The Poetical Works of Anna Seward :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Poetical Works of Anna Seward

With Extracts from her Literary Correspondence. Edited by Walter Scott ... In Three Volumes

Seward, Anna (1742-1809)

VOL. I.

[subsection]

LOVE ELEGIES AND EPISTLES.

II.

III.

Collapse All | Expand All expand section

LOVE ELEGIES AND EPISTLES.

EVANDER to EMILLIA.

ELEGY.

Dreary and dark, in autumn's wane,
The mournful evening falls,
And hollow winds and chilling rain
Beat fast upon the walls.

From the drench'd caves' incumbent tops,
With wet and weltering sound,
At intervals, the heavy drops
Plash on the wat'ry ground.

Time was, ah, well-remember'd time!
When wintry blasts severe,
More welcome than the vernal prime,
Were music to my ear.

When many an evening's stormy hour,
Emillia, pass'd with thee,
I thank'd the rain, and wind's loud roar,
That banish'd all but me.

Now my sick soul these wintry glooms
Oppress with cruel sway,
Since my life's light no more illume
Dark eve, or sullen day.

With folded arms, by waning fires,
I hear the howling wind,
And sigh that faithful fond desires
Congenial winter find.

Yes, long I sit by waning fires,
And heavy eave-drops count;
My heart no sprightlier sound requires,
Or listless spirits want.

For sprightly sounds discordant rise,
Where cherish'd woes are dear,
They but insult the lover's sighs,
Insult his starting tear.

Yet, yet my soul might better bear
These absent weeks forlorn,
Did not presaging clouds of fear
Lour on thy wish'd return.

Authority's yet dreaded power,
Goaded by busy foes,
May wait on that eventful hour,
And bring a train of woes.

Beneath this dread, by waning fires,
I muse the night away;
This dread, that 'gainst my peace conspires,
Resist it as I may.

O! let thy pen my throbbing heart
With softest balm assuage,
And better hopes, with love impart,
To chase the sad presage!

So shall I bless the minutes' course,
How slow soe'er they move,
Since bring they must the day, perforce,
That gives me back my love.

EVANDER to EMILLIA.

EPISTLE.

Can words, O loveliest of thy sex! express
My soul's devotion in its wild excess?
This hand, extended, might as soon contain
The mighty waters of the boundless main.

Tender and ardent is that heart of thine,
But ah! not pierced,—not rapt,—not lost as mine!
What man e'er shone on woman's dazzled gaze
As thou on mine, bright sun-beam of my days!
Tho' every youthful charm were round him placed,
Narcissus boasted, or Adonis graced.

Hope, Love, and Extacy's adorning sway,
Inert and pale, upon my senses lay,
Till, on their dull expanse, in floods of light,
Stream'd those dear eyes—a day upon my night!

Shed kindling graces o'er my altering frame,
Till I nor look, nor seem, nor am the same.
Thus all my thoughts, with secret force, persuade,
Had ne'er on me these melting glances play'd;
The honour'd object of thy tender cares,
Whose now changed form a love-born magic wears,
No more had lived, than life could be retain'd,
When nor by air nor aliment sustain'd;
A human shape indeed might breathe and move,
Some dim resemblance of the man you loved;
But, had his eyes been found indeed the same,
Untouch'd by Passion's soul-enkindling flame?
Source of that glow of intellect refined,
That meets the efflux of thy fervent mind!
The same his lip, without its conscious smiles,
Gay progeny of hope, and tender wiles?
Thro' life's dull path plodding their destined way,
In the trite business of the vapid day,
Would equal grace his listless limbs have crown'd,
As when o'er the unburden'd earth they bound,
Seek, with elastic speed, her gladdening sight,
Who speaks in music, and who moves in light?
Ah no! such cold privation had assign'd
His form unlovely, as opake his mind.

In the dun slip, a garden falsely call'd,
Narrow and long, with dusty brick enwall'd.

Behind the crowded streets, whose mansions high
Breathe the thick smoke, that shrowds the summer sky,
If there a hapless rose-tree meets the view,
How faint its odour, and how dim its hue!
A dusky red each rivell'd orbit wears,
And tinged with livid yellowness appears.
Borne where th' exhaling scents perfume the dawn,
From glowing border, or from verdant lawn,
Where soft showers fall, and tepid breezes blow,
And setting suns in golden radiance flow,
What living bloom the swelling globes array!
What rich luxuriance loads the bending spray!
Its poignant sweets the stealing gales disclose,
And Flora boasts the splendour of her rose.

So boasts Emillia of the form and face
Love, and her charms, endow'd with all their grace,
That lost to them, no eye had e'er allured
A canker'd rose, by sunless walls immured.

Light of my life, with all thy cloudless rays,
Shine ever thus, and gild my future days;
Still shed those vital beams, whose blest controul
My frame illumined, and inspired my soul!

ELEGY.

EMILLIA EMBROIDERING—AND JEALOUS.

My partial friends, ye praise the mimic flowers,
Which from my hand, in gay creation, rise;
But, ah! this little talent's flatter'd powers
No pleasing gleam of self-applause supplies.

Vainly ye descant on the golden light,
Vainly the soft and blended shades ye praise;
Observe my florets swell upon the sight,
And curve, and float from their entwining sprays.

Fatal to me has proved this native sense
Of grace and beauty, that their brilliant glow
Taught my obedient needle to dispense,
And lead their wavy lines in easy flow.

But for that treacherous sense, with calm survey,
These eyes Evander's charming form had met,

Then had my peaceful night, my jocund day,
Escaped delusive joy, and long regret;

This sad distrust, these cruel pangs unfelt,
That shroud the vernal mornings as they shine,
Now that Evander's eyes no longer melt
In tender passion, as they gaze on mine;

Now, that he wastes in idle cares the days,
Who once long ages deem'd each absent hour;
Now, that a rival nymph so often strays,
With air embarrass'd, round Evander's bower.

(j.)

EPISTLE.

EVANDER TO EMILLIA.

[O! why this ceaseless, cruel, strange distrust]

O! why this ceaseless, cruel, strange distrust,
To thy own charms, and my vow'd faith unjust?
Ingrate!—with what impatience did I dart
On these expected scriptures of thy heart!
Yet while my lips their seal unbroken press'd,
A latent dread rose sickening in my breast;
Since, ah! too oft, of late, the sullen eye,
The air repulsive, the upbraiding sigh,
Repress'd—no not repress'd my fond desires,
But fed their rising flame with gloomy fires.

And now, as if 'twere not enough of pain,
That long, long tracts of hill, and dale, and plain,
Rise separating, and force our hearts to prove
The sick dejection of divided love;
Doubts that from shadowy causes wildly flow,
Change sick dejection to corrosive woe.

Conscious of all its torture on my soul,
Thou pourest honey in the venom'd bowl
Of causeless jealousy, of needless strife,
Dark suicides on all the joys of life!
But long it is since sweetness unallay'd
Was to my thirsty, glowing lip convey'd
In that diurnal draught, thy hands consign
To him, whose heart, irrevocably thine,
Resents, and dreads, sighs, shudders, and deplores,
To death desires thee, and to guilt adores.

Away, ye murmurs!—do not dazzling charms,
Each grace that gay, triumphant beauty arms,
Wit, genius, affluence, and pride, unite
To quench my daring hopes in endless night;
Bid her avoid his sight, and scorn his truth,
Whose lot obscure o'er-shades her radiant youth;
And who her peace too generously prefers
To join his yet improsp'rous fate with hers,
Till Time and Industry disperse the gloom,
In which relentless Fortune shrouds his home?

But O! she would forsake her summer-bower,
Tho' fierce winds howl, and clouds tempestuous lour,
Commit to all their rage her tender form,
And share with him the pelting of the storm!

Then with whate'er injustice she upbraid,
Whate'er my shock'd, recoiling sense invade

Indifference, perfidy, or latent art,
Charged thus remorseless on my faithful heart,
That fears to lead her where the tempest blows,
And glooms impend of deep-involving woes,
Yet, O my soul! the dread arraignment bear,
Nor cherish anger, nor admit despair;
Since, if she ceased to love, her rage would cease,
The heart emancipated sinks to peace,
Calls calm disdain and silence to its aid,
And, once renouncing, will no more upbraid!

Come then, ye sweet and bitter pages, come,
Traced by the hand that must award my doom;
By thine, Emillia, despot of my soul,
My life's adorner, and my fate's controul.

Then, tho' deplore I must these doubts insane,
Their dire reproaches, their presages vain,
Still every wild, injurious thought of thine,
While thy dear heart-strings round my image twine,
I will endure;—and deprecate the scorn,
Of jealous love, not cold indifference, born;
Appease this seeming—O! but seeming hate,
Know I am loved, and compromise with Fate.

ELEGY.

EMILLIA TO EVANDET—IN RENAWED JEALOUSY.

The wailful accents of an heart in pain,
The sigh prophetic, the upbraiding tear—
Can their obtrusive sorrows hope to gain
My wandering lover's cold, reluctant ear?

My lover!—I renounce th' expression vain;—
How vain, ingrate! thy alienated eyes
To Lydia's flatter'd pride too well explain,
Thy soft attentions, thy desiring sighs.

Once they were mine;—but they are mine no more!
Yet how I prized them all too well thou know'st;
Well as I know complaint will ne'er restore
My powerless eyes the empire they have lost.

This younger, gayer rival, who obtains
The vows, long-pledged to me—will her light heart

Thrill with the pleasures, tremble with the pains
Thy griefs inflict, or that thy joys impart?

Tho' Time has still, in all their power to please,
Left the unfaded graces of thy form,
Yet oh! his iron hand must shortly seize
That air, that look, with love and transport warm.

