Poems on various subjects :: :: University of Virginia Library

How lone and languid were life's weary way,
Measur'd by faint steps, and by dim eyes trac'd,
Did not Affection now and then display
A spot of beauty 'mid a flowerless waste.

How would the soul unsatisfied, and cold,
Pine all unconscious of its secret powers,
Those powers did fostering Friendship ne'er unfold,
Nor ward with fond attempt each storm that lowers.

To You then, of the firm, tho' little band
Of those I love!—who sweetly have endear'd
Some moments far too fleeting, and have fann'd
The trembling flame of virtue, who have rear'd

That secret worth that heeds nor blame nor praise—
To You I consecrate these random lays.

SONNET I. To the Moon.

Pale moon! I love thy luminous orb to view
When first thou mountest from the azure main;
Pale moon! I love to mark thy tenderest hue
Steal softly o'er the wide and wat'ry plain.

For while I see thee smiling on the wave
As golden clouds thy lonely lamp attend,
Methinks I view a form that often gave
The charm that waits upon a pitying friend.

Oft, when disgusted with day's garish light,
I've wander'd pensive by the twilight gleam,
Thou'st chac'd for me the dark impending night
With many a pale and melancholy beam.

Oh! when life's joyless prospects I resign
May conscious virtue give a ray like thine:

SONNET II. Occasioned by a Domestic's Tears at parting from the Author.

Hail to thy tear, thou simple child of worth!
To me it seems a pearl of rarest price,
It beams a lustre little known to Mirth,
It sheds a balm unfelt by harden'd Vice.

Hail to thy tear!—to me it seems to say,
That tho' by Fashion's votaries I'm revil'd,
That tho' misfortune mark my cheerless way,
Still I am dear to Poverty's meek child.

And I had rather be the friend of woe,
The mournful brother of the joyless slave,
Than chill'd by Apathy's cold influence, know
The smiles of wealth, and all that pomp e'er gave.

Ah yes! the poor man's tear I'd rather claim,
Than all the pleasures of a noted name.

SONNET III. Written at Exmouth, Devon.

The fleecy clouds that veil the evening sky
Sail slowly o'er the white reflecting main;
On whose calm breast the breeze forgets to sigh,
And yields to silence thro' the sober scene.

The distant hills, where each bright tint was seen
Of cultivation, hide their downy heads
Beneath the dewy cloud that floats serene,
And on their forms a misty shadow sheds.

Now on the sleeping wave a vermeil hue
Is soft reflected from the glowing west,
Where with slow step meek eve retires from view,
And leaves the world to melancholy rest.

In such a prospect Fancy can impart
The magic charm that sooths an aching heart.

SONNET IV. Written at Church-Hop, Isle of Portland.

On the grey rock with tumbling fragments rude,
The conscious castle, proud in ruin, frowns,
While far beneath as rolls the welt'ring flood,
Each feebler sound its deep-ton'd murmur drowns.

From this steep crag, where Terrour leagu'd with Power
Invasion's troubled tempest would defy,
Dimly is seen the distant cliff to tower,
Or the faint ocean mingling with the sky.

Amid the tangles of the briared dell,
A high arch'd abbey's shrub-twin'd fragments show,
Where many a sinking stone forgets to tell
To Fame's deaf ear, the dust that lies below.

Rude scene! 'till thou'rt no more, shall Wildness claim
“A local habitation, and a name.”

St. Alban's Point.

SONNET V. To the Grave.

Thou welcome mansion of eternal rest!
I do not shrink the dreary gloom to feel,
That calms the tumult of my aching breast,
As o'er thy daisied turf forlorn I steal.

I do not shrink to hear the passing bell
Tolling in measur'd cadence dull and slow,
Bid the worn mourner to thy joyless cell
Weeping, with steps unequal feebly go.

With thee, the heart that long has throb'd with woe
Shall sink (oh welcome thought!) to peace profound,
The form that oft was worn by care below,
Shall sleep unconscious of misfortune's wound.

In the dark confines of thy shelt'ring breast,
The wicked vex not, and the weary rest!

SONNET VI. Written near Cromack Lake.

Ye hoary scenes of savage grandeur hail!
To the unpractis'd heart for ever dear!
Whose cliffs are swept by many a hollow gale,
While the hoarse mountain torrent tumbles near.

Here Custom, tyrant of the glowing soul,
Her dull, depressing sway usurps no more;
Here simple Nature learns without controul
Above this nether sphere in thought to soar.

And here the passions of the native breast
Affection warm, and sympathy infuse
Those wild emotions, and that rapture blest
That promp the efforts of the rustic muse.

Oh! may I oft your rudest views explore,
And learn of Nature, Virtue's genuine lore.

SONNET VII. To a Snow-Drop.

Sighing I pluck thee, earliest child of spring!
And place thy simple flow'ret near my breast,
Thinking thy snowy lustre still may bring
Feelings, tho' somewhat mournful, not unblest.

Scarce twelve frail months on Times' cold wing have sped,
Since pacing, all elate, life's upward slope,
I snatch'd a bud like thine, and fondly said,
“This is the little harbinger of hope!”

Now when I mark thee peeping as I walk,
I think thee fair as ever, but more frail;
And when thou droopest on thy slender stalk,
I weep that even so my joys should fail.

Then come, pale bud, and let me breathe a sigh,
To fan the emblem of delights—that die!

SONNET VIII. FROM PETRARCH.

Ite rime dolenti, &c.

Go, mournful rhymes, to yonder marble go!
Where, on the earth's cold lap my Laura's laid;
Call her from heaven with notes of tenderest woe,
For surely heaven receiv'd her when she fled.

Tell her, alas! I'm weary and unblest,
Tir'd with the tempest of life's restless sea;
Tell her, her image in my faithful breast,
Is all, the dear lov'd all, that's left for me.

Tell her, tho' life or death 'twere her's to prove
Her beauty still should fire my fondest thought;
Tell her (for now she dwells in worlds above)
To sooth my soul bewilder'd and distraught.

For soon (blest hope!) we'll meet, in heaven to find
An unrestrain'd communion of mind.

SONNET IX. FROM THE SAME.

Che fai? che pensi? &c.

Why dost thou look with useless fond regret,
To joys that never, never can return:
Deluded heart? why does Affection yet
In all thy throbs, and wild emotions burn?

Those accents sweet, those glances sweeter still,
Which oft alas! could prompt th'impassion'd strain,
No more my breast with Love's warm glow shall fill,
Nor charm my ears, nor bless my eyes again.

Then why, Remembrance, dost thou still torment,
And waken thoughts that only soothe to kill?
The fruitless sorrow, Virtue shall repent—
Far loftier cares my doating heart should sill.

Forget the fair! better she ne'er were given,
Than both, in life and death to wean from heaven.

SONNET X. FROM THE SAME.

Solo e pensoso i piu deserti campi, &c.

Where Nature frowns uncultur'd and forlorn,
I love alone to wander, sad and slow,
O'er tracts by friendly footsteps never worn,
With eyes averted desolate I go.

Alas! 'tis thus I shun th'unfeeling race;
'Tis thus from th'intercourse of man I part;
For sure the langour of each fading grace
Betrays the anguish of an aching heart.

So oft my melancholy fate I wail,
That every river, forest, hill, and plain,
Have learnt the tenour of my tearful tale;
And still so changeless is my amorous pain,
That varied Nature's wildest scenes assail
My heart (a prey to passion) all in vain.

SONNET XI. FROM THE SAME.

Rota e l'alta Colonna, &c.

Alas! my dearest hope is now no more,
The soothing comfort of my wearied soul;
Her parted charms this sphere can ne'er restore
Where zephyrs wanton, or where oceans roll.

She's fled, far fled, from this sad scene of pain,
And every joy with her has ceas'd to bloom,
And every lingering, longing wish is vain,
For death has seal'd th'irrevocable doom.

