern fled. In every star
That on the mountain shot its meteor ray,
He view'd their beacon flashing from afar.
The livid corse stretch'd on yon summit lay,
When heav'n's avenging thunder smote his head,
And fierce 'mid ravings wild the ling'ring spirit fled.

SONNET VIII. A FANCY SKETCH.

I knew a gentle Maid: I ne'er shall view
Her like again: and yet the vulgar eye
Might pass the charms I trac'd, regardless by;
For pale her cheek, unmark'd with roseate hue;
Nor beam'd from her mild eye a dazzling glance;
Nor flash'd her nameless graces on the sight;
Yet beauty never woke such pure delight.
Fine was her form, as Dian's in the dance;
Her voice was musick, in her silence dwelt
Expression, every look instinct with thought:
Though oft her mind by youth to rapture wrought,
Struck forth wild wit, and fancies ever new,
The lightest touch of woe her soul would melt:
And on her lips, when gleam'd a ling'ring smile,
Pity's warm tear gush'd down her cheek the while:
Thy like, thou gentle Maid! I ne'er shall view.

SONNET IX. ON THE PRIORY IN THE ISLE OF WIGHT.

Varied thy views of cliff, and gleaming spire,
Verdant thy turf, thy banks with flow'rets bloom,
And wide thy groves o'ershade with grateful gloom
The sunny slope; yet fain would I retire
Far from the scene! for as the lawn I tread,
Yon mark, by the wild billows lash'd around,
Tow'rs, where at once the brave without a wound
Untimely perish'd. Loud, with screamings dread,
The sea-mews flutter round the naked mast,
And the lone bittern wailing to the blast,
Shrieks like the death cry. In each ruder wave
That bursts upon the cliff, the groan I hear
Of horror, when 'mid friends that could not save,
Hopeless they sunk within the wat'ry bier.

The masts of the Royal George.

SONNET X. RHINEFIELD.

Rhinefield! as through thy solitude I rove,
Now lost amid the deep wood's gloomy night,
Doubtful I trace a ray of glimmering light;
Now where some antique oak, itself a grove,
Spreads its broad umbrage o'er the sunny glade,
Stretch'd on its mossy roots, at early dawn,
While o'er the furze with light-bound leaps the fawn,
I count the herd that crop the dewy blade:
Frequent at eve list to the hum profound,
That all around upon the chill breeze floats,
Broke by the lonely keeper's wild strange notes,
At distance follow'd by the browsing deer;
Or the bewilder'd stranger's plaintive sound,
That dies in less'ning murmurs on the ear.

A lodge in the New Forest.

SONNET XI. ON CASTLE DINAS BRAN.

When rising slow from Deva's wizard stream,
The blue mists borne on the autumnal gale,
Cloud the deep windings of Llangollen's vale,
And the high cliff glows with day's latest gleam;
Dinas, while on thy brow in pensive dream
Reclin'd, no sounds of earth my ear assail,
I bid the ancient chiefs of Britain hail.
Spirits! who oft beneath the nightly beam
Strike the boss'd shield, or blow the martial horn;
Or mournful on the castle's wreck forlorn,
Sigh to the sorrows of the Druid's lyre:
O let me join the visionary choir!
That I may hear the tales of former times,
And drink with ear devout the bard's historic rhymes.

SONNET XII. SKIRID, A HILL NEAR ABERGAVENNY.

Skirid! remembrance thy lov'd scene renews;
Fancy, yet ling'ring on thy shaggy brow,
Beholds around the lengthen'd landscape glow,
Which charm'd, when late the day-beams' parting hues
Purpled the distant cliff. The crystal stream
Of Uske bright winds the verdant meads among;
The dark heights low'r with wild woods overhung;
Pale on the grey tow'r falls the twilight gleam;
And frequent I recall the sudden breeze,
Which, as the sun shot up his last pale flame,
Shook every light leaf shivering on the trees;
Then bath'd in dew, meek evening silent came,
While the low wind, that faint and fainter fell,
Soft murmur'd to the dying day—Farewell.

SONNET XIII. ON CROSSING THE ANGLESEY STREIGHT TO BANGOR, AT MIDNIGHT.