Seize them with blighting force, ere Lydia's youth,
And scanty stock of beauty, scanty sure!
Shall pass away;—then can'st thou trust her truth?
Hope for attachment permanent and pure?

Hope it from such an heart, from such a mind,
When thy yet lovely form dim age assails,
And, from their now meridian course declined,
Shrouds all thy graces in his icy veils?

Ah, no!—disparity, the scorner's jest,
Shall gloom with sad distrust each passing day,
And to the pillow of thy midnight rest
The wounding thorns of jealousy convey.

Thy grieved remonstrance then will Lydia hear?
Vouchsafe to sooth thee e'en with faithless vows?
Check, for Evander's peace, her gay career,
And shun the pleasures honour disallows?

O! when th' uplifted eye-brow's steady scorn
Shall rack thy fondness, and confirm thy fears,
Each hope of thine to soften, or to warn,
Vain as my sighs, and wasted as my tears,

Then of the throes, that now my bosom swell,
Perfidious! shalt thou feel how sharp the pain,
And my proud rival shall avenge me well
On all thy broken vows and cold disdain!

EPISTLE.

EVANDER TO EMILLIA.

[Ah! can'st thou say contemptuously I smiled]

Ah! can'st thou say contemptuously I smiled
When thou, with flashing eye and vehemence wild,
Solemn did'st urge that I would bend no more
My steps to Lydia's interdicted door?—

Smile!—yes, I might, but no contemptuous air
Breath'd hated insult on my angry fair;
Well might I smile, that dread of Lydia's charms
Thy dear, tumultuous, jealous heart alarms!

Lydia thy rival!—O resistless power
Of that momentous, consecrated hour,
When in thy soften'd eye's seducing gaze
I read the transports of my future days,
Can its remembrance, all my soul that fires,
E'en in thy absence kindling fierce desires,

Permit a momentary wish to prove
The base apostacy of grov'ling love?

As soon my wandering steps should desperate roam
Far from these blooming shades, my youth's loved home,
Where winding vallies wave in golden pride,
Thro' tufted banks, where glassy rivers glide;
Where fleecy flocks the green hill's side adorn,
Gay linnets warbling from the blossom'd thorn,
And each wide mead, and little sloping field
To numerous herds the silver'd herbage yield;
These would I leave, as soon, for some rude shore,
Vex'd by the stormy sea's incessant roar;
Or seek the clime, whose frowning aspect shocks,
Where arid heaths stretch lonely o'er the rocks,
And but one narrow stream's chill waters pour,
In straight blue line, along the russet moor,
Or, at the foot of mountains, bare and pale,
Obliquely huddles down the stony vale;
While all the phantoms, which the desert haunt,
Danger, and Dread, and Misery, and Want,
In blank sterility's abhorr'd domain,
With houseless solitude and silence reign.

Yet be my home such scene of dire alarms,
If e'er I seek thy rival's meaner charms;

Nor must thou dream that aught of insult dwelt
In that spontaneous smile's imputed guilt.
Contempt of thee!—O! never could it rise,
E'en in contending Beauty's jealous eyes!
Thy sex's envy may produce their hate
Of those eclipsing charms that round thee wait;
Man's selfish pride, for daring to reprove,
With undissembled scorn, presumptuous love;
But none were ever, for an instant, free
From insuppressive reverence of thee;
And could thy dear Evander's lip reveal
What yet nor slighted love nor envy feel?—

The luckless smile, that did thy rage inspire,
Was anger, melting in enamour'd fire,
Beneath that childish frown upon thy brow,
And eager claim of a superfluous vow.

It was those ever-varying traits, combined,
Of face, of form, of temper, and of mind;
Those infant graces, with the ripen'd charms,
That full-blown youth in gay resplendence warms;
Yes, 'twas their fascinating union fired
My daring passion, which so high aspired;
Else had this heart, by calmer wishes sway'd,
To thy bright self a safer homage pay'd;
Awed by thy wit, thy birth, thy beauty's rays,
Had view'd thy form with less tumultuous gaze.

But thou, infatuating foe of peace!
Thou dear, child-woman! by thy strange caprice,
Join'd to thy charms, thy talents proud controul,
And softness, stealing o'er my captive soul,
Hast left me no alternative to prove,
But death, or madness, if I lose thy love.

ELEGY.

EVANDER TO EMILLIA.

[Thou say'st my love is reasonless, to spare]

Thou say'st my love is reasonless, to spare
No glance, no smile, that ceremonies crave,
To Being masculine, ere yet he bear,
White on his brow, the blossoms of the grave.

I own the charge;—for ah! do I not know
The power of each bright glance, each lovely smile?
That dangerous transport, or that cureless woe,
Seizes the heart, their melting sweets beguile?

Thy early looks, thy early smiles on me
Shone unimpassion'd; no enamour'd ray
Shot thro' my fever'd senses, to decree
Death, or possession, to the future day.

Yet so essential to my peace they grew,
All was delightless where they failed to flow,

Tho' too serenely shining on my view
To bid one thought with rising passion glow.

Not then arisen the dazzling, magic light,
Which now for me the Summer's sun adorns
With lustre, ah! so exquisitely bright,
That all the rays, gilding his splendid morns,

Robb'd of its effluence, seem to my sick soul,
Dim as the April dawn, with clouds begirt,
Clouds, that but catch, as thro' the skies they roll,
One wat'ry gleam, to edge their dusky skirt.

“Unreasonable!”—alas! thou know'st not how,
How much unreasonable!—for O! 'tis more
Than yet rapacious passion durst avow,
Than love delirious ever knew before!—

Then, if thou would'st the balm of life should steal
Soft o'er my lids, when night's dun sceptre sways;
That health's warm beams disease's mists repel
Through my or few, or many coming days,

Guard, towards all others, guard thy lips, thine eyes,
Cold be to them the hopes thy graces bring!
Thy glance,—the sun in winter's icy skies,
Thy smile,—the first pale ray of tardy Spring!

(j.)

EPISTLE.

EVANDER TO EMILLIA.

[Yes, my Emillia, I can say with truth]

Yes, my Emillia, I can say with truth,
Had Emma's Henry really stain'd his youth
With those dark crimes his jealousy assumed,
By murder branded, and to exile doom'd,
Passion sincere had forced him to dissuade
From sharing fate so dire, the noble maid;
Prompted each plea he urges to remove
The dread resolve of such disastrous love,
Short of the base reproach, the Cynic sneer,
And boasted fondness for a lovelier fair,
Closing the trial, needless and severe.

Too well I know thy heart, which fate inspires
With Emma's softness, Eloisa's fires,
Has deem'd my rack'd affection's guardian fear
To snatch thee, from thy calm, and sunny sphere,

Down to the clime, where clouds and whirlwinds spread,
A faithless scruple, and a coward dread;
That thou for me would'st every ill endure,
When, drear as Winter, as its tempests sure,
Reproach and penury, around us flow,
And quench our marriage torch in floods of woe.

Thou dar'st remind me, in a covert threat,
Of the proud scorn devoted Hammond met,
Who, when he own'd his terrors to involve
Her he adored in selfish love's resolve,
Till the depriving frowns of Fate should cease,
And his walls glow with competence and peace,
Heard her impute to dull indifference' power
The generous scruple of that ill-starr'd hour;
Saw her their long-twined bands of fondness tear,
Rush to another's arms, and leave him to despair.

Me thou remindest of that cruel scorn,
Of female pride, and causeless vengeance born.
I feel the latent meaning most unkind,
And thee, injurious maid, in turn, remind,
That poor, forsaken, ruin'd Hammond died
The victim of his Delia's faithless pride.

And let thy rage, with fancied wrongs insane,
Steel every thought with Delia's proud disdain,

The instant thou shalt feel thy heart can bear
The doom congenial of my last despair;
Feel that remorse no pang'd regret shall raise,
To blast the quiet of thy future days.

(j.)

ELEGY.

EVANDER TO EMILLIA.

[Why dart those eyes their scornful fires on me.]

Why dart those eyes their scornful fires on me.
What is my crime, unjust Emillia, say?—
Yes, I am guilty!—but no guilt towards thee
My conscious sighs, my starting tears betray.

This heart its thankless coldness should deplore,
Too beauteous despot, at an higher shrine,
Lost, as I seem, in life's meridian hour,
To all created excellence but thine.

Yon gorgeous sun, no more my light by day,
For me the moon's soft, shadowy shining vain;
Me, nor the rose delights, in bright array,
Me, nor the silver lily of the plain.

Before thy charms the blooming season fades,
A love delirious, with tyrannic sway,

Absorbs my every thought, my soul pervades,
Thy frown my darkness, and thy smile my day!

Then may injurious jealousy be driven
Far from thy heart, and all its peace return!
Instruct me to reform my crime to Heaven,
But love me dearer for the guilt I mourn!

(j.)

EPISTLE.

EVANDER TO EMILLIA.

[O! thou art absent, and resentment's power]

O! thou art absent, and resentment's power
Forsakes Evander in this lonely hour;
His weak resolves dispersed, he sees not now
The angry knitting of thy scornful brow;
Forgets that its dear curves, by Nature made
Those beamy eyes to soften and to shade,
And graceful, in that kind assignment, look
As alders bending o'er the glassy brook,
To his afflicted sight so lately rose
Deform'd by fancied wrongs, and causeless woes.
Now present only to his mental sight
Those orbs, that roll in floods of dewy light,
Tempering beneath his gaze their dazzling ray,
Like bright stars waning at the dawn of day;
To his internal ear, from that sweet tongue,
No sounds less melting than the syren's song,

Such, as in days long fled, resistless stole
Through every thrill'd perception of his soul;
Yes, only such, thy boundless power to prove,
Brings the recording spirit of his love.

ELEGY.

EVANDET TO EMILLIA.