Then since with fate 'tis bootless to contend,
My unresisting soul must fall her prey;
My tear-dim'd eyes her hard behests must mourn.
Oh life, thou flattering, tho' deceitful friend!
Thou showest to youth full many a prospect gay,
Then bidst them vanish never to return.

SONNET XII. FROM THE SAME.

Gliocchi, di ch'io parlo, &c.

Those beaming eyes where pity us'd to shine,
That lovely form adorn'd with every grace,
Which won this soft impassion'd heart of mine
To quit the world's infatuating chace.

Those locks luxurious, brighter far than gold,
Those cheeks where smiles seraphic lov'd to play,
The narrow mansions of the dead infold,
A shapeless heap of cold insensate clay.

And yet 'tis mine, tho' all I lov'd be gone,
Tho' faithless hope denies her pilot ray,
Tho' blackest tempests frown, to linger here;
With hope the muses soothing dreams are flown:
My mind enfeebled feels its force decay,
And nought remains but th'unavailing tear.

SONNET XIII. FROM THE SAME.

Sento l'aura antica, &c.

With sad delight I breathe these well known gales,
And mark those hills, whose summits pierce the skies,
With sad delight, those solitary vales
That witness'd love's deceitful hopes arise.

How frail each bliss, each mortal hope how frail!
O'er these dear scenes where beauty lov'd to bloom,
Cold melancholy low'rs with aspect pale,
And points desponding to the narrow tomb.

Ah! once my soul (with many a care oppress'd)
Look'd for some retribution of her woe
To you frail tenant of the earth's cold breast!
And trusting thus to passion's fleeting glow
I've never found th'anticipated rest,
But mourn each earthly hope, an empty show.

SONNET XIV. FROM THE SAME.

Vaga augelletto che cantando vai, &c.

Sweet wandering bird who pour'st the soothing song,
Or tell'st of fate the melancholy tale,
While even sweeps with dusky shade along,
And autumn whistles down the leaf strewn vale.

If thou'rt like me with whelming woe oppress'd,
Our mutual griefs in mutual love shall join,
Thy liquid notes shall soothe my pensive breast,
And with thy sorrows thou may'st warble mine.

Tho' perhaps the object of thy tender love,
May still with thee support life's load of care,
While mine has wing'd her flight to realms above!
But ah! the melancholy prospect near
With the remembrance of past pleasures move
To tell to love's kind mate the woes I bear.

SONNET XV. FROM THE SAME.

Quel rosignol chesii, &c.

Yon gentle bird that knows too well to wail
The ills that life's uncertain state must prove,
Charms with her melting notes the ling'ring gale,
And fills the scene with melody and love.

From eve's pale hour, till purple morn appears,
In my distress he seems to bear a part;
Compassion's hand ne'er wipes away my tears
Which flow from fancy's visionary heart.

For my “frail thoughts dallying with false surmise”
Built all their hopes of happiness below,
And still forgot how soon earth's pleasure flies!
But now alas!!Q 'tis mine with tears to know
That every thought to purer scenes should rise,
Nor linger here with vanity and woe.

Ode to Simplicity.

Oh thou whose gentle breast
Each purer sense has blest,
(True to the magic touch of joy and woe)
In vain cold art displays
To thee her tortuous maze;
Thou only feel'st what Nature's children know.

The frantic furious soul
Where Passion's tempests roll.
Thy mild and sober influence never taught:
The Erudite refin'd
Who scorns the native mind
Shall weave unblest by thee the wildering thought.

And he whose vacant breast
Is steep'd in callous rest,
By thee pure maid shall be unnotic'd still;

Whose senses never shoot
(Devote to low pursuit)
With Virtue's warm, and life ennobling thrill.

Methinks thou lov'st to dwell
In some sequester'd cell
Where pure domestic bliss for ever smiles;
Thou bid'st sensation shine
In tears of joy divine,
And inborn virtue every hour beguiles.

Unmark'd thou lov'st to sit
As flows the social wit
From the free board in emanation bright,
While all the soul is felt
In glowing thought to melt,
And rolls each eye instinct with keen delight.

Thou prompt'st the trembling tongue
Where feeling oft has hung,
Whence accents flow to thee alone confin'd;

Thou giv'st the tell-tale face
A free and forceful grace,
And wak'st the untaught intercourse of mind.

Thou lov'st the infant's smile
Unknown to lurking guile,
Its inoffensive joys, and gambols gay;
Thou lov'st the brow of youth
Irradiate with truth,
And giv'st life's early path one cloudless day.

Thou bid'st the Lover's tale
With magic charm prevail
While Nature's pathos breathes in every word;
Thou giv'st the maid to prove
The genuine joys of love,
As Thou believ'st what inclination heard.

Oh! may I often tread
By musing Fancy led
Where rude thy turf incircled shrine is found,

While primrose' paly hue
And snow-drops bath'd in dew.
And simple hare-bells glisten all around.

And while to deck thy shrine
The votive wreath I twine,
And breathe in numbers wild my glowing soul,
If thou wilt fill my heart
I'll scorn the “wealth of art,”
The pomp of rule, and every tame controul.

Ode to Keswick Lake, Cumberland.

Wild scenes! tho' absent from my sight,
Remembrance often views your wakeful charm,
She cherishes with fond delight
The enthusiastic thrill, the feeling warm,
The glow poetic, and the wild alarm,
That ever waits, enchanting scenes, on you!
She often sees your hanging wood
Wave on the mountain's brow,
And hems your mild reflecting flood
Sleep in the vale below,
With feelings keenly true:—
She views the mountain torrent white with foam,
As its big mass darts wildly from on high;
While conscious shades that shed an awful gloom,
From the rude glare of Day's unwelcome eye
Shroud many a fairy form that loves to hover nigh.

Majestic views!
What trembling effort of my votive muse,
May dare to hail
Shades where Sublimity shall ever dwell.
Where oft She points the melancholy rock
To make it frown more dread,
And bids the beetling crag more proudly mock
The embrio storm that hovers round its head.
While She of rapturous thought the Magic Queen,
Wakes every ruder grace,
Beauty, more lovely in an awful scene
Adorns of nature the expressive face
With many a sweeter charm,
And hues divinely warm,—
Bids the torrent as it flows
In the vale below repose,
Bids the glowing car of day
Shed a soft attemper'd ray,
Gives the groves a fresher green
Where mild zephyr sails serene,
Beauty calms the liquid lake,
And ever bids it sweetly take

The margin rock, and each time-hallow'd wood,
Each mountain wildly high, sublimely rude,
With soft reflected grace in its reposing flood.

Methinks I see in native charm atttir'd
All the bright forms of Keswick's happy vale,
Methinks I see the scene which oft inspir'd
The glow of Genius, and the Muses tale.
Derwent! I view thy lake of clearest glass
Which Nature decks in beauty all thine own,
The liquid lustre of its level face
Where the gay pinnace glitters to the sun.
“I feel the balmy gales that blow”
Its surface brightly clear along,
And now I hear them murmur low
The lightly trembling woods among.
The cluster'd isles that scarcely peep
From the blue bosom of the deep,
Which loves their grassy sides to lave,
Now meet excursive Fancy's eye
And with a sweet diversity
Break the wide level of the ripling wave.

Ah! as thy varying scene I mark,
What cloud-clad rocks, what mountains huge appear,
Here Gowdar frowns, with Skiddaw in its rear,
A vast stupendous mass! and hark!
Methinks I seem in Fancy's dream to hear
A deep majestic sound
From you rude rocks abound
Where wild woods ever wave 'mid fragments drear.
On breezes borne, that fan the day,
Now louder, and now louder roars
The hollow sound on Keswick's shores,
As on I urge my way.—
'Till led by Fancy to the impending shade,
O'ercanopied by melancholy rocks,
Lodore is seen to thunder thro' the glade,
And from the appalling steep with fearful shocks
To urge the fragment thro' the opening air,
Big with impending fate and deep despair
To Him, the unlucky wight, that wont to wander near.