'Twas night, when from the Druid's gloomy cave,
Where I had wander'd, tranc'd in thought, alone,
'Mid Cromlech's and the Carnedd's funeral stone,
Pensive and slow I sought the Menaï's wave:
Lull'd by the scene, a soothing stillness laid
Each pang to rest. O'er Snowdon's cloudless brow
The moon that full orb'd rose, with peaceful glow
Beam'd on the rocks; with many a star array'd
Glitter'd the broad blue sky; from shore to shore
O'er the smooth current stream'd a silver light,
Save where along the flood, the lonely height
Of rocky Penmaen-maur deep darkness spread;
And all was silence, save the ceaseless roar
Of Conway bursting on the ocean's bed.

SONNET XIV. FAREWELL TO BEVIS MOUNT.

Mary! ere yet with ling'ring step we leave
These bow'rs, the haunt of peace, where many a year
Has o'er us past delightful; if a tear
Stray down my cheek, not for myself I grieve.
Here thou hadst fondly hop'd 'till life's last eve
To rest. On yonder bank the flow'rs appear,
Nurs'd by thy culture; there thy woodbines rear
Their tendrils. Thou! ah Thou, unseen, may'st heave
A sigh, what time we bid these groves farewell;
Yet in thy breast resides a soothing power
That sheds the sweet, not found in herb or flow'r.
Oh, Mary! what to us where doom'd to dwell?
Enough, that peace and thou can never part,
Belov'd of me the spot where'er thou art.

ODES.

ODE TO CLYDA.

I.

Naïd, receive my votive wreath!
The woodbine's interwoven locks
That hid their clustering growth thy cliffs beneath;
Fresh gather'd from the gelid cave
The moss that drops the crystal of thy wave;

With the dry lychen's shoot that grew
Upon the steep side of thy pendant rocks;
And now I blend with closest care,
While the prest fragrance floats in air,
The wild thyme's tender flow'r,
That from the bee's light feathers fell
A seed within thy grassy cell,
What time the restless wand'rer flew,
Winding his plaintive hum along thy nightly bow'r.

II.

Clyda, when late the grey-eyed dawn
Gleam'd on the dewy lawn,
And all the distant hills around,
With the blue mist's wreath'd volumes crown'd,
Flung forth their incense to the God of day,
For thy wild haunts I left my wonted way,
Where oft with frequent pause I toil'd to climb
The mountain brow sublime,

Hanging with giddy rapture o'er the view,
As gradual from the world the veil of night withdrew.

III.

Now while the sounds that down thy water move,
With lengthen'd swell of melody repeat
The music of the grove;
Not with rude steps my pilgrim feet
Shall rouse the clamours of thy mountain's hoar;
Nor shall these hands I bend to take
The icy stream my thirst to slake,
Profane thy miny treasure's secret seat,
And draw from its dark bed the unsun'd ore.

IV.

I come not worn with hopeless grief
To pillow on thy rocks my lonely head,
Nor by pale melancholy led
To seek in dreary wilds a sad relief;

But here to muse unseen within the cave,
Dim'd by the broad oak's depth of shade,
Whose twisted roots beneath the flood display'd,
Are turn'd to living stone:
From the bold arch sublimely thrown
In cluster'd columns the bright spar depends,
And noiseless 'mid the eddies of the wave
Slow down their lengthen'd points the ling'ring drop descends.

V.

Hid in the lap of solitude,
In secret glens and caverns rude,
Where'er the lone enthusiast bends
A visionary world attends,
And airy shapes advance, and airy voices sound.
But oh, how blest! if aught of ancient worth
Shed inspiration round,
To slumber on the hallow'd earth,

While Fancy waves her pictur'd wings on high,
And forms of ancient days flash on the tranced eye.

VI.

Though wild trees tremble o'er yon tow'r
Of old where Gothic banners hung,
And peace has scatter'd many a flow'r
On the rent walls in ruins flung,
Bright pageants of the poet's dream,
Prompting the high heroic theme,
Swarm round the castle's shiver'd head,
That beetling o'er the cliff a fragment lies;
Aloft th'aërial battlements arise,
And on the gleaming rocks the steel-clad warriors tread.

VII.