[I wish in vain!—too distant thou]

I wish in vain!—too distant thou
To hear thy lover's plaintive voice;
Enchantress, wert thou present now,
To urge his oft repeated vow,
Would'st thou his drooping soul rejoice?

Would'st thou extend thy snowy arms,
And clasp him to thy fragrant breast?
Sooth every dread that yet alarms
From cruel Fate's impending harms,
And lull corroding cares to rest?

Blest recompense for years of pain!—
Come, Angel, come, with look benign,
Come to the heart, whose warm disdain
Would spurn a crown and regal train,
Opposed to one soft glance of thine!

But O! too oft Reflection arms
Against my peace, and sullen dwells
On my scant dole of all the charms,
Whose power eye-govern'd woman warms,
And her enamour'd wish impells.

I grudge thee then that auburn hair,
Which thy transparent brow adorns,
Thy thrilling smile, thy graceful air,
A voice, to soften stern despair,
A cheek, that shames the summer morns.

But O! much more than all, my heart
Breathes o'er those orbs its jealous sighs;
Those orbs, that rays of genius dart,
That love's resistless powers impart,
Those smiling, chiding, fatal eyes.

EPISTLE.

EVANDET TO EMILLIA.

[O! never did thy glowing pen bestow]

O! never did thy glowing pen bestow,
To sooth my soul's inevitable woe,
So much by generous trusting faith inspired,
So much by ardent, banish'd love desired,
Free from the cold alloy of doubts and fears,
And all the sullying drops of jealous tears,
Since first our eyes those conscious glances cast,
That met dissolved and blended as they pass'd.

The precious tenderness these lines impart,
Falls on my sick, alarmed, and longing heart,
Like dews on flowers by sultry noon-beams dry,
Like balmy sleep on Labour's closing eye.

But this long absence!—Countless are its pains,
Sprung from the thought, how fast our being wanes,

How scant its span!—that weeks and months must roll
Towards love, and life's dark and avoidless goal,
Ere Time the ravish'd happiness restores
To pass together some of those few hours,
Forming the short, irrevocable day,
Which stays for none, and fleets so swift away.

ELEGY.

EVANDET TO EMILLIA.

[Emillia, thou art far away]

Emillia, thou art far away,
And languid creep the vacant hours;
Yet, when the last mild evening chased,
With yellow light, the recent showers,

Their wonted path my slow steps found,
The green and shady lanes among,
That wind around the sylvan cot,
The cot with ivy curtains hung.

Soft setting sun-beams gently glanced
O'er the young leaves a sweet farewell;
But ah! to these delightless eyes
How vacant seem'd the bloomy cell!

Tho' gilded by that vernal light,
Tho' linnets warbled in the gale,
A lone and wintry look it wore,
And silence seem'd to shroud the vale.

Thy little faithful dog I met,
Saw him the circling lanes explore,
Rush down the glades, then up the steps
Spring to thy closed and silent door;

With eager eye and plaintive whine,
Snuff thro' each chink the passing air;
Ah! little wretch, I mournful cried,
Thy lovely mistress is not there!

Slowly he walk'd away, and hung
His sullen head,—and nothing cared
How oft I call'd to tempt his stay,
And sooth the peevish grief I shared.

He left me near the silent door,
No more half-open'd to thy friend
When dull the clouds of Evening lour,
And fast her heavy dews descend;

Or drizzling rains, that often weep,
When winds no longer bend the spray,

The moist and early vanish'd sun,
That shrinks from April's wayward day.

Now, in that little hall's dear grate,
No social embers glow the while,
To us so kindly to disclose
The mutual glance, the tender smile.

Protecting walls!—asylum blest,
From every influence unkind!
The rigour of inclement skies,
The rigour of th' unfeeling mind;

From Pride and Avarice' taunting sneer,
Authority's yet dreaded frown,
Whose chidings loud the gentle voice
Of Love's persuasive pleadings drown.

That sylvan cottage is thine own,
A tender mother's kind bequest;
Far from thy haughty father's power,
'Twill give us shelter, food, and rest.

Till that was thine, thou know'st full well
I pleaded 'gainst my self to thee,
Opposing thy too generous love,
Which dared the last distress for me.

But now, that shelter, food, and rest,
May meet us in this ivy bower,
Come to these faithful longing arms,
And scorn the curbs of Pride and Power!

The busy bustling haunts of men,
Thy lover shall for thee resign;
For us the Winter's hearth shall glow,
For us the Summer sun will shine.

The great ones court thee for their bride;
With thee, in ceremonial glare,
They would the pomps of life divide,
For that the world proclaims thee fair.

Ah! it is vanity, not love,
That bids them prize thy matchless charms;
But love alone, and love like mine,
Deserves the heaven of those soft arms.

But can that tender yielding soul
Its generous warfare long maintain,
Defy constraint, and haste to seek
The shelter of these arms again?

O yes! while Memory's power remains,
Her glowing images shall prove,
In thy dear breast, the constant guards,
When Force would disunite our love.

ELEGY.

EVANDET TO EMILLIA.

[Wild florets tremble o'er the shadow'd stream]

Wild florets tremble o'er the shadow'd stream,
Low in the winding, and irriguous vale,
While, blazing at high noon, the solar beam
Flames on the mountain top, and fires the gale.
Here, then, in silence, through the summer day,
Glide, bright with hope, enamour'd hours away.

For now my love-devoted soul at rest,
Hails all the lonely graces of the scene;
Hails them in soft, confiding fondness blest,
And leaves Ambition to her anxious spleen.
Her pomps, her triumphs, disregarded shine,
While fair Emillia's melting heart is mine.

Would I this lock of my Emillia's hair,
Floating in golden threads upon the breeze,

Resign for all Ambition's votaries wear,
For all they pine to see a rival seize?
Ah, no! dear pledge of Love and Hope, that pour
Their precious essence on this rosy hour!

Fate will restore thee, angel, kind and bright
As Spring's gay morning on the troubled sea,
That heaved and surged thro' the long, stormy night,
Like my tumultuous soul when far from thee,
By thy vain doubts disturb'd and jealous throes,
Darkening our perils by superfluous woes.

The clouds disperse! our long-disastrous love,
Trembling beneath pale Ruin's hovering wings,
Emerges from their shade!—O! may it prove
No meteor-fire, that now before us springs,
But a mild pole-star to the dear retreat,
Where Peaoe and Competence our steps shall greet.

O! to gaze on thee all the summer's day,
Hear thy sweet accents charm the winter eve,
And through the hours of slumber's stealing sway
Thy balmy breathings on my cheek perceive!
What full reward for every woe, that shed
Gloom on th' impassion'd years, irrevocably fled!

(j.)

EVANDER to EMILLIA.

['Tis o'er!—the bright star like a meteor fire]

'Tis o'er!—the bright star like a meteor fire,
An instant shone, then vanish'd from our sight!
Fierce, in unbaffled rule, paternal ire
Quenches its beams in everlasting night.
With guardian care a dying mother strove
To shield from penury resistless love;
But that kind care a father's proud disdain
Meets with derision's smile, and sternly proves it vain.

O! pitiless of spirit!—but away,
Ye weak complaints, ye unavailing groans!
Now, stung by Disappointment's madd'ning sway,
Scruples, and fears, my desperate love disowns.
Oft did they wound thee;—I abjure their crimes!
Extinct all hope of more propitious times,
Long years of wasted youth elapsed I see,
And former terrors curse—e'en tho' they throbb'd for thee.

Her hovering ghost, whose violated boon
Sought from the scourge of power our loves to save,
Shall see us meet,—now,—in this night's pale noon,
And lock our hands across her sacred grave.
There thy decisive vows my soul shall claim;
By the last silence of her mouldering frame,
By Death's dark shrines and unresisted power,
That only his dread stroke shall e'er divide us more.

Still can Emillia's heart, like mine, desire?
Then Fate in vain may spread her direst loom;
Nor yet, if Persecution light her pyre,
Shall its fierce flames our destin'd joys consume.
A robe of pure asbestos we can wear,
And while the raging fires around us glare,
With arms entwined our solemn steps shall move,
Safe in the shielding garb, supplied by faithful love.

All that affrights the prosperous and the vain,
Reproach, with taunting lip, and scornful brow,
And shuddering penury, and fever'd pain,
To blast the powers of life, the spirit bow;
The bed of death, the dim funereal gloom,
A timeless pall, an unlamented doom,
Clasp'd in each other's arms, be firmly scorn'd,
Nor ought of wealth and pride, for love renounced, be mourn'd!

Then shall I gaze on my Emillia's form
Through the long summer's day and winter's night;
Her smile my sun, her frown my only storm,
Her health and love, my sources of delight;
Her grave, my quiet bed of lasting rest,
Where power, and hate, no longer shall molest,
Reproach and penury no more dismay,
While undivided sleeps our earthly-hapless clay.

HONORA,

AN ELEGY.

Honora fled, I seek her favourite scene
With hasty step, as I should meet her there;
The hasty step and the disorder'd mien
Fond expectation's anxious semblance wear.

This bowery terrace, where she frequent stray'd,
And frequent cull'd for me the floral wreath,
That tower, that lake,—yon willow's ample shade,
All, all the vale her spirit seems to breathe.

I seize the loved resemblance it displays,
With mixture strange of anguish and delight;
I bend on vacancy an earnest gaze,
Where strong illusion cheats my straining sight.

But ah, it fades!—and no relief I find,
Save that which silence, memory, hope confer;
Too soon the local semblance leaves my mind,
E'en where each object seem'd so full of her.

And Memory, only Memory, can impart
The dear enduring image to my view;
Has she not drawn thee, loveliest, on my heart
In faithful tints, and permanent as true?

Transcending all associate forms disclose
Of evanescent likeness; or each grace
The breathing pencil's happiest effort throws
O'er the bright lines that imitate thy face.