Tremendous flood!
Which flingst thy foam on many a fragment rude;

And bid'st the forest quake
And listening nature shake,
As down thou tumblest 'mid the humid wood.
For thee, her showers may summer send,
And still replenish every spring;
For thee, the lone Enthusiast's friend
Her wildest storms may winter bring:
May many a mountain torrent mix with thine,
And seek thy favorite haunt, sublimity divine.

What are the graces of the polish'd scene
Where the wild form of Nature's sought in vain,
Where artificial elegance is seen
A supplement to Beauty's beamy train!
What, when compar'd to Lodore's shade!—
Here wanton Nature's boundless grace,
Fancy, sweet visionary maid,
Is often fondly seen to trace.
Here all the viewless forms that still
Awake the Enthusiastic thrill,
Here fairy phantoms that dispense
Rapture to sublimated sense
Impart their highest influence—

There, Dulness leaning on some statue near
(Her emblem meet) wears out the insipid year,
And talks of Nature with an ideot joy
While Nature, absent maid, ne'er blest her vacant eye.

Elegy on a Poor Man's Grave.

Tho' Pride may trample on the uncouth grave
Where sleep the ashes of the lowly dead;
Altho' Misfortune's child no tomb may save
Thy mouldering dust from every giddy tread.

Yet Pity with a meek unpurchas'd tear
Thy nameless sod shall wet in saddest guise,
While the wan dupe of faithless Hope shall bear
A garland quaint, and mutter “There he lies!”

And there, as Evening lingers in the vale,
Her fairy hands the pearly dew shall spread
Her mist-clad power shall waft the gentle gale
To fan the flowers that deck thy earthy bed.

And there shall lifeless Melancholy dwell
And musing gaze th'upbraiding object near,
Her frequent sigh (neglected Virtue's knell)
Shall touch some desultory poet's ear.

For oh! the fate that mark'd thy life's sad day
Tho' thou might'st boast pre-eminence of worth,
That luckless fate has just allow'd thy clay
A poor unheeded sod of simple earth.

For thou hast pin'd in Grief's unsparing storm,
Tho' thy breast felt Affection's warmest glow,
Yet none would house want's unattractive form
Or note a boastless tale of real woe.

Yet oh! thou conscious tho' neglected shade
Accept a passing Brother's casual tear,
A tribute pure tho' impotent to aid,
But seldom given to soothe Misfortune here.

Elegy on leaving Exmouth.

Farewel sweet scenes familiar to mine eyes,
Oft have I mark'd you with a transport blest,
Tho' now no more for me your charms shall rise,
Or give my soul a transitory rest.

Farewel, thou blue and ever restless main,
On whose clear breast yon bright orb sheds his ray,
While from the vault above with boundless reign
He proudly flames, the exulting Lord of day.

Farewel, ye little skiffs that calmly scud
With trembling white sail to each zephyr true
Along the wide and undulating flood;
Sweet fairy objects of a fairy view!

And you ye proud majestic ships that glide
With swelling canvas, and with pennants gay
Stately and slow along the obedient tide;
No more for me ye plow your wat'ry way!

Farewel the glowing sigh, the swelling thought
The throb mysterious, and the tear so sweet,
Farewel the joys that inspiration brought,
And Nature wild, in Solitude's retreat.

I haste alas! from this unruffled main,
I haste from shores where sighs the placid wave,
To scenes of moral misery and pain
The billowy storms of busy life to brave.

Feelings of peace, ye melting thoughts, I go,
I go with you to never more sojourn!
Day-dreams of sweet imaginary woe
I quit your charms realities to mourn!

SONG. Rosamund Gray.

Let the Pander of Vice, and the Minion of Power,
Claim the blasphemous boon of a verse;
Let the Poet who sings for the infamous dower,
Ambition's mad actions rehearse.
The child of Misfortune who's bent to the earth,
Shall live in my incondite lay;
I'll boast the intuitive feelings of worth,—
The virtues of Rosamund Gray.

If actions are great, no one cares if they're good,
A Tyrant's a reverenc'd name,
The Grant of Renown is imprinted in Blood,
And a sword is a passport to Fame.
And I've mark'd honest Virtue with misery bow'd,
Tho' she urge inoffensive her way;
Yes, feelings I've mark'd that would honour the proud,
In the bosom of Rosamund Gray.

A woman when blest with the trappings of wealth,
Is chang'd to an Angel at once,
Omnipotent affluence may bargain for health,
'Twill give sense to the Blockhead or Dunce.
Here is One who's without it, is sunk to a slave,
Tho' Infirmity's impotent prey,
And Nature's simplicity sinks to the grave,
Unnotic'd in Rosamund Gray.

The faithless, the selfish, the harden'd and proud,
If they're trickt out with features so nice,
Are officiously serv'd by the sycophant croud,
'Tis the apotheosis of vice:
But Worth, mean and homely, may work to the bone,
While spirits and strength shall decay:
And drop the big tear of dejection alone,
All unpitied like Rosamund Gray.

The slow moving hearse, and the black nodding plume,
And Hypocrisy's statue like air,
And the far-tolling knell, and the sculpture-wrought tomb,
Soften death for the Rich and the Fair.

Yet Integrity's carelessly toss'd to the clod,
E'en the bell its dull tribute won't pay,
But simple Misfortune shall sigh o'er the sod
And condole with poor Rosamund Gray.

SONG.

[Ha! why is that tear in thine eye]

Ha! why is that tear in thine eye
Gentle maid?—
The tale of thy sorrows unfold—
“My Harry will die,
“And my poor babies cry,
“For they're famish'd and shiv'ring with cold.”
Well-a-day!

To the Doctor then hastily go
Gentle maid!
And tell him that Harry is worse.—
“The Doctor won't cure
“When a patient is poor,
“For he heeds not the Man but his purse.”
Well-a-day!

Hie away to the Tradesman so rich
Gentle maid!

That lives at the mansion you see—
“The Tradesman gets money,
“But never gives any
“To comfort poor sufferers like me.”
Well-a-day!

Dost thou know the great house in the park
Gentle maid?
Where the great and the affluent live—
“Alas! they've spent all
“In a concert or ball,
“To beggars they've nothing to give.”
Well-a-day!

Go, go,—'tis thine only resource
Gentle maid!
To the Justice and tell thy distress—
“Ah, and go to be cow'd
“By the taunts of the proud
“Who relieve for a plea to oppress.”
Well-a-day!

Ah! what shall I do, I am poor!—
Gentle maid!

And nip'd by chill misery's breath—
Yet my last penny take
It may buy a small cake
And preserve thee a moment from death,
Well-a-day!

The manner of this piece was suggested by reading Mr. Holcroft's “GAFFER GRAY.”

SONG.

[I'm a man—and have feelings as well as the great]

I'm a man—and have feelings as well as the great,
And those feelings I never will flee,
Tho' recreant Vice, with proud trappings of state,
Bid Shame wait on Virtue and Me.
Tho' while all were indulging in revels and mirth,
I alone were unconscious of Rest,—
Yet still would I prize while I roam o'er the earth,
Virtue's sovereign Gem of the breast.

While I toil thro' the days' chearless wearisome length
The child of Misfortune and Pain,
While I, inoffensive am wearying my strength,
And subsistence can hardly obtain;
There are miscreants unworthy to rank with a man,
By Flattery and Fortune caress'd,
Yet still will I keep, tho' they blaze for a span,
Virtue's sovereign Gem of the breast.