Not such at haunted eve,
Poor shepherd of the dale!
The visions that thy wilder'd sight deceive,
When wing'd with fear thy footstep hies

Along yon craggy brow,
Where the bridge trembles o'er the gulph below;
Amid the foamy tides
That burst through the dark mountain's riven sides,
Thou view'st the shapeless spectre rise,
While shrieks of loud lament and horror load the gale.

VIII.

Spirit! who from thy wat'ry grave
Sad wander'st through the gloomy cave,
That erst re-echoed to thy yell,
When hurl'd from yon impending height,
The deep flood, as thy bleeding body fell,
Mournfully sounded on the ear of night,
Break not death's deep repose—
Hence! in my breast no passion glows,

Save such whose temp'rate pow'r refin'd
Unites in golden chains the mind,
Form'd by the hand of chaste connubial love.
Naïd! receive my votive wreath!
The pure delights that in my bosom move,
Rise from the thoughts thy haunts inspiring breathe.
Nymph! with regret I leave thy soothing cell,
Clyda, to virtue dear, dear to the muse—farewell!

A mountain torrent, near Abergavenny, which winding along a stony channel, among steep hills, in many parts luxuriantly covered to the water's brink with wild trees and underwood, is precipitated into various waterfalls, from the interruption of vast masses of rock that cross the current in all directions.

The most remarkable fall, both for its height and romantic beauty, rushes through a cavity of the rock into a pool call'd the Pult-y-Comb, or the Dog's Pool, from a tradition, that the body of a woman who had been seduced, murdered, and afterwards flung into the river from a bridge that directly impends over the pool, had been there discovered by her dog.

NETLEY ABBEY.

MIDNIGHT.

I

Soft on the wave the oars at distance sound,
The night-breeze sighing through the leafy spray,
With gentle whisper murmurs all around,
Breathes on the placid sea, and dies away.
As sleeps the Moon upon her cloudless height,
And the swoln spring-tide heaves beneath the light,
Slow lingering on the solitary shore

Along the dewy path my steps I bend,
Lonely to yon forsaken fane descend,
To muse on youth's wild dreams amid the ruins hoar.

II

Within the shelter'd center of the aisle,
Beneath the ash whose growth romantic spreads
Its foliage trembling o'er the funeral pile,
And all around a deeper darkness sheds;
While through yon arch, where the thick ivy twines,
Bright on the silver'd tow'r the moon-beam shines,
And the grey cloyster's roofless length illumes,
Upon the mossy stone I lie reclin'd,
And to a visionary world resign'd,
Call the pale spectres forth from the forgotten tombs.

III

Spirits! the desolated wreck that haunt,
Who frequent by the village maiden seen,

When sudden shouts at eve the wanderer daunt,
And shapeless shadows sweep along the green;
And ye, in midnight horrors heard to yell
Round the destroyer of the holy cell,
With interdictions dread of boding sound;
Who, when he prowl'd the rifled walls among,
Prone on his brow the massy fragment flung;—
Come from your viewless caves, and tread this hallow'd ground!

IV

How oft, when homeward forc'd, at day's dim close,
In youth, as bending back I mournful stood
Fix'd on the fav'rite spot, where first arose
The pointed ruin peeping o'er the wood;
Methought I heard upon the passing wind
Melodious sounds in solemn chorus join'd,

Echoing the chaunted vesper's peaceful note,
Oft through the veil of night's descending cloud,
Saw gleaming far the visionary croud
Down the deep vaulted aisle in long procession float.

V

But now; no more the gleaming forms appear,
Within their graves at rest the fathers sleep;
And not a sound comes to the wistful ear,
Save the low murmur of the tranquil deep:
Or from the grass that in luxuriant pride
Waves o'er yon eastern window's sculptur'd side,
The dew-drops bursting on the fretted stone:
While faintly from the distant coppice heard,
The music of the melancholy bird
Trills to the silent heav'n a sweetly-plaintive moan.

VI

Farewell, delightful dreams, that charm'd my youth!
Farewell th'aërïal note, the shadowy train!

Now while this shrine inspires sublimer truth,
While cloyster'd echo breathes a solemn strain,
In the deep stillness of the midnight hour,
Wisdom shall curb wild fancy's magic pow'r,
And as with life's gay dawn th'illusions cease,
Though from the heart steal forth a sigh profound;
Here Resignation o'er its secret wound
Shall pour the lenient balm that sooths the soul to peace.