As much too fix'd as theirs too fleeting found,
The pencil but one look, one gesture brings;
But varying charms, each accent's thrilling sound
From Recollection's juster portrait springs.

Be then th' embosom'd image only sought,
Since perfect only can its magic prove!
O! rise with all Honora's sweetness fraught,
Vivid, and perfect, as her Anna's love.

Shew me how fair she seems, when on the gale
Her waving locks, in soft luxuriance, play;
As lightly bounding down the dewy vale,
She pours her rival beauties on the day!

How fair, e'en when displeasure's darkening frown,
And scorn itself are lovely on her brow;
Like summer shades, that sweep the vale adown,
Pass o'er the flowers, and heighten all their glow;

Yet fairer, when her brightening spirit spreads,
In blest vicissitude, the cheering ray,
As Sensibility, quick veering, sheds
Its clouds and sun-shine o'er her April-day.

But fairest when her vermeil lips disclose,
In many a magic smile and melting tone,
The varied accent through the pearly rows,
That proves the mental graces all her own.

Written on the terrace walk in the palace garden, Lichfield, the day on which Miss Honora Sneyd left that place for a month's residence in Shropshire, May 1769.

This celebrated willow of Stowe Valley, from its very uncommon magnitude, excites the attention of naturalists. It is of recorded dearness to Dr Johnson, whence a mistaken idea arose that he had planted it.

THE ANNIVERSARY.

WRITTEN JUNE 1769.

Ah, lovely Lichfield! that so long hast shone
In blended charms, peculiarly thine own;
Stately, yet rural; through thy choral day,
Though shady, cheerful, and though quiet, gay;
How interesting, how loved, from year to year,
How more than beauteous did thy scenes appear!
Still, as the mild Spring chased the wintry gloom,
Devolved her leaves, and waked her rich perfume,
Thou, with thy fields and groves around thee spread,
Lift'st, in unlessen'd grace, thy spiry head;
But many a loved inhabitant of thine
Sleeps where no vernal sun will ever shine.

Why fled ye all so fast, ye happy hours,
That saw Honora's eyes adorn these bowers?
These darling bowers, that much she loved to hail,
The spires, she call'd “the Ladies of the Vale!”

Fairest, and best!—Oh! can I e'er forget
To thy dear kindness my eternal debt?
Life's opening paths how tenderly it smooth'd,
The joys it heighten'd, and the pains it sooth'd?
No, no! my heart its sacred memory bears,
Bright 'mid the shadows of o'erwhelming years;
When mists of deprivation round me roll,
'Tis the soft sun-beam of my clouded soul.

Ah, dear Honora! that remember'd day,
First on these eyes when shone thy early ray!
Scarce o'er my head twice seven gay springs had gone,
Scarce five o'er thy unconscious childhood flown,
When, fair as their young flowers, thy infant frame
To our glad walls an happy inmate came.
O! summer morning, of unrivall'd light,
Fate wrapt thy rising in prophetic white!
June, the bright month, when Nature joys to wear
The livery of the gay, consummate year,
Gave that envermeil'd day-spring all her powers,
Gemm'd the light leaves, and glow'd upon the flowers;
Bade her plumed nations hail the rosy ray
With warbled orisons from every spray.
Purpureal Tempe, not to thee belong
More poignant fragrance, or more jocund song.

Thrice happy day! thy clear auspicious light
Gave “future years a tincture of thy white;”

Well may her strains thy votive hymn decree,
Whose sweetest pleasures found their source in thee;
The purest, best that memory explores,
Safe in the past's inviolable stores.—
The ardent progress of thy shining hours
Beheld me rove through Lichfield's verdant bowers,
Thoughtless and gay, and volatile and vain,
Circled by nymphs, and youths, a frolic train;
Though conscious that a little orphan child
Had to my parents' guidance, kind and mild,
Recent been summon'd, when disease and death
Shed dark stagnation o'er her mother's breath.
While eight sweet infants' wailful cries deplore
What not the tears of innocence restore;
And while the husband mourn'd his widow'd doom,
And hung despondent o'er the closing tomb,
To us this loveliest scion he consign'd,
Its beauty blossoming, its opening mind.

His heart-felt loss had drawn my April tears,
But childish, womanish, ambiguous years
Find all their griefs as vanishing as keen,
Youth's rising sun soon gilds the showery scene.

On the expected trust no thought I bent,
Unknown the day, unheeded the event.
One sister dear, from spleen, from falsehood free,
Rose to the verge of womanhood with me:

Gloom'd by no envy, by no discord jarr'd,
Our pleasures blended, and our studies shared;
And when with day and waking thoughts they closed,
On the same couch our agile limbs reposed.

Amply in friendship by her virtues blest,
I gave to youthful gaiety the rest;
Considering not how near the period drew
When that transplanted branch should meet our view,
Whose intellectual fruits were doom'd to rise,
Food of the future's heart-expanding joys;
Born to console me when, by Fate severe,
The Much Beloved should press a timeless bier,
My friend, my sister, from my arms be torn,
Sickning and sinking on her bridal morn;
While Hymen, speeding from this mournful dome,
Should drop his darken'd torch upon her tomb.

'Twas eve;—the sun, in setting glory dress'd,
Spread his gold skirts along the crimson west;
A Sunday's eve!—Honora, bringing thee,
Friendship's soft Sabbath long it rose to me,
When on the wing of circling seasons borne,
Annual I hail'd its consecrated morn.

In the kind interchange of mutual thought,
Our home myself and gentle sister sought;
Our pleasant home, round which th' ascending gale
Breathes all the freshness of the sloping vale;
On her green verge the spacious walls arise,
View her fair fields, and catch her balmy sighs;
See her near hills the bounded prospect close,
And her blue lake in glassy breadth repose.

With arms entwined, and smiling as we talk'd,
To the maternal room we careless walk'd,
Where sat its honour'd mistress, and with smile
Of love indulgent, from a floral pile
The gayest glory of the summer bower
Cull'd for the new-arrived,—the human flower,
A lovely infant-girl, who pensive stood
Close to her knees, and charm'd us as we view'd.

O! hast thou mark'd the Summer's budded rose,
When 'mid the veiling moss its crimson glows?
So bloom'd the beauty of that fairy-form,
So her dark locks, with golden tinges warm,
Play'd round the timid curve of that white neck,
And sweetly shaded half her blushing cheek.

O! hast thou seen the star of eve on high,
Through the soft dusk of Summer's balmy sky,
Shed its green light, and in the glassy stream
Eye the mild reflex of its trembling beam?
So look'd on us, with tender, bashful gaze,
The destined charmer of our youthful days;
Whose soul its native elevation join'd
To the gay wildness of the infant mind,
Esteem and sacred confidence impress'd
While our fond arms the beauteous child caress'd.

Dear Sensibility! how soon thy glow
Dyed that fair cheek, and gleam'd from that young brow!
How early, Gen erosity, you taught
The warm disdain of every grov'ling thought,
Round sweet Honora, e'en in infant youth,
Shed the majestic light of spotless truth;
Bid her for others' sorrow pour the tear,
For others' safety feel th' instinctive fear;
But for herself, scorning the impulse weak,
Meet every danger with unaltering cheek;
And through the generally unmeaning years
Of heedless childhood, to thy guardian cares,
Angelic Friendship, her young moments give,
And heedless of herself for others live.

Miss Sarah Seward, who died in her 19th year, and on the verge of her purposed nuptials.

The Bishop's Palace at Lichfield.

ODE TO CONTENT.

Mild as the star-beam on the silent wave,
Soft as the tints of yon etherial bow,
That bends its bright arch o'er the dark concave,
And bids the storm its destined limit know,
Do thou, Content, with equal step sedate,
Rise o'er the mind's dim clouds, and break the storms of Fate!

O! welcome as the spirit of the morn,
Whose diamond eyes prelude a golden day,
Choir'd by the linnets from the blossom'd thorn,
The green hill yellowing in her dewy ray,
As o'er its timid bosom soft she glides,
Silvering the winding rill, that warbles down its sides!

While, with a loosen'd zone, gay Pleasure strays,
Crowning with rosy wreaths the frolic hours,

While busy Fame collects immortal bays,
And Hope reclines in amaranthine bowers,
Round thee, Content, health-breathing sweets exhale,
As crops thy gentle hand yon lilies of the vale.

On fair Honora may thy influence shine
For her thy cheek with purest blushes glow!
More does she prize one halcyon plume of thine
Than all that decks Ambition's jewel'd brow.
Near her may thy light steps perpetual rove
With the associate forms of Fancy, Truth, and Love!

EPISTLE

TO MISS HONORA SNEYD.

—Written, Sept. 1770.

Alone, beneath these bowers, last night I stray'd,
The spires high peering o'er their green arcade;
There see thy friend delusion's power employ
To bid one faithless moment gleam with joy;
For this thy name pervades the twilight gloom,
Borne by soft echoes round the sacred dome.
I call'd Honora in that cheerful tone,
Which oft pursued, when for an instant flown,
And always brought thee back, with lively air,
The rising thought, or sprightly song to share.
Ah! dearest, mark thou, with a pitying smile,
The flattering, soothing, self-deceiving guile!

Back on the half-closed door I turn'd mine eye,
And taught my heart to fancy thou wert nigh;
That, as thou'rt wont, at Love's alarm'd request,
Thou hadst return'd to seek a warmer vest,
To shield thee from the dangers evening brings,
Chill gales, and night-dews on her humid wings;
That I should see thee glide the steps adown
Fleet in the haste, with which thou still wert prone
Again to seek the friend, who never yet
Thy wish'd return with heart ungladden'd met.