I'm worn out with labour, and sinking with age,
And have no where to shelter my head,

And seldom the cravings of Nature to assuage,
Can insure the poor pittance of bread.
Mean while the Ambitious, the Vile, and Ingrate,
To Plenty add Luxury's zest!—
But they know not like me, and I'll pity their fate,
Virtue's sovereign Gem of the breast.

Thro' my worn feeble frame, naked, shrivell'd, and old,
When the pitiless tempest begun,
Thro' my half-nourish'd veins, unprotected and cold,
Oft a death-boding tremor has run.
Yet I mark oft the active, the vigorous, and young,
With Profusion and Indolence blest,—
But they feel not the pleasures to thee that belong,—
Thou sovereign Gem of the breast!

I'm despis'd, and I'm treated as worse than a slave,
Condem'd to the lash of Disgrace;
I have no gentle friend who shall weep at my grave,
For living I'm dead to my race.
Yet I am a man, and the wretch is no more,
Whose Name lifts him far from the oppress'd,
Vain title!—For Ancestry ne'er can insure
The sovereign Gem of the breast.

When all my afflictions are fled with my breath,
And the throbs of Misfortune shall cease;
When the toils of Life's journey are over in death,
And I'm laid on the pillow of Peace.
Then Vice, tho' my green turf he scornfully tread,
My rights shall no longer contest
For I'll claim in the skies the well-merited mee'd,
And boast—the bright Gem of my breast.

SONG.

[I own that I'm poor and devoted to shame]

I own that I'm poor and devoted to shame,
The outcast and scorn of the earth,
For my kindred no titled oppressors I claim
Whose vices are charter'd by birth.
Yet while with the feelings of Nature at war
They bend to proud Custom the knee,
Tho' I'm mean and unnotic'd, I'm happier by far—
As the gate of the mountain I'm free.

I heedlessly rove o'er the heath-cover'd hill
And the mild blowing breezes inhale,
I listlessly stray near the devious rill
As it winds to the far distant vale.
As long as wild Nature can give me delight
I reck not the Lordlings' decree,
The joy that She wakens I claim as my right
While as gales of the mountain I'm free.

Some worldlings may toil for the misery of wealth,
Thro' the maze of corruption and art;

More than riches I value the mind's placid health,
Than Fame a susceptible heart.
For the wretched, 'tis true, I've a pitiful store,
Yet I share all my little with glee,
And perchance were I rich I should covet the more,
Nor as gales of the mountain be free.

I'm friendless, and scarcely am rank'd with mankind,
Friendship shrinks from the desolate heart,
Misfortune can cancel the bonds of the mind,
And a tear is a signal—to part!
I care not!—for Virtue I ever will claim,
Though I'm poor, She's a fortune to me;
She shall still be my friend tho' the world I disclaim,
While as gales of the mountain I'm free.

Though death be a dread to the king titled slave,
He soon must experience its blow;
While with torture and anguish he sinks to the grave,
And is laid with a mockery of woe.
I forgotten will cheerfully mix with the clod
That is welcome to Sorrow and me,
And the primrose and hare-bell shall spring on the sod,
And the gale of the mountain blow free.

Address to a Cottage.

Hail, sacred scene of simple joy!
The little rustic cottage hail!
Such as I oft have chanc'd to spy
In far off solitary vale.

I know thee by thy whiten'd wall,
Thy lowly roof of warmest thatch,
Thy shadowy arm, thy casement small,
Thy humble door and simple latch.

I know thee by thy garden neat,
Where many a useful herb is seen,
Where wall-flowers yield an odour sweet,
And woodbines twine with jas'mines green.

Hail rustic cot! thy nameless roof
Each social virtue oft has known,
“Of Faith and Love the matchless proof,”
Thy little tenement has shewn.

A happy Husband's calm retreat—
For fate has given a partner dear;
A happy Father's tranquil seat—
For beauteous babes are smiling there.

There Peace affords a purer joy
Than Luxury could e'er dispense;
There courtly vices ne'er annoy
The ignorance of Innocence.

There, if the systematic school
No sophist laws for life enact
To chain the free-born mind to rule—
The native feelings teach to act.

Affection fills the guileless heart,
Each knows that happiness is dear,
And simple Nature tries t'impart
That bliss to every object near.

Hail rustic cot! thy frugal board
Still may thy happy tenants spread,

Ne'er may they court the miser's hoard
While blest with peace and honest bread.

May Virtue ever dwell with thee,
And Nature's pure sensations bless,
May pain ne'er rise—to agony,
Nor even pleasure—to excess.

Stanzas written at the Approach of Winter.

Faint and sad thro' the mist on the grove's sickly hue
The pale sun diffuses a sorrowful day,
A deep boding silence pervades the dim view,
And light feathery clouds the dull heavens array.

The hedge-rows deserted are mournfully still,
Where a few yellow leaves linger drooping and sear:
The feeble grass bends o'er the slow-winding rill,
And each conscious scene mourns the pale close of the year.

So droop all the objects' that once we admired,
So timelessly fades life's inconsequent day,
Those objects that lately so sweetly inspired,
As the glories of Nature shall vanish away.

Those friendships, those loves, those emotions so dear,
That thrill the young mind, and mysteriously bless,
On the wing of cold time shall soon disappear,
And leave us the gloom of inactive distress.

The rude touch of Art numbs the springs of the soul,
And checks the vibration of Sympathy's breast,
Our early affections, exempt from controul,
How soon shall cold Apathy's influence arrest.

Then observe the drear view and contemplate thy doom,
Observe its dim gloom, and dismiss every tie,
Tho' now in Youth's summer some pleasures may bloom,
Remember that Age, and that Winter are nigh.

The Slave.

—An Ode.

Poor Slave! Misfortune's harrass'd child!
Who liv'st to weep, and breath'st to sigh,
Oh thou from every friend exil'd,
And hid from Pity's melting eye!

Say, when at morning's joyless call,
Thy daily toil thou goest to bide,
To writhe in Slavery's hated thrall,
To wounds of Wealth, and threats of Pride!

Say, dost thou know unfriended Thing!
That thousands glittering, gay, and vain,
Disporting scud aloof on silken wing?—
And dost thou know that they like thee are men?
Art thou aware while plung'd in grief's abyss,
That Rapture gilds their hours, add life for them is bliss?

Oh no! thou know'st it not—for thee
Poor wretch! 'tis one to live and pine—
For who is blest that is not free?
And chains alas! are ever thine!

Methinks I see thy hollow eye,
Thy pleading look, thy gestures meek,
Methinks I mark thy struggling sigh,
The big round tear that scalds thy cheek.

Thy trembling hands their force forget,
The faint drops course thy feeble frame,
I mark the pang of Death!—thine eye is set—
From thy parch'd lips their latest murmurs came—
Yes! all is o'er—thy griefs have had their scope,
And o'er thy dying face I mark'd a gleam of hope.

Come round the corse, ye hard ambitious Great!
Come round the corse, ye puny sons of Pride!
Whoe'er ye are that loll in odious state,
Come look on him who toil'd, who wept, and died!

His cruel scars, his shatter'd joints behold,
Ye rosy—featur'd sons of silken Sloth!
Observe your waxen limbs, your robes of gold,
Then seek the marks of Brotherhood in both!

If I mistake not Traitors! much ye blush—
Rash violators of eternal right!

May the dark deed confound ye, may it crush
The monstrous transports of insulting Might!
Oh may you melting view an injur'd slave!
Be Freedom cradled in a Bondman's grave!

Stanzas, written by Ulswater, Cumberland.

Fair lake I mark thine ample tide,
Thy crisped surface clear and blue;
I mark the groves that fringe thy side
Reflected in thy mirror true.

I mark yon grey rocks rudely wild,
That nod stupendous o'er the vale,
I feel the breezes warm and mild
That haste to fill yon silken sail.