This alludes to a circumstance recorded in Grose's Antiquities, and still believed in the neighbourhood.

A LETTER ON PHYSIOGNOMY.

“Δικη γαρ ουκ ενεστ' εν οφθαλμοις βροτων,
“Οστις πριν ανδρος σπλαγχνον εκμαθειν,
“Στυγει δεδορκως, ουδεν ηδικημενος.”

O thou, whose voice the willing muse obeys,
Whose taste illumines, and whose counsel sways,
While drawn by thee from Fancy's flight I toil
Slowly on Reason's unpoetic soil,
Deign to receive the graver truths among
Some flow'rs ungather'd by the sons of song!

Lo! where in gentle slumbers hush'd to rest
The babe lies pillow'd on the mother's breast;

Say, can the sage with just precision trace
The dawn of genius beaming on the face;
Yet immature the future powers behold,
As in th'aurelia's veil the wing of gold?
No, ere the thoughts collected and combin'd
Have shed their early seeds upon the mind,
To the dull form attention turns in vain,
Blank is the volume of the infant's brain:
What though the embryo, ere produc'd to light,
Thrill'd with faint pain, and glow'd with soft delight,
Yet these no certain signature impart
To character the mind, or mark the heart;
Gently they breathe upon the face and die,
Nor leave a lasting image for the eye;
But when the touch the nervous network spreads
Fine as th'aërial spider's filmy threads,
When to the light the rolling eyeball turns,
When the moist tongue the nurt'ring food discerns,
When the stun'd babe starts from the stranger sound,
That vibrates on the nerves sonorous round;

Or, when a mother's accent strikes the ear,
Bends his soft neck each whisper'd note to hear;
Or when the organs of the smell inhale
The fine effluvia of the passing gale,
Shrink from the pain the noxious vapours bring,
Or open to the fragrance of the spring;
The passive soul the mix'd impression takes,
The ideas kindle as each sense awakes.
To the dull scenes of the substantial earth
The shadowy broods of fancy owe their birth,
And from material images combin'd
Works the creative energy of mind:
Hence, or the habit of prevailing thought,
Or finer sense with keen perception fraught,
Directs the genius with superior sway,
Touch'd by its impulse moves the muscles play,
Its plastic pow'r the feeling fibres own,
And the nerves swell in sympathetic tone.
O bid me not with speculation vain
Trace the first link that forms the mental chain;

Mark where in life's strong colouring pourtray'd
The soul first caught those hues that never fade;
Why thoughts peculiar strike upon the mind,
And the man grows distinguish'd from mankind!
Lost in the search, enquiry vainly strays,
And darkling error runs round folly's maze.
Unable to explain the secret laws,
And fathom to the depth profound the cause,
Such rash attempts erst led the boastful sage
To study man in heav'n's illumin'd page,
And from the lucid orb and starry scroll
Deduce the inclination of the soul.
Around one point harmonious nature ran,
Sole guide and center of the circle man;
The natal hour his lot of life controll'd,
To mark his fate presiding planets roll'd:
Did high ambition wake the wish to rise,
Jove at his birth shone regent of the skies!
On the sad soul did melancholy weigh,
Saturn's dull flame had faintly warm'd the clay;

'Twas Mars' ascendant fir'd the warrior's blood,
From Mercury wit and elocution flow'd;
And Venus, radiant from the realms above,
Illum'd the infant with the light of love.
These dreams are fled, but other dreams arise,
And visionary phantoms lure the wise:
There are, who with the compass and the line
The measur'd limits of the mind define;
Who, ere upon the front stand forth confest
The marks by time's deep signature imprest,
View in the forming scull the talents wrought,
And from its matrix force the embryo thought;
Explore, where brooding in the bony cells,
Bacon's deep sense, or Shakespear's genius dwells;
Where, yet a cradled babe, some statesman lies,
Artful as Walsingham, as Burleigh wise;
They deem, that as the flowing water glides
Where'er the channel'd path the current guides,
Thus govern'd by the scull's peculiar make
The ductile minds their inclination take.