Yet, why, thou urgest, by deception gain
A mimic joy, that must increase the pain
When Disappointment brings her sick chagrin
To lone Privation's melancholy scene?
But O! each varied species Sorrow knows
Endured for thee, Honora, welcome grows
More than or festal wit, or syren air,
Which thou, my life's adorner, dost not share.

Calm were the gales, the Moon, serenely bright,
Shed her white efflux thro' the noon of night,
And the long shadows of the spires were drawn
Distinct, with all their turrets, on the lawn.

Raised to their summit, my enthusiast eyes
Hail'd those loved witnesses of all my joys;

Of each expanding charm that crown'd thy youth,
Beauty and wit, and elegance and truth;
Warm hopes and smiles gilding the happy years,
Dimm'd but by transient Sorrow's April-tears.
O! how those pleasures deck'd the rising days,
Winter's pale dawn, and Summer's kindling rays!
Shall e'er again, I cried, in thrilling strains,
Such orient mornings tinge yon golden vanes?

Fatigued, at length, on those proud heights to dwell,
On the moist, silver'd ground my glances fell;
But still each thought with fair Honora staid,
Who late, enervate, from her Lichfield stray'd;
Seeking, where Bristol's tepid fountains rise,
The health that fled beneath our colder skies.
Then thus again, in half-formed accents, stole
Th' impassion'd dictates of her Anna's soul.

Ah! sure she must, at those soft springs, regain
The strength that wasted on her favourite plain!
Their lenient power the fever's course shall break,
That dyed with hectic flash her lovely cheek;
Parch'd that moist lip, and from its vermeil hue
Exhaled energic Health's ambrosial dew;
And, banishing the Wood-Nymph's airy grace,
Sunk the light step in Languor's stealing pace;

Bade the warm sense of Pleasure fade and cloy,
And veil'd the facile smile of Youth and Joy.

Yet that she will return, my soul divines,
Bright o'er its fears that dear dependence shines;
Return, with frame unclouded by disease,
With sense of pleasure, and the wish to please.

Thus, to the downcast eye of musing thought,
Fondness and Hope their glowing visions brought;
Charm'd to anticipate, with cheering powers,
The sweet revival of those happy hours,
When, brief or long, the ever-gladden'd day
Left on our pillows, as it stole away,
Not one regret, save for its rapid flight,
And not a fear, but lest some cruel blight,
From injured health, or accidental harm,
Deny the successor its power to charm,
And shroud that ardent Spirit which explores
Science' bright fanes, and Fancy's fairy bowers.

So, while the past and future were combined
In the light chains, by Hope and Memory twined,
Up to those conscious spires I look'd once more,
Whispering my heart that Heaven would soon restore
Honora to her loved domestic scene,
With health's clear spirit glowing thro' her mien.

Surprised, I saw their spiral summits hazed,
Dim, and more dim, receding as I gazed;
And scarce a minute passed, ere in a cloud
The mist convolving, form'd a total shroud.
Damp on my heart the dark'ning omen fell,
And rising tears within my eye-lids swell.
So late this moon-deck'd night, high o'er the fanes,
When not a breeze crept on the neighbouring plains,
Sat tracing their fair forms in state serene,
With shadowy pencil, on the silver'd green.
And now,—but let me not my peace resign,
Grim Superstition, at thy sable shrine!
Demon of Night, and baseless terror fly,
Nor charge with omens the capricious sky!
Vows not Honora that the vital flame
Relumes its course thro' her late languid frame?
Yes,—the light form, the fair expressive face,
Assume their pristine bloom, their nameless grace.
Soon shall my soul that fervid spirit find
Darting each varied effluence of mind;
And since in those dear veins the purple tide
Begins once more in even streams to glide,
My gladden'd eye, in Hope's perspective cast,
Sees future days enchanting as the past;
As blest a consciousness the sun illume,
And gild the dimness of the wintry gloom;

Shed wonted lustre o'er the Spring's soft hours,
And deck in brighter glow her rising flowers;
While sweeter still the woodland pours its strains,
And morns as roseate tinge yon golden vanes.

Miss H. Sneyd was then at Bristol, on account of a consumptive complaint.

ELEGY

WRITTEN AT THE SEA-SIDE. AND ADDRESSED TO MISS HONORA SNEYD.

I write, Honora, on the sparkling sand!—
The envious waves forbid the trace to stay:
Honora's name again adorns the strand!
Again the waters bear their prize away!

So Nature wrote her charms upon thy face,
The cheek's light bloom, the lip's envermeil'd dye,
And every gay, and every witching grace,
That Youth's warm hours, and Beauty's stores supply.

But Time's stern tide, with cold Oblivion's wave,
Shall soon dissolve each fair, each fading charm;
E'en Nature's self, so powerful, cannot save
Her own rich gifts from this o'erwhelming harm.

Love and the Muse can boast superior power,
Indelible the letters they shall frame;
They yield to no inevitable hour,
But will on lasting tablets write thy name.

EPISTLE

TO MISS HONORA SNEYD, MAY 1772.

WRITTEN IN A SUMMER EVENING, FROM THE GRAVE OF A SUICIDE.

It suits the temper of my soul to pour
Fond, fruitless plaints beneath the lonely bower,
Here, in this silent glade, that childhood fears,
Where the love-desperate maid, of vanish'd years,
Slung her dire cord between the sister trees,
That slowly bend their branches to the breeze,
And shade the bank that screens her mouldering form,
From the swart Dog-Star, and the wintry storm.

Ah! dear Honora, summer sheds again
Music, and fragrance, light, and bloom, in vain,
While my sick heart thy smiles no longer cheer,
Nor melt thine accents on my listening ear.
An hour has finish'd its appointed date,
Since on this lone recorded turf I sate.—
How quiet is the green seclusion found!
How deep the solitude that broods around!
No labouring hinds on yonder meads appear,
No human voice, no distant step, I hear;
Yet the sweet linnets warble on the bough,
And tender ringdoves languishingly coo;
The nearly-meeting trees, with plenteous spray,
Arch o'er the darkling lane that winds away
Far to the right.—In front, the silent fields
Now shadows sweep, now evening radiance gilds;
While, to the left, soft sun-beams, as they wane,
Yellow the green paths of the lonely lane;
Where lavish hedgerows boast the wilding's bloom,
Where briar-roses shed their rich perfume;
And gadding woodbines, as their branches wave,
Waft all their fragrance to the hapless grave.

Ah! much I grieve that summer hours consume,
Unshared by thee, the rival of their bloom;
Hours that soft joys should thro' the heart infuse,
And steep the eye-lids in their balmy dews.

To thee, Honora, sister of my soul,
To thee be all their blessings as they roll!
And yet, at times, let kind regret be thine,
Steal o'er thy charms, and shade them as they shine,
For that thy Anna, from her friend away,
Sighs 'mid the glories of the summer day!

Thou say'st,—To me, now destined to remain
In the joy-hallow'd groves, and conscious plain,
Less irksome must our grieved disunion prove,
Than rise to thee the pains of absent love,
Torn as thou art, in all thy tender truth,
From the dear haunts of our long happy youth;
But sure, of parted friends, her lot we find
Pressing the heaviest on the mournful mind,
Who lingers where each object seems array'd
In the fair semblance of the absent maid;
Where bowers and lawns her stamp and image bear,
At once, alas! so distant, and so near!
And, to the aching heart, and tearful eye,
Stand the mute spectres of departed joy.

This spot is known to the inhabitants of Lichfield by the name of Bessy Banks' Grave. When the author walked thither, in the year 1791, she found the two trees, which stood on each side the tumulus, had been recently cut down, and deplored a devastation which she almost fancied sacrilegious.

TIME PAST.

WRITTEN JAN. 1773.

Return, blest years! when not the jocund Spring,
Luxuriant Summer, nor the amber hours
Calm Autumn gives, my heart invoked, to bring
Joys, whose rich balm o'er all the bosom pours;
When ne'er I wish'd might grace the closing day,
One tint purpureal, or one golden ray;
When the loud storms, that desolate the bowers,
Found dearer welcome than Favonian gales,
And Winter's bare, bleak fields than Summer's flowery vales.

Yet not to deck pale hours with vain parade,
Beneath the blaze of wide-illumined dome;
Not for the bounding dance;—not to pervade
And charm the sense with music;—nor, as roam
The mimic passions o'er theatric scene,
To laugh, or weep;—O! not for these, I ween,
But for delights, that made the heart their home,

Was the grey night-frost on the sounding plain
More than the sun invoked, that gilds the grassy lane.

Yes, for the joys that trivial joys excel,
My loved Honora, did we hail the gloom
Of dim November's eve;—and, as it fell,
And the bright fire shone cheerful round the room,
Dropt the warm curtains with no tardy hand;
And felt our spirits and our hearts expand;
List'ning their steps, who still, where'er they come,
Make the keen stars, that glaze the settled snows,
More than the sun invoked when first he tints the rose.

Affection,—Friendship,—Sympathy,—your throne
Is winter's glowing hearth;—and ye were ours,
Thy smile, Honora, made them all our own.
Where are they now?—alas! their choicest powers
Faded at thy retreat;—for thou art gone,
And many a dark, long eve I sigh alone,
In thrill'd remembrance of the vanish'd hours,
When storms were dearer than the balmy gales,
And the grey barren fields than green luxuriant vales.

LICHFIELD,

AN ELEGY.

WRITTEN MAY 1781.

Distinguish'd city! —round thy lofty spires
Bellona's spears, and Phœbus' golden lyres,
Threw gleams of glory, whose unfading flame,
Amidst thy country's annals, gilds thy name.

Has Beauty made thee its peculiar care,
Bade thee arise pre-eminently fair?
Or do remember'd days, that swiftly flew,
When life and all her blooming joys were new,

To my thrill'd spirit emulously bring
Illusions brighter than the shining Spring?