I see the transient shadow pass
Along thy variegated hills,
And while they lave the margin grass,
I hear thy sweetly murmuring rills.

I hear the mellow-melting horn,
While Echo swells each languid close,
On every breeze is music borne!—
On every object beauty glows!

Welcome the wild tumultuous thrill!
Hail, child of Nature, fond alarm!
To me this sigh is pleasing still,
To me this tear has many a charm.

But yet I wish—thou hov'ring sigh,
But yet I wish—thou glowing tear,
I wish—and yet I scarce know why—
That when you rise a friend were near.

OSWALD, A POEM.

The following Poem was written with intention to trace the possible effect of the present abuses of the social system, on a Youth more accustomed to feel than reason; who is doom'd, when his sentiments had been raised to a high toned enthusiasm, by contemplating the wildest features of Nature, through the magnifying medium of sensibility, to view, not only the effects of the selfish principle in others, but to feel himself its unfortunate victim.

[PART I.]

To paint the pangs of disappointed Worth,
To raise from infamy a blasted name,
To give to One, whose virtues felt on earth
The hopeless meed of cold, neglect, and shame,
(While Vice can swell the venal trump of Fame)
A humble tribute pure—Be Pity's task—
And tho' no Muse my artless numbers frame,
The surer aid of holy Truth I ask,
To snatch from virtuous Woe, Opinion's treach'rous mask.

And thou whose fate this uncouth verse would shew,
Oh! lend a while dear shade the feeling warm,
Impart that finer sense of soul that knew
To paint in Truth's bright hues, th'ideal form

That flits so swiftly with impetuous charm.—
For sure, tho' cold, in silent dust thou'rt laid,
That soul refin'd which felt each quick alarm,
Slumbers not senseless on the grave's dull bed;
But soars where erst on earth its glowing raptures led.

Oswald, (for Oswald's fate demands the song)
Where first he enter'd life's delicious morn,
Saw Hope entice each smiling hour along,
And pluck'd the rose of Joy—without its thorn;
For him, by Fancy's flattering pencil drawn
Would countless charms awaken sweet surprize,
And oft by thought enthusiastic borne,
His glowing soul on Ardour's wing would rise
To snatch each finite bliss compleated in the skies.

The love of Nature warm'd his youthful breast,
Her varying forms his varying passions thrill'd;
Her rudest scenes, when peace was Oswald's guest,
His musing mind with high amazement fill'd:
And oh! what joy her softer charms could yield;
What perfect calm inspir'd the thought serene,
As on he wanders thro' the fertile field,

Where smiling plenty crowns the glowing scene,
And radient summer suns “diffuse their dazzling sheen.”

Methinks I see him while the dewy morn
O'er every object throws her lust'rous grace,
Far from the town's disgusting din withdrawn,
With happy heart and animated face
The wildest features of the landscape trace—
Now up the breezy hill he loves to go
Where fragrant wild flowers peep with pearly face,
And curling grey mists silent sail and slow
Half-hiding many a hill that skirts the scene below.

The rising sun now darts his vermeil ray
And feebly gilds the hill's enamell'd brow,
Now on the hanging grove, whence many a lay
Hails the fresh morn, Aurora's blushes glow:
The curling mists dispelling quickly, now
The beauties of the landscape burst to sight—
Unnumber'd streams with living waters flow,
The distant mountain shews its azure height,
The tuneful woods and meads with morning's smiles are bright.

Call'd to fresh life, with songs that pierce the skies
Glad nature hails the vivifying ray,
And countless melodies of rapture rise.—
The pipe's shrill tones,—the sky-lark's matin lay,
The blooming milk-maid's artless air so gay,
The hum of riv'lets murmuring all around,
The cooling gales that fan the infant day,
Low-whispering in the grove, unbid rebound,
Pure orisons of joy in many a choral sound.

And when the proud Sun, from his flaming car,
Beams on the world with wide extended blaze,
Would youthful Oswald wander from afar
As o'er the world of waters dazzling plays
His living lustre.—While his glittering rays
Dance on the clear blue wave with trem'lous light,
And o'er the ocean wanton zephyr strays,
He'd watch the little bark with sail so white,
Faint in the horizon dim, scarce trembling to the sight.

Or as the meek and dubious hues of eve
The landscape veil'd to make it charm the more,
Would Oswald loiter where the lonely wave
With listless murmur lingers on the shore:

And oft he'd hearken as the distant oar
Is far and faintly heard, with liquid sound,
While twilight's thick'ning shades steal softly o'er,
And scarce the faintly mark'd horizon, round
The tender beauteous blush of parting day is found.

Now thro' the dusk the white sail gently gleams,
The distant coast is sinking from the sight,
The little planet scarcely-twinkling beams,
And from some rugged promontory's height,
The lonely beacon casts a trembling light—
Each object dies—When lo! a globe of fire,
The crimson moon steals on the vault of night
From the dark wave—then slowly mounting higher,
She faintly gilds the main as day's last tints expire.

Now her soft beams on every object play,
And brightly-mutable the wave along,
Trembles her pale and sorrow-soothing ray—
And now yon wild impending woods among
Some melancholy plaint or mystic song
Would sweetly linger on “the night's dull ear;”
For haunts like these to fairy forms belong,

Whose magic notes, when no rude foot is near,
Aspire on viewless gales to many a tuneful sphere.

Such scenes as these could give the peaceful thought,
And with an holy calm his bosom fill,
Yet other prospects oft th'enthusiast sought,
Whose hoary grandeur woke the trembling thrill,
Where forms of Terrour half appall'd the will:—
Oft would he climb some solitary tower
Pil'd on the hanging cliff's rude point,—and still
As the winds rave, and sullen tempests lower,
He'd call up phantoms, dire of melancholy power.

The sulph'rous cloud rolls silent at his feet,
Fancy alone, the scene beneath can know,
Where rude and loud the restless billows beat,
Dashing the rocks that tremble as they flow.
The wintry winds in gusts resistless blow,
The ruin totters,—fragments hugely rude
Swept by the bleak blasts' fury leap below,
And as they madly plunge th'infuriate flood,
Danger awaking scowls with Fear's infernal brood.

Nor would the night restrain his feet to seek
The dizzy height, when thro' the black'ning cloud
The moon's chill beams at short intervals break,
And tempests howl, and billows sob aloud:
He'd climb where lonely frowns the ruin proud,
And while the walls among the wild winds roar,
Sometimes a sudden ray its grey towers shew'd—
Then pitchy clouds the pale orb sailing o'er
From night's tempestuous sky she fades—to shine no more.

And when the moon was gone from mortal eye,
He'd often watch the light'nings livid flame
Dart swiftly through the horrour-troubled sky,—
Now with resounding groan the thunder came
To shake Creation's universal frame;—
The deep winds dully pause,—the big waves swell
Their silent heads,—Stillness, whose terrors shame
The direst sounds, with thickest night would dwell,
And Nature shrouds her face in deepest shades of hell.

Then would he cherish the untutor'd dream
Of waking fancy,—then the magic tale
Fraught with black circumstance would be his theme;
The unexplor'd, the dark mysterious cell,

The haunted hall—The thought-suspending yell,
From dungeon deep where sheeted spectres reign,
The wondrous magic of the potent spell,
The dying groan,—the sullen clanking chain,
And pale blue quiv'ring lamp that lights the dull domain.

The phantoms fly,—the shades of night are o'er,
And the grey dawn and other thoughts succeed;
Thro' breaking clouds he kens the distant shore,
Where the huge billow curls its foamy head.—
Or while the clouds departing, darkly shade
The melancholy main, afar he eyes
The white waves breaking on their troubled bed,
As with impetuous force they madly rise,
And furious fling their foam amid tempestuous skies.