Can then the dust and perishable earth
Mould in their mass the intellectual birth,
O'er different talents stated forms preside,
And in the same to varying branches guide?
Hence did immortal Homer forceful roll
The peal of epic thunder on the soul;
A melting Sappho languish on the lyre,
Tyrtæus' warmth relume the Spartan fire;
Anacreon sing with wreaths of roses crown'd,
And the sweet Dorian breathe the past'ral sound?
Oh! who of mortal knowledge shall pretend
To mark man's destination and his end?
Who like the potter range each plastic frame,
And on the vase its future use proclaim?
“This made of grosser dust and meaner clay,
“Form'd but to serve, and fashion'd to obey;
“To this choice vessel grace and glory given,
“This set by holy hands apart for heaven.”
The mind is no mechanic organ wound
Blindly to move in regulated round,

But like a kindly soil, dispos'd to feed
With genial juices each entrusted seed.
If general culture had its pow'rs improv'd,
If o'er the kindling sparks ambition mov'd;
Had keen necessity her whetstone join'd,
Sharp'ning the spirit to the work assign'd;
Perhaps the force creative that imparts
A soul to all the imitative arts,
Now clothes the poet's thoughts in words of fire,
Now strikes the nerve of feeling on the lyre;
To sculptur'd forms the breath of life supplies,
And bids the passions from the canvas rise;
Had with like pow'r the reins of empire held,
The car of conquest to the war impell'd;
With philosophic ken the world explor'd,
And turn'd suspended senates by a word.

Man is one perfect piece, whose spring the soul
Moves through the mass, and regulates the whole;

With equal force its vital vigour spread
Feels in the heart, and reasons in the head;
And hence its frequent touch, and constant aim,
Moulds to its bent the sympathetic frame;
Upon the yielding muscles of the face
Leaves by repeated use a lasting trace;
May gradually mark the solid bone,
As ceaseless fall of water frets the stone:
Thus the form'd features rise distinctly bold,
Cast in peculiar shape and settled mould;
The soul, by outward shew defin'd, impart,
And mark the face, the comment of the heart.

Behold Locke's front, and reason's depth discern,
View humour tittering in the smile of Sterne;
In thine sarcastic irony Voltaire,
Genius and truth imprest on Newton's air;
On Cromwell's bolder brow ambition seen,
And sorrow's soft'ning touch on Stuart's mien.

Where'er the fountain gushes into day,
The springs the nature of the soil betray;
In the blue wave the latent minerals gleam,
And hidden pyrites heat the bubbling stream;
Thus on the face the passions fix their seal,
And all the secrets of the breast reveal:
When sentiment is action, thought desire,
The spirits kindle, and the heart's on fire,
The strong expressions, bursting all controul,
Cast forth in high relief the featur'd soul:
Now wonder elevates the open brow,
Breathing revenge, th'expanded nostrils glow;
Love his warm wish in mantling blushes speaks,
Wan jealousy corrodes the canker'd cheeks;
In wild perturbed features guilt display'd,
Calm innocence in placid charms array'd;
Scorn on the lips ill hid by laughter lies,
And folly rolls around her vacant eyes.

Yet boast not man with speculative art,
To trace at will each winding of the heart!
Now prejudice close peers with partial glass,
Fictitious dyes veil the deceitful mass;
Now fix'd aversion's microscopic eyes
Enlarge the failings to unnatural size;
Revers'd by love the tube a scene displays,
Where the dim blemish gradually decays,
Till lost by distance every spot retires,
While every beauty glows with fancied fires:
As wild opinion's strong prismatic hues
Their various colours all around diffuse,
The view cameleon shifts at every turn,
And all, the separate tints they give, discern.

O! if, when errors stain the fairest plan,
And imperfections mark the lot of man,
Forgetful of his nature and his state,
No soft compassion smooth the brow of hate;

If casting on the world a Stoic's view,
Thou give to weakness what is vice's due;
Fly the rash study, tempt not the pursuit,
The tree of knowledge bears a deadly fruit:
But if congenial to thy liberal mind,
The science, with the love, of human kind;
If thou canst pity frailties never felt,
And, firm thyself, for others failings melt,
Through passion's sea dart the unclouded eye,
And pearls beneath a troubled surface spy;
Search the soul's depth, each latent gem produce,
And estimate its value by its use.

FINIS.