Yet, independent of their glowing spell,
Around thy spires exclusive graces dwell;
For there alone the blended charms prevail
Of city stateliness, and rural dale.
High o'er proud towns where Gothic structures rise,
How rare the freshness of unsullied skies!
Oft cling to choral walls the mansions vile,
Unseemly blots upon the graceful pile!
Here not one squalid, mouldering cell appears,
To mar the splendid toil of ancient years;
But, from the basis to the stately height,
One free and perfect whole it meets the sight,
Adorn'd, yet simple, though majestic, light;
While, as around that waving basis drawn,
Shines the green surface of the level lawn,
Full on its breast the spiral shadows tall,
Unbroken, and in solemn beauty, fall.

Near fanes, superb as these, how seldom found
Exemption from the city's mingled sound;
The iron rattling in the heavy drays,
The rumbling coaches, and the whirling chaise;
The clank of weary steeds, released the rein,
That slowly seek the neighbouring pond, or plain;

The town-cries, dinning from the crowded mart,
And the loud hammers of assiduous art!
Here (only when the organ's solemn sound
Shall swell, or sink, the vaulted roofs around,
While, from the full-voiced choir, the echoes bear
The pealing anthem through the circling air,)
No ruder voice the noon-day silence knows,
Than birds soft warbling 'mid luxuriant boughs.
For now in graceful freedom flow the trees.
That skirt the lawn, and wanton in the breeze.
Their light arcades in soft perspective throw
Stowe's shelter'd fields, that gently slope below;—
Th' embosom'd lake, that, curling to the gale,
Shines, the clear mirror of the sylvan vale;
While on its bank, to humble virtue kind,
Where still the poor man's prayers acceptance find,
The mouldering tower, that 'mid the shade appears,
Green with the gather'd moss of countless years.

There his pale corse may quiet shelter crave,
As swells th' unequal turf with many a grave;
And there the suns of summer-evening look,
There tinge the waters of its huddling brook.

We mark the villa, rising near the lake,
And fairer she, that 'midst the verdant brake,
From sultry gleam, and wintry tempest shrill,
Stands softly curtain'd on the eastern hill;
The suburb-cots, that to the right extend,
And, half embower'd in village-semblance, bend
Towards the lone, rustic spire, that stands serene
Upon the south-hill top, and awes the smiling scene;
While, save that to the left, o'er sloping fields,
Her soft, blue glimpse the distant country yields,
Closed are the gentle hills, that curve around,
And form the beauteous valley's early bound;
Throw every single feature it displays
Distinct and forward on the placid gaze;

Where nought disturbs, as soft the landscape glows,
Its silent graces in their sweet repose.

Now blends the liberal Spring thro' all the scene
The blossoms, silvering 'mid their tender green;
With king-cups gay each swelling mead she fills,
And strews them yellow o'er the circling hills.

Yet more majestic fanes may meet my gaze,
And vallies, winding in a richer maze,
But ah! 'tis those remember'd days that flew,
When life and all her golden joys were new,
That, beaming o'er the thrill'd remembrance, bring
Illusions brighter than the lucid Spring.
Compared with them, May's rosy morning spreads
No poignant sweetness from her violet beds;
Dim her bright noon, and rude her softest gale,
And June's purpureal evening cold and pale.

Days, that delight so vivid knew to bring,
Why did ye hasten on so swift a wing?
Ye taught angelic Friendship to impart
Sweets from a lovely sister's feeling heart.

Mild was my Sarah as the vernal hours
That ope the tender almond's blushing flowers;
And O! blest days of Pleasure's soft increase,
That rose in gladness, and that set in peace,
Ye saw Honora, loveliest of the maids
That deck'd our winter dome, our summer shades!
What sweetness beaming o'er that peerless face!
O'er that light form what animated grace!
How did that mind's warm energies disdain
Whate'er allures the haughty and the vain!
How spurn the tinsel claims of wealth and birth!
How cherish every gleam of wit and worth!
What varying charms, in turn, ascendance gain'd,
And in her voice, her air, her glances reign'd!
Ninon's gay spirit, gladness to inspire,
Lucretia's modesty, Cornelia's fire;
O! of all hours was she!—Those hours are past,
And the wide world contains her not!—such haste
Make happy times to join the vanish'd train,
That shadow'd o'er by grief, or rack'd by pain,
In mercy fled:—but you, in light array'd,
Why paused you not in Lichfield's bloomy shade?
Why set your suns so soon, whose kindling rays
Made all the summer of my youthful days?

When first this month, stealing from half-blown bowers,
Bathed the young cowslip in her sunny showers,

Pensive I travell'd, and approach'd the plains,
That met the bounds of Severn's wide domains.
As up the hill I rose, from whose green brow
The village church o'erlooks the vale below,
O! when its rustic form first met my eyes,
What wild emotions swell'd the rising sighs!
Stretch'd the pain'd heart-strings with the utmost force
Grief knows to feel, that knows not dire remorse;
For there—yes there,—its narrow porch contains
My dear Honora's cold and pale remains,
Whose lavish'd health, in youth, and beauty's bloom,
Sunk to the silence of an early tomb.

Whose name, and city-arms testify her military honours in ancient times. Addison's father being Dean of Lichfield, the infancy of that celebrated author was probably passed in her bosom; and it is well known what eminent men, in later days, were educated beneath her walls.

The trees of the cathedral walk at Lichfield are flowering limes, so beautiful when their branches are left to grow naturally. It is, however, only very lately that the tasteless custom has been renounced of lopping them to form a straight line at top. A barbarism, which existed when Major André was at Lichfield, and to which he alludes, with so much playful elegance, in the second of those charming letters subjoined to the Monody.

Stowe Church, said to be the mother church of this city, is older than its cathedral.

Two elegant houses, one at the foot, the other near the top of that umbrageous rising, which soon, but beautifully, bounds this valley to the east. They were built in the year 1756, by a lady of the Aston family, of whom frequent mention is made in Dr Johnson's letters to Mrs Piozzi, when she was Mrs Thrale.

Green-Hill Church, belonging to the city.

Miss Sarah Seward. She died in her 19th year. The first poem in this collection is an Elegy to her memory.

Weston, on the edge of Shropshire.

Thus, as I journied, grieved Reflection rose
To meet the lone memorial of my woes,
Honora's timeless grave;—then first beheld,
Since, in that little porch, beside the field,
It sunk neglected, while no stone remains
To guard the sacred relics it contains.

The wearied steeds, in languid pace and slow,
Indulged the rising luxury of woe;
With drooping neck, as they had shared my pain,
Lingering they passed the solitary fane.

Swift-rushing tears my straining eye-balls glazed,
And thus my Spirit whispered as I gazed.

“O! fairest among women!—dark and deep,
Beneath that rude stone arch, thy lasting sleep!
With all her woodland choir, resounding clear,
The voice of Morning does not pierce thine ear;
Gay Evening Suns, in Summer-glory drest,
In vain look golden on thy bed of rest,
Since from those rayless eyes their splendours fail
To lift the dim impenetrable veil!

“How early rose the intellectual powers
In bloom, in strength, that shamed maturer hours!
On that dear lip what mute attention hung,
As dropt the precept from the Sage's tongue,
While from his fruitful mind, in Science train'd,
She caught the sense, ere language half explain'd!
How soon did Genius all her soul engage!
How glow'd those eyes along the Poet's page!
What generous goodness taught that now cold heart
To bear in others' joys so warm a part;
Pour o'er another's woe the ready tear;
Watch by the couch of pain with tender fear;
Each wish prevent, each injury forgive,
“And, heedless of herself, for others live!”

“And is this all of my Honora's fate?
O! wasted thus!—O! transient thus the date
Of every excellence, that e'er combined
To breathe perfection on the female mind!

“Serene the day, and balmy is the gale;
Spring's lucid hues are glistening o'er the vale;
Blue gleams the lake the circling trees between,
And one sweet blackbird hymns the smiling scene.
Thus mildly bright the hours of promise shine,
But O! an all-resisting woe is mine;
My soul not e'en the hours of promise cheer,
And vernal music sickens on my ear;
Peace, little warbler! mute forsake thy spray,
Intrusive all the sweetness of thy lay;
Or cease thy strain that cannot sooth my woes!
Or wake Honora from her long repose.”

Then roll'd the wheels, descending to the plain,
Swift from the silent hill and rustic fane;
Me to the life-warm scene they soon convey'd,
When glad'ning eyes the mists of grief pervade.

But to this vale restored, where all I see,
My dear Honora, seems so full of thee;
Where not indeed thy pale remains are laid,
But, warm with life, thou seem'st to deck the glade,
I half reproach my heart, that gayer hours
Beheld it yielding to the social powers;
When the kind glance, and smile of friendship stole,
At intervals, thy image from my soul!

Ye shades of Lichfield, will ye always bring
Illusions brighter than the shining spring?
O! ere these eyes, that all our haunts explore
With fond affection's gaze, shall ope no more,
Lose not of her one consecrated trace,
Whose image gives you this exclusive grace!
Present it still, by Memory's potent aids,
Ye choral turrets, and ye arching shades!
Waft her remember'd voice in every gale!
Wear her etherial smile, thou lovely vale,
When Spring, in wayward April's veering days,
Shoots the spruce foliage from the naked sprays;
When Summer bids, thro' ev'ry splendid hour,
Consummate beauty glow in ev'ry bower;
When Autumn, turning back her golden eyes,
Of parting Summer asks his varied dyes,

With which she decks, but ah! to vanish soon,
Her saffron morning, her pellucid noon;
Nay, e'en when Winter sheds o'er the dim plains
His shrouding snows, loud winds, and beating rains!