Thus varying scenes his varying feelings thrill'd,
Thus every passion nurs'd by nature mild,
With warmest energy his bosom fill'd:—
Now would he prove a calm, serene and mild—
Now would his heart, by sympathy beguil'd,
In tenderest pity melt,—the tear would flow;
Then leaving every scene where beauty smil'd,

Where wildest forms are seen he'd love to go,
And court the phrensied trance, and wake the throb of woe.

Yet tho' his mind the charms of nature felt,
Still more he lov'd each moral feeling dear,
In his young bosom warm affection dwelt,
And Virtue found a sure asylum there:
Oft would he anxious wipe the falling tear
From Grief's pale cheek,—and at the face of Joy
His heart would beat in wild vibrations,—Care
Would oft his fondly-cherish'd hopes annoy,
Yet soon would Fancy's fire her wizard spell destroy.

And well he knew to feel the glow of love,
(That best affection of the youthful soul)
It cares, its hopes, its fears, he oft would prove
In tides alternate thro' his breast to roll.
Oft would the impassion'd look defy controul,
Oft would expression flush his glowing cheek,
When beauty's form o'er all his senses stole,
Sometimes with pensive lustre chastely meek,
Now bright as the orient beam when day's warm blushes break.

And oft Religion's holy ardour bore,
His soul refin'd to scenes where all are blest;
“There,” would he say, “the wretch shall sigh no more,
There shall the weary find a welcome rest;
There shall that Being who directs us best,
For ever blest with inexpressive joy,
The virtuous effort,—Worth below opprest;—
There bliss shall ever glisten in the eye—
And Gratitude be mute, o'ercome with ecstacy.”

Such thoughts could animate thy useful hours,
Such joys thy bosom once could prove full well,
Oh thou! whose heaven-taught intellectual powers
Weaken'd by woes—deprest by arts of hell
From Glory's height, to Ruin's abyss fell!
Thou once wert happy—but how soon 'twas o'er!
Hope once was thine—she bade a long farewel!
Till unassisted on Misfortune's shore
Thy little bark was wreck'd, was wreck'd—to rise no more.

PART II.

Oh thou, Most High, who gav'st us being here,
Sure thou design'dst those feelings of the soul,
The social wish, the soft affection dear,
Religion's holy ardour, to controul
Despair's keen pangs, when Grief's wild billows roll:
Charms to the native mind with comfort fraught,
That mind were surely given to console.—
Let execration wait the art that taught
To weave the sophist web, and chill the excursive thought.

Oswald look'd forward to delight on earth,
(For sure a well spent life delight should give)
And Hope, which calls each pleasing thought to birth,
Whisper'd his trusting soul that he should live
In happier scenes eternal;—to receive
The immortal recompense of virtuous deed;
Yet when he saw Worth, unprotected strive
With Insolence and Wealth, his heart would bleed
To view the poor man fall, and none to intercede.

Till late he'd wander'd in the lonely scene,
Far from the impure, the unhallow'd haunts of man,
And now his soul which prov'd each feeling keen,
Would oft with shuddering indignation scan
The dark abuses of the social plan!—
(Social misnam'd—unsocial, selfish, base!)
And oft the keen throb thro' each fibre ran
As he beheld the ensanguin'd Tyrant chase,
His helpless, hapless equals of the human race.

“Where are the ties of fellowship and love?
Where is the wish that ought to bind in one,
The brother race?—Whom hopes congenial move,
Who equal moral powers and feelings own,
Whom kindred pains and pleasure oft have shewn
An equal share of comfort form'd to feel:—
Why do the supercilious rich alone
Engross kind Nature's gifts, whose looks conceal
The dark tyrannic thought, the harden'd heart of steel?

The wretch that basks in Fortune's fav'ring smile,
Yet breathes contagion on the scene around,

Shall he be blest with peace, and Worth, the while
Feel the keen anguish of Misfortune's wound?
Has partial Heaven bestow'd the teeming ground,
And luscious fruits, to bless the little great,
While all the rest in galling slavery bound
Contrast as foils th'insulting pomp of state,
And kiss the tyrant hand that deals the curse of fate?

Yes, so it is!—and man, whose boundless love
Embraces worlds,—whose energies of mind
Can scale the skies,—omnipotent can prove.—
Man sinks to hapless impotence resign'd!
He ever weeps—who feels the smile refin'd!
He who can love—indulges hate and lust!
He who to help his brother was design'd,
Unfeeling treads that brother in the dust!
The soul that music thrills—the shrieks of War's disgust!

His breast with sadd'ning disappointment torn,
Oswald survey'd the dark mysterious scene,
And not alone, alas! he learns to mourn
In public life these rude disasters keen.—

His Friend (for friendship's balmy joy serene,
He fondly thought would soothe his wearied heart)
With whom he'd shar'd and soften'd every pain,
Corrupted by the world, with selfish art,
Of base Ingratitude, inflicts the deadly smart.

And Love, that ought to bind the wound of care,
She frowns—and Oswald's heart was doom'd to bleed,
He prov'd that Worth can ne'er avert Despair,
He prov'd that Virtue's voice in vain must plead,
If Wealth, her substitute, lend not her aid!
Thus, all his best and first affections cross'd,
Deserted, curs'd by Honesty and Need,
He sunk on life's rough ocean, rudely toss'd,
No star of joy to guide—and Hope's firm anchor lost.

Yet still on this tempestuous scene of woe,
A ray of comfort darting from above,
Would to his soul a transient calm bestow:—
Religion's joys his bosom still could prove,
And oft as faith and resignation move
The thought harmonious—he would still forget
(Soaring to heaven on the wings of Love)

The sad misfortunes of resistless Fate.—
“For other joys are mine, and peace my portion yet.”

Thus thro' the cloud of Sorrow and Distress,
A feebly soothing beam would sometimes dart,
To charm the memory of lost happiness,
That ever rankled in his weary heart.—
But soon alas! the Sophist's deadly art,
Chill'd each remaining faculty of mind,—
Doubt and Despair each balmy comfort thwart
That Misery's fell train had left behind:—
“The chaos dark to cheer” no lenient lustre shin'd.

Hope, sweet Consoler of the troubled breast!
Who smil'st serenely 'mid each threat'ning storm!
When thou, alas! no longer art our guest,
Where shall we shelter from each rude alarm,
Doom'd all our moral vigour to disarm.—
Ah, where could Oswald fly!—He'd lost thy ray—
He'd lost of life each visionary charm,—
And nought appear'd in Fate's dejecting way,
But whelming floods of grief, and clouds of dark dismay.

For much he scorn'd to use each meaner art
To bribe the uncertain voice of partial Fame,
And much he scorn'd, with avaritious heart
To seek for honour in the path of shame.—
To enroll 'mid worldlings base his tainted name:—
Thus, in his soul with dreams romantic fraught,
“Chill Penury” repress'd the rapturous flame,
And sceptic Doubt, and check'd Affection brought,
While Vice can bathe in bliss, to him the freezing thought.

As when the tempest raging from afar,
Wages, resistless, thro' the affrighted vale
An elementary, disastrous war:—
And clouds o'er clouds in wild disorder sail.
If chance a violet low, or primrose pale,
Spring where the river's foamy waters rise,
It yields o'erpower'd;—while the wintry gale,
And beating waves the stubborn oak defies,
And in contemptuous pomp, spreads proudly to the skies.

So 'mid surrounding storms and tempest dire,
The impending ruin, Wealth and Power can mock,

While borne by crouching miriads they aspire
Like Gods to brave e'en Death's infuriate shock,
And frown insulting as the scowling rock;—
Yet sensate Virtue yields to Fortune's spell,
And every fiend of fate is doom'd to unlock
Reflection's secret phantom-teeming cell,
To wake the mental storm, and sink the soul to hell.

So Oswald (he who lately could enjoy
The enliv'ning charm of Nature's smiling views,
He, who while genius glisten'd in his eye,
Could sweetly wander with the inspiring muse:)
Is doom'd to feel;—'till overwhelm'd with woes,
He sinks in sullen impotence of mind:
In vain the morn displays her roseate hues,
In vain the meek eve wakes the charm refin'd,
Oswald is doom'd in each a ceaseless blank to find.

Is this thy boast oh Vice! thus to have spoil'd
With enervating art the Good and Great?
Shall Doubt triumphant, (every hope exil'd)
Blacken with deadly hues the page of Fate,

Nor the worn victim Pity's throb await?
Oh no! the venial error should we blame
Compassion's tear shall rue the mournful state,
While undisguis'd Religion shall disclaim
The abuses of her power, the deeds that blur her name.

The pharisaic cant—from perjur'd lips,
Creeds of salvation—from a faithless saint,
From him who ne'er one moral maxim keeps
The penitential rule, and proverb quaint:
Men, with the gospel's peaceful tidings sent
Are only lavish in damnation's threat,—
Thus, while Religion's prankt in pomp and pain,
Her votaries Virtue's banish'd claims forget,
And she appears at best, a tinsel toy of state.

Poor Oswald wand'ring from the distant vale,
Beheld the chaos of the moral plan;
“If Error thus” said he, “must still prevail,—
If man must ever be the dupe of man,—
Oh! let me cease the dismal scene to scan!
For I can ne'er avail to check the tide
Of Luxury and Woe;—since I began

To tread the busy path, fell Ruin wide
O'er every rueful view, and ravag'd scene I've spied.”

“My friend is gone!—my heart's fond wish is o'er!
Unheeded Poverty (Opinion's shame)
With patience meek my harrass'd bosom bore!—
Oft have I felt the insulting threat of blame
From Wealth inflated with the blast of Fame!—
But now e'en Hope's sustaining arm is gone,
(Virtue's a farce, Religion's but a name)
And sad I rove unheeded and alone,
While Heav'n's averted ear is deafen'd to my moan.”

“Then what avails it still to linger here,
Chill'd by the blasting gaze of fell Despair,
If I could dry a Brother's falling tear,
Or bid the glow of Hope, the sportive air,
Once more adorn the fading form of Care,
Still might I pine in Life's mysterious round!—
But no! it cannot be! Truth shall declare
That joy once lost shall ne'er again be found!—
Peace is the child of Death,—Oblivion seals his wound!”

Then didst thou triumph, Vice! for Oswald fell!
Insects of Pride, ephemeron flutters blush!
Despis'd, dejected, wrong'd by arts of hell,
Misfortune's weight could virtuous Oswald crush!
And you, mean while, satanic joys can flush,
Proud in the impious pomp of wealth and sin!—
And while on Glory's car ye madly rush
Terrific suicide with weapon keen,
Pierc'd deep that virtuous heart, that soul-expressing mien.

And now consign'd to obloquy and scorn,
Oswald's condemn'd to Fate's oblivious gloom,
And scarce the twisted twig, or turf forlorn
Betray to Pity's eye his nameless tomb;—
Yet sure more proud his melancholy doom,
Than that which waits Deception's souless slave,
I'd sooner fade with Virtue's timid bloom,
Droop like the violet o'er an unknown grave,
Than with the weeds of Vice in wide luxuriance wave.

And oh! the feelings of indignant Worth,
Must e'er, alas! be disappointed here,

Here, Virtue unadorn'd with wealth and birth,
Shall find no friend Life's dreary road to cheer,
No social smile to soothe its toils severe:—
Religion, thou the surest friend below,
Thy charms disguis'd such sullen aspect wear,
That e'en the wretch that lies immers'd in woe,
To ask thy sovereign aid, is doubtful where to go.

Oh! may the clouds that veil the moral world
Be swift dispell'd by Truth's resistless day!—
May Liberty's high standard be unfurl'd,
And may mankind with one consent obey
The Rule of Reason, not the uncertain sway
Of mortal power!—May they gladly join
To hail Benevolence, thy genial ray!—
Then, if perchance another Oswald shine,
That Worth that prov'd a curse—the world shall deem divine.

[_]

The following Poems were composed after the other Pieces were sent to Press.

SONNET, Written 1st of May, 1795.

'Tis May!—once more the laughing meads rejoice,
Once more the salutary zephyrs play,
Once more the grove's gay tenants tune their voice
To hail the lustre of the vernal day!

The quiv'ring wave in gay meander flows,
The silken insect skims the silver stream,
The azure violet, and the pale primrose,
On every green bank negligently gleam.

Brighter the lustre of the glowing skies,
And brighter still as noon-tide hours advance,
The painted landscape beams with deeper dies,
And rays more potent thro' light æther glance.
But what, alas! avails the jocund day
To uniform distress, 'tis never—May!

SONNET, Written early in the Morning.

Come morning gleam and linger on my breast!
Come early gale and pour thy od'rous wealth!
And oh! bring Peace! a long forgotten guest,
Ye subtle ministers of mental health!

Go sallow Care! nor Nature's scenes prophane
With the blank aspect of thy sombre eye:
Ah go and torture the unhallow'd train,
Who sunk in deep repose supinely lie.

I'll own thee not—for Fortune's gifts I scorn,
And pitying view the puny aims of Pride;
Give me the lustre of the glowing morn,
Give Nature's charms—I care for nought beside!
Come then soft zephyr, come thou orient ray,
Come, and forebode at least,—one peaceful day.

Dirge, occasioned by an Infant's Death.

The fluttering gale has sunk to rest,
The sloping sun-beams feebly glow,
Such zephyrs breathe as soothe the breast,
Such radiance pours as softens woe.

The languid notes of lonesome bird,
From yonder coppice sweetly wind,
And thro' the scene are faintly heard
Sounds that are silence to the mind.

As slow my vagrant feet advance
Thro' shadowy evening's fav'rite gloom,
Mine eyes peruse with vacant glance
An infant's solitary tomb.

'Twas simple! yet the green sod there,
That seem'd to court no stranger's eye,
Than marble—claim'd a tenderer tear!—
Than sculpture—mov'd a softer sigh!

A lonely primrose rais'd its head,
And here and there pale violets swell,
And if no venal tears were shed,
From many a flower the dew-drop fell.

And Pity there was often seen
To prompt the nameless Pilgrim's sighs,
(For Pity loves to haunt the scene,
Where Grief is stript of Art's disguise)

I mark'd the spot!—and felt my soul
Enwrapp'd in Sorrow's softest mood;
The pensive shade that o'er me stole,
It could not lightly be withstood.

I mark'd the spot—and thought how soon
Each earthly blessing is resign'd!
E'en then I saw life's dearest boon
Consign'd to dust—to death consign'd!

And while a parent's hopes and fears,
To fabling Fancy forceful swell;

And while a parent's anxious tears,—
These accents negligently fell.

“Thou little tenant of the grave,
“Sleep on, untouch'd by mortal strife,
“Unknown the cares that man must brave,
“The ills, that only end with life!

“Of eager hope, unconscious thou,
“Unconscious thou of grief's extreme,
“To thee—an everlasting now!
“To thee—a sleep without a dream

“Sleep on, poor child!—a fellow worm,
“Who's prov'd for thee life's joy and care,
“Would fain forego the useless term,
“He's tasted life—and death's his prayer.

“To thee, poor child! e'er grief is brought
“To vex thy soul, oblivion's given!—
“Oh! if the grave could boast of thought,
“That thought would make the grave—a heaven!”

Elegy on the same Subject.

The eastern hill and waving wood
Have caught the morning's golden glance,
Along the undulating flood
The orient sun-beams quivering dance.

Athwart the azure track of sky
A living radiance lightly spreads,
While every gale that flutters by
A balmy perfume mildly sheds.