Then, should or Fame, or Pleasure, to my ear
Whisper that Talent blooms neglected here,
Lure to the circles where congenial fire
Might Emulation's generous warmth inspire;
Yet here the spirit of departed joy
Shall chain my step, shall fascinate my eye;
Chace with his local spells awakening powers,
Each languid consciousness of wasted hours;
And o'er the present all that lustre cast
That beams reflected from the fairer past.

A fine sheet of water near Weston-Hall, belonging to Lord Bradford.

Newport, the residence of the author's amiable friend, Mrs Short.

Strow Valley, Lichfield.

100

INVOCATION

TO THE GENIUS OF SLUMBER.

WRITTEN, OCT. 1787.

Spirit of Dreams, that when the dark hours steep
In the soft dews of life-embalming sleep,
Our busy senses, canst restore the lost,
The loved, the mourn'd, from Death's mysterious coast,
Propitious lately to my votive lay,
And the lone musing of the joyless day,
From 'whelming years, and from sepulchral night,
Thou gav'st Honora to my slumbering sight:
Deck'd in those varied graces that array'd
In youth's first bloom, the fair ingenuous maid;
In all those pure affections gladd'ning powers,
That wing'd with joy the animated hours,
Alike when her sweet converse welcome made
Morn's rising light, and Evening's stealthy shade;

101

The months with flowers adorn'd, with radiance warm
The vernal day, and e'en the wintry storm.
She look'd, as in those golden years foregone,
Spoke, as when love attuned each melting tone;
When, by my side, her cautious steps she moved,
Watching the friend solicitously loved,
Whose youthful strength, in one disastrous day,
Had fall'n to luckless accident a prey,
And needed much, to save from future harm,
The eye attentive, the supporting arm.
Remember'd looks, ye rays of Friendship's flame,
Long my soul's light, and guardians of my frame!

Why, visionary Power, so seldom kind
To the deprived, the life-retracing mind;
Withholding oft, 'mid thy obtrusive swarm,
My day-dream's idol, fair Honora's form?
O! when thou giv'st it, then, and only then,
Lost to my woes, I live with her again.
Again on me those soft'ning eye-balls shine!
I hear her speak! I feel her arm on mine!
Real as fair, the tender pleasures glow,
Sweet, as the past was potent to bestow,
Freed from that sense which shrouds with dire controul
Volition's image in a cypress stole;

102

That tells me, searching wide creation o'er,
My dear Honora I shall find no more;
That on her lonely grave, and mouldering form,
Six dreary winters poured the ruthless storm,
Violent and dark as my soul's primal woe
When first I found that beauteous head laid low.
On that unshrined, yet ever-sacred spot,
By faithless Love deserted and forgot,
Six bloomy springs their crystal light have show'd,
Their sun-gilt rains in fragrant silence flow'd,
Mild as my sorrows (calm'd by passing years)
Time-soften'd sighs, and time-assuaged tears.

Once, as the taper's steady light convey'd
Upon the white expanse the graceful shade
Of sweet Honora's face, the traces fair
My anxious hand pursued, and fixed them there;
To throw, in spite of Fate's remorseless crimes,
Soft soothing magic o'er succeeding times.
For this dear purpose, near my couch I placed
The shade, by Love assiduously traced;
And, while no sullen curtain drops between,
The image consecrates the sombrous scene;
Serenely sweet it stands,—at morn, at eve,
The first, last object these fond eyes perceive:
And still my heart, and oft my lips address
The shadowy form of her who lived to bless.

103

Now strikes the midnight clock;—the taper gleams
With the faint flash of half-expiring beams,
And soon that lovely semblance shall recede,
And Sleep's dim veils its thrilling powers impede.
I feel their balmy, kind, resistless charms
Creep o'er my closing eyes,—I fold my arms,
Breathing in murmurs thro' the paly gloom,
“Come to my dreams, my lost Honora, come!
Back as the waves of Time benignly roll,
Shew thy bright face to my enchanted soul!”

104

MONODY ON MRS RICHARD VYSE,

ADDRESSED TO HER HUSBAND, SINCE GENERAL VYSE.

I.

'Tis gloom, and silence all!—where late so gay
The strains of pleasure in each gale were borne;
Where white-robed Truth had fix'd her stedfast sway,
And love's bright florets deck'd the rising morn.
How constantly, beneath yon shade,
The little, rosy Comforts play'd!
While to the warblings of the plumy choir
Responsive transport struck her golden lyre!—
Thou dashing stream, swift hurrying down the glade,
Oft has thy clear and sparkling wave convey'd

105

The balmy whispers tender thoughts inspire,
As shed the bridal star its gay enamour'd fire.

II.

Now through the vale a sullen stillness reigns,
The shades embrown'd by woe,
Frown o'er the house of death!—the blasted plains
No more with beauty glow!
Or is it Sorrow's misty shower
That dims the hue of every flower,
Draws from the lake the livid gleam,
And hears the ominous raven scream?—
Round Anna's bower the damps of horror rise,
And shroud the splendours of the azure skies,
Since she, who brighten'd summer's charms,
Is torn in life's gay bloom,
From young Ricardo's widow'd arms,
The victim of the tomb.
To that loved bower she shall no more return!
Bend your dark tops, ye pines, and guard her sacred urn!

III.

Ah! gentle pair, your bliss was too refined,
Too subtly sweet, too exquisite to last;
For ne'er shall man unfading pleasures find,
Where Grief, and Pain, may breathe the withering blast.

106

How dire the ravage in that hour
When sunk, beneath their baleful power,
Each joy, bright springing from congenial taste,
From warm impassion'd Love, from Friendship chaste;
From Plenty, summon'd by approving Fate,
To glide serenely through your open gate;
From all that softens life, from all that cheers,
And nurses Eden's rose in this chill vale of tear.

IV.

Rash man was made to mourn:—exempt alone
Who transport ne'er have felt;
Whose hearts, girt round by Dulness' leaden zone,
Nor Love, nor Pity melt;
On whose dead calm of vacant hours
Nor Rapture beams, nor Anguish lours.—
Lone mourner o'er thy Anna's grave,
Since Youth and Love were weak to save,
Thy fruitless sorrows with this truth controul,
Soft whispering to thy fond, thy faithful soul,
That all the woes, which shroud thy noon-tide rays,
Bend thee to earth, and lay thy prospects waste;
Are borne for her, whose fair, unclouded days
Of wintry storm had never felt the blast;
The large arrears of grief she must have paid,
Had she not early sunk in death's eternal shade.

107

V.

O! think, had fell disease assaulted thee,
The rushing fever, or the slow decline,
These sufferings had been hers—this agony
Wrung her mild bosom, that now tortures thine;
And shall not her far happier doom
Gild, with its seraph rays, thy gloom?
Since sun-eyed Faith empowers thee to pervade
The dreary grave's incumbent shade;
Lift its dark curtains from the regions bright,
And see thy love ascend her throne of light,
Where bliss, that ne'er shall end, and ne'er can cloy,
Succeeds your nuptial year of seldom equall'd joy.

This poem was written the day before that lady's funeral, and in view of the villa where she died, in the Vale of Stowe, near Lichfield.

108

TO MRS COLTMAN OF HULL.

OCTOBER 1772.

Bright as the dew-drop on the brow of morn,
Fair as the lily by the fountain side,
Sweet as the damask rose-bud, newly born
On verdant banks, where glassy rivers glide,

Thou, Isabella, in the vale of life,
Far from Ambition's paths art charm'd to stray,
Shunning the haunts of pride and envious strife,
Each Muse, each Grace, companions of thy way.

Thy winter's cheerful hearth, thy summer suns,
May attic wit and virtue still adorn!
Brightning thy destin'd hour-glass as it runs,
Crowning thy night with peace, with joy thy morn!

109

Long may Hygeia lead thee to her springs,
And with full draughts thy glowing lip bedew!
And while Prosperity her garland brings,
May nought that blesses bid thee once adieu!

110

RECEIPT

FOR A SWEET JAR.

Through freezing hours would you pervade your rooms
With each fine odour of the summer-blooms,
Learn from the Muse to form the fragrant spell,
And bid her rhymes its artful process tell.

When Spring's first sweets the pendant violets pour,
Strew, with unsparing hand, that lovely flower;
When Fraxanella's spicy sighs exhale,
And pale Syringas languish on the gale;
When all the aromatic tribe entwine
Their vernal garlands round Hygeia's shrine,
Crop the rich spoils beneath the noon-day sun,
And be with these thy grateful task begun!
Then when the nymph, that decks the glowing year,
Bids to the day her loveliest boast appear,

111

As her gay rose expands its crimson gems,
Of the bright offspring rob the parent stems;
From noon to noon the splendid foliage lay,
The added heaps shall added sweets convey;
And scarce less liberally, to swell thy hoard,
Her spikes let azure lavender afford;
From orange-groves be silvery blooms consign'd,
With starry jessamine of scent refined.
From the soft umbrage of Idalian bowers
Bid graceful myrtles shed their blossom'd showers;
And, emulous of raspberry's tempting sweet,
Let mignionets their floral sisters greet.
With cinnamon let cloves and mace descend,
And in the marble vase their virtues blend,
One ounce of each;—and then, with sparing hand,
Bid luscious musk his potent scent expand,
A few small grains;—dispersing 'mid the rest,
No sick'ning odours shall the sense molest,
But, when time mellows their too cloying power,
They shall increase the sweets of spice and flower.

Yet liberal most the snowy mineral spread
Between each layer, in sparkling plenty shed,
Since where bright Salt her crystalines extends,
She brings an active host of powerful friends,
To whose pervading and protecting sway,
Fell Dissolution yields his languid prey.

112

And you, who wish your breathing flowers may rise
With scent primeval, on December's skies,
Still, as you spread them, every layer between,
Profusely let this white preserver gleam,
While scantier sprinklings of the spicy dust,
By art thus blended, aid the poignant gust.