Each tree at yester-noon that bow'd,
And sicken'd at the mid-day blaze;
Its branches spreads in foliage proud,
And waving hails the morning's rays.

Each simple flower that clos'd its eye,
And shrunk from dull night's wizard shade,
Assumes a warmer, livelier die,
And lovelier gems the lonely glade.

Thus beauteous are the scenes of morn!—
Thus does each new-born object glow!—
Young health in every breeze is borne,
And songs of bliss for ever flow.

But oh! how transient was the view!
I hail'd the breeze, and smiling hail'd;
I mark'd the scene when all withdrew,
And stormy clouds the morning veil'd.

The vex'd sea raves,—the forests bend,
A sullen darkness clouds the air;
Unwelcome rains, and sleet descend,
The scene's a mirror of Despair!

The simple flower that gem'd the glade,
And op'd at morn its dewy eye,
Shrinks from the tempests that invade,
And bends its fairy stalk—to die!

Ah little flower! the cruel blast
Has rob'd thy sweets—no more to cheer—

And as thy leaves on earth are cast,
I mark thy fate—and drop a tear.

For when thy ravag'd beauties droop'd,
Reflection caught the feeling warm—
E'en so fair Edwin feebly stoop'd
To cruel Fate's unsparing storm.

He op'd, like thee, his infant eye,
To meet the morning's gladsome ray,
His charms with thine, sweet flower! could vie
As pure, as innocent, as gay!

And Hope would glisten at his mirth,
And point the parent's tender kiss,
And Virtue thought on future worth,
And Fancy painted future bliss.

But short is life's delusive rest,
And short is Fancy's airy dream;
And even Virtue seem'd unblest,
To lose her fairest, fondest theme.

For Edwin died!—the storms of life
He little knew, alas! to brave,
He shrinking felt the noxious strife,
And clos'd his morn—in yonder grave!

But ye that mourn the darling boy,
And faithful wet his infant clay,
Oh think what sorrows life annoy!
And bless the hour that snatch'd away.

The plant that shrinks in life's first morn,
To me more blest, than those that wage
A war with fate, and strive forlorn
To proudly boast a stormy age.

Elegy written on a Sunday Morning.

Thou beauteous landscape, and thou azure sky,
Thou early zephyr, and thou orient ray,
Ye fairy flowers that meet my gladden'd eye,
Ye notes of bliss that hail the vernal day;

I feel ye melt my heart, and prompt the tear,
The grateful tear that charms like these are given,
Far from my soul ye chace each thought severe,
And swift transport it to the God of heaven.

Creation smiles, and man shall also smile,
But ah! the smile must still be mix'd with pain,
To think what thousands in this mortal coil
Behold these glories, and behold in vain.

To think how man with cold perverted heart,
Slights those impressions that ensure his health,
Leaves Nature's charms and seeks the pomp of Art,
Leaves secret bliss, for cold apparent wealth.

Creation's all-sufficient volume leaves
Where goodness bursts, and smiles at every page,

The web of sophistry degraded weaves,
And lights the torch of irreligious rage.

Exchanging soul-felt goodness for a creed,
And madly blind, they nature's charms refuse,
But be it mine, th'extensive book to read,
Nor poorly vain, the simple page misuse.

Let me nor heed th'enthusiastic whine,
Nor fondly listen to each weak pretence,
Nor idly busy, trifle, to define
The monkish saw, where sound has banish'd sense.

Let me, while others skulk to drowsy cell,
Mope o'er their book, or bend their thoughtless way
At childish summons of th'accustom'd bell,
With every vacant wish, but wish—to pray,

Cast o'er some boundless view my swimming eyes,
Or rove the mountain's head, the sandy beach,
And while my soul in gratitude shall rise,
Spurn at the ideot aid of prompted speech.

Stanzas on seeing a Maniac.

Those gestures so wild and forlorn,
Those looks uninform'd by the soul,
Those wrinkles expressive of scorn,
Those eye-balls that vacantly roll.

Those garments that negligent hang,
That pace so unequal and slow,
They tell of a past suffer'd pang,
Yet of feelings now callous to woe.

Those sighs that so piteously swell,
Heave a breast all unconscious of strife;
Those tears that unwittingly fell,
They drain not the sluices of life.

That bosom exposed and bare,
It solicits the pitiless blast;
That form unprotected by care,
On the cold earth is heedlessly cast.

100

Yet that form so neglected and wan,
Which no friend shall assiduously nurse,
It forgets that its title is—man!
And cancels humanity's curse!

Poor Maniac! I envy thy state,
When haply with sorrow I shrink,
When shall we be wise and forget,
For 'tis madness to feel and to think.

These throbs of emotion 'tis true,
They appear all enchanting and fair,
But how soon must we pitiously rue
That the charm was in league with despair.

And Hope, that disease of the mind,
Which prompts the young breast to expect;
Alas! what a change shall it find,
When it cooly begins to reflect.

What a change shall it find! when in youth
The credulous feelings can bless—
We wish—and imagine it truth!
We dream—and believe we possess!

101

But the tears that voluptuously start,
The charm of th'unspeakable sigh,
The rapture that seizes the heart
When a kindred companion is nigh,

Th'immortal desires of Worth,—
Are feelings all fruitlessly given!
These feelings must perish on earth,
And they scarcely are fabled in—Heaven!

Then knowledge and reason adieu!
Ye are impotent, treacherous, and vain,
We're inform'd of enjoyment by you,
But you never assist to obtain!

102

Inscription for the Grotto of a Friend.

The tranquil Master of this small domain,
Cast o'er Creation his enquiring gaze
In quest of Peace he view'd the simple plain,
He view'd the palace proud in splendour's blaze.

With anxious soul each busy haunt he rang'd,
With earnest heart each nameless hut he spies,
Still as he urg'd his search, Opinion chang'd
Her fruitless aim, and still the phantom flies.

Tir'd and forlorn, he cheerlessly resolv'd
No more in quest of Peace to roam in vain,
Much in his mind each system he revolv'd,
And much he thought, and much he wish'd t'obtain.

'Twas on a summer's eve—each simple bird
Pour'd the soft requiem to the parted beam,
And thro' the twilight vale were faintly heard
Such sounds as soothe, and prompt the Poet's dream.

103

As o'er the view he cast his anxious eye,
While trembling twilight wove her fairy veil,
A toil-worn Pilgrim journey'd slowly by,
Plying his meek steps thro' the shadowy dale.

A soul resign'd beam'd in his face serene,
His eyes uplifted spurn'd at earthly woe,
With chasten'd gestures towards this favour'd scene
He bent his way—while thus his accents flow.

“My name is Peace—in that fam'd age of gold
“A youthful grace adorn'd my youthful form,
“Then o'er the world my sway was uncontroul'd,
“Each mind was lightsome, and each heart was warm.

“But now alas! Ambition, Imp of Hell,
“Moves the hard thought, and prompts the dark desire,
“Where Innocence and Truth were wont to dwell,
“Cold Interest scowls, and Discord lights her fire.

“Wounded, dejected, spurn'd from every soil,
“O'er the wide world a Pilgrim now I roam,
“Yet sometimes still I bless the sons of Toil,
“And make the clayey cot my humble home.

104

“I've heard of thee—thou spurn'st the pomp of Wealth,
“I've heard of thee—thou mock'st the glare of Art,
“I'll be thy guest, and give thee mental health,
“Subdue thy wishes, and exalt thy heart.”

Whoe'er ye are that tread the humble grot,
Attend!—and every vain enquiry cease—
Still to commemorate the hallow'd spot,
This hut was built, and call'd,—“The cell of Peace.”

And if, as passing Life's eventful day,
Perchance ye drop the agonizing tear,
Oh! think sometimes, (and hither bend your way)
The Pilgrim Peace, became a Hermit here!

FINIS.