And let each rising morn behold with care
Thy busy fingers mix each former layer;
And be that task renew'd when setting light
Resigns her faded empire to the night.

So shall no taint pollute thy treasured flowers,
No must offensive foil their fragrant powers;
But odours, rich as those of Saba's vale,
Rise on hybernal Albion's bleakest gale,
Sweets, which the breath of her gay months excells,
While in thy vase eternal summer dwells.

113

INVOCATION TO THE SHADE OF PETRARCH, AND TO THE SPIRITS OF THE PERSIAN POETS,

ON THEIR COMPOSITIONS BEING TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH, BY SIR WILLIAM JONES.

Boast of Italian plains, that once did'st rove
Where lucid Sorga leads her winding wave
From its deep fountain in Valclusa's grove,
Whose lavish laurels in her waters lave,

Thou, who so oft hast struck the silver shell
To hopeless Love, and wedded Laura's charms,
See passing ages yet enchanted dwell,
On thy sweet verse, and feel thy soft alarms!

Ah! sacred shade of that enamour'd youth,
Still shall thy myrtles bloom with fairest hue,

114

While one kind tear descends from tender Truth,
Again each fading blossom to renew.

But share those myrtles with that minstrel bland,
Whose skill afresh hath strung thy silver lyre,
And taught the echoes of his native land
The plaint harmonious of thy fond desire.

With him your bright poetic honours share,
You that awaked the song on Mithra's plains,
Breath'd your wild warblings on the fragrant air,
And at the fount of light illumed your strains.

The veils that hid you thro' the rounds of time
From European eyes, are torn away,
And all the fire of oriental rhyme
Glows in our isle with undiminish'd ray:

Spirits of eastern bards, where'er shall rove
Your British guardian, from your musky vales,
Sun-hallow'd hills, and each odorous grove,
Bring the rich incense that perfumes your gales!

O'er his young head the spicy treasures blend,
And from your brightest gems a crown obtain!
On him may all the tribute stores descend
Who hung with Persian wreaths the Albion Muses' fane!

This was written when first Sir William's Oriental Miscellany appeared.

115

ODE TO WILLIAM BOOTHBY, ESQ.

WRITTEN IN THE SUMMER 1775.

Ere yet Alexis bend his purposed way
The Peak's rude rocks and devious vales among,
O! may he pause, and, listening to my lay,
Accept the moral precept of the song!
And ye, blest sisters of th' inspiring spring,
Too partial, cease to wander and to sing
Where Arethusa's silver fountain flows!
Or, if Castalian plains ye haunt, ah, bend
Your steps where rival scenes extend,
And every varied tint of beauty glows,
Mix'd with the spirit of the mountain gale,
Whose stolen perfumes float and wanton o'er the vale!

116

There, under pendant rocks, his amber flood,
As Hebrus swift, impetuous Derwent pours;
And now, beneath the broad, incumbent wood,
Silent and smooth and deep, he laves the shores;
Till, gaily rushing from his darksome way,
His foamy waters glitter on the day,
Resistless, dashing o'er each rugged mound;
And still, on his umbrageous bank, he shows
Woodbines and harebells and the musky rose,
The heavy, velvet wild bees murmuring sound.
His every grace that decks Pieria's clime,
Green vale, and steepy hill, and broken rock sublime.

Here, in meanders swift, the silver Wie
Wantons around the Naiads of his wave,
Thro' scenes, where mighty Nature's spirit free
Each coy and wood-wild grace luxuriant gave.
Behold, in lucid beauty, from the tide
Rise his kind nymphs, and for the race that glide

117

With sinuous track, and in their eddies play,
Ask mercy!—Wilt thou then, with barbarous care,
Th' unreal insect, false and fair,
Seductive fling along their glassy way?
Hasten, ye Muses, from Sicilian glades,
The guiltless tenants guard of these all-lovely shades!

And may your strains a purer joy impart,
And cruel purposes in pity melt!
Humane of song! O steal into his heart,
Till life-destroying hopes no more are felt!
Tell him how much profaned that eye benign,
By Nature form'd with other fires to shine,
Love's ardent beam, and Mercy's dewy ray,
How much profaned, when, with inhuman lour,
Its deathful level streams!—ah, pour
The sacred strain, and save the tender prey!
Avert each cruel, unresisted blow,
Tell him, no laureate meeds for such achievements grow!

Of wasted hours may generous minds beware,
Nor fatal be their strength, their skill, their speed!
Link'd with the Graces, lo, the Nine appear!
Hark, how they warn thee from each ruthless deed!
Now, while thy life's purpureal moments reign,
Rove with these guardian nymphs, hill, dale, and plain!

118

Their zones shall gird thee, and their lays inspire,
Storing each sense with permanent delight;
That, when thy youth has wing'd its flight,
When faded all the tints of gay desire,
On the mild evening of thy vital day
Science and Taste may shine with cloud-dispelling ray!

The river Wie runs through Mensaldale, the loveliest of the Peak Vallies, and through the rich meads below Bakewell, where it winds and curves with capricious wantonness. The waters of the Derwent have a tint of amber, which seems to suit the dark and luxuriant foliage on their banks, and is well contrasted by the white foam, almost perpetually formed by its rocky channel. The clearness of the Wie is still more beautiful. Hence it becomes the mirror of the exquisite scenery on its borders.

119

ODE TO BROOKE BOOTHBY, ESQ.

AFFERWARDS SIR BROOKE BOOTHBY.

Not yet is it reveal'd, ye sacred Nine,
If, with humane accordance to my lay,
Ye rear'd, in Peak's sweet vales, your rocky shrine,
And lured Alexis from the sylvan prey.—
That late his brother's chorded shell
Ye struck, its charming numbers tell;
They bear the symbols of your quire,
Aonian sweetness, Attic fire;
So prompt with happiest melody to flow
When your Hilario strikes the lyre;
And with the clearest light to glow,
As gay or pensive themes his song inspire.—

120

All uninvoked, upon Hilario's brows,
Each rival Muse and Grace her loveliest garland throws.

Flying from shades, which veil the sultry day,
From gales, that breathe the essence of the spring,
From streams, where pearly-wristed Naiads play,
From echoes, faithful to each tuneful string,
The muses seek yon garish plain,
Haunt of the frolic and the vain.—
Forsaken Nine! Hilario there
Leads in light dance a mortal fair,
And all your soft and silver harps are drown'd
Amid the viol's scrannel noise,
And hautboy's loud, metallic sound,
Skilless, yet suiting well such vulgar joys,
As, with the wanderer, ye reluctant rove
Far from poetic plain, or Learning's hallow'd grove.

For the moist, orient lustres, as they stream,
Sloping and trembling on the mazy rill,
The splendours of the white meridian beam,
That warms the vale, and flames upon the hill,
Eve's crimson throne, and golden rays,
The lustre's many-pointed blaze

121

A noon-day night profusely pours,
Of gaudy violated hours;
And for the shining locks, the rural crown,
The wavy robe, so light and free,
That flows thy agile limbs adown,
And decks thy smiling brow, Simplicity,
Quaint Fashion, by her own trim fingers drest,
Pranks, with a vacant smile, her stiff, fantastic vest.

Ah! more than potent is the myrtle chain,
Since Folly can a heart like thine ensnare!
While kindred Genius views thee with disdain,
Loit'ring, and listening to each idiot fair.
Resigning thus thy wasted day,
Exclusive own Love's magic sway,
If thus his fires delusive lead
Thy charmed foot to marshy mead,
Where sinks its languid step, tho' form'd to gain
The height sublime, where brightly glows,
Above the gems that deck the vain,
The sweet, unfading, scientific rose:
But thou, since meaner garlands bind thy brows,
Boast not those rival claims thy despot disallows!

122

The strongest bias of the youthful soul
Love's dark magnetic instantly can turn;
Behold the Bacchanal forsake his bowl,
The fierce grow gentle, and the stoic burn!
Sylvan Diana's cruel sports
Too long thy graceful brother courts;
But ah! though deaf to Julia's lay,
Had one bright nymph adjured his stay,
Would the warm youth have sought the buskin'd train?
Ah no! attentive to her sigh,
Their echoing horns might wind in vain;
No shaft of his had fleeted thro' the sky;
The victim in the sacrificer found,
Pierced by a keener dart, had spared the purposed wound.

And do not now the Nine successless plead,
From scenes, where only syren pleasures sing,
Hilario's steps they might assiduous lead
Back to his wonted haunt, their hallow'd spring?
In vain applause her pæan breathes,
And ardent knowledge twines her wreaths;
For him extracts each pedant thorn,
Ere yet his brows those wreaths adorn.
Ah me! the magic of enamour'd smiles,
The tender glance, disorder'd air,

123

With all the soft voluptuous wiles,
That wind round lofty souls the fatal snare,
Shall mock thy late proud boast, and force thee own
Thy baby Godhead sits despotic on his throne.

This Ode is an answer to Mr Boothby's verses on the preceding Ode, which verses he sent to the author from Tunbridge.

Tunbridge.

In allusion to his verses which maintain that love may subsist with rival passions. See the elegant edition of his Poems, published 1796, by Cadell, page 59.

These little poems were written in the early youth of the author. They describe an attachment between a lady of birth, rank, beauty, and talents, the daughter of wealthy parents, and a gentleman, much her inferior in family and station, without fortune, and her equal only in intellect, merit, and affection. Nor is the situation entirely imaginary; the author was entrusted with the perusal of a prose correspondence between that unhappy pair, which bore the same sort of relation to the ensuing poems, as the real letters between Abelard and Eloisa bear to Pope's Love-Epistle, “Eloisa to Abelard.”