Lo! on the eastern summit, clad in gray, Morn, like a horseman girt for travel, comes, And from his tower of mist, Night's watchman hurries down.

There was a little bird upon that pile; It perch'd upon a ruin'd pinnacle, And made sweet melody. The song was soft, yet cheerful, and most clear, For other note none swell'd the air but his. It seem'd as if the little chorister, Sole tenant of the melancholy pile, Were a lone hermit, outcast from his kind, Yet withal cheerful. I have heard the note Echoing so lonely o'er the aisle forlorn, ——Much musing——

O pale art thou, my lamp, and faint Thy melancholy ray: When the still night's unclouded saint Is walking on her way. Through my lattice leaf embower'd, Fair she sheds her shadowy beam, And o'er my silent sacred room Casts a checker'd twilight gloom; I throw aside the learned sheet, I cannot choose but gaze, she looks so mildly sweet. Sad vestal, why art thou so fair, Or why am I so frail?

Methinks thou lookest kindly on me, Moon, And cheerest my lone hours with sweet regards! Surely like me thou'rt sad, but dost not speak Thy sadness to the cold unheeding crowd; So mournfully composed, o'er yonder cloud Thou shinest, like a cresset, beaming far From the rude watch-tower, o'er the Atlantic wave.

O give me music—for my soul doth faint; I'm sick of noise and care, and now mine ear Longs for some air of peace, some dying plaint, That may the spirit from its cell unsphere.

Hark how it falls! and now it steals along, Like distant bells upon the lake at eve, When all is still; and now it grows more strong, As when the choral train their dirges weave, Mellow and many-voiced; where every close, O'er the old minster roof, in echoing waves reflows.

Oh! I am wrapt aloft. My spirit soars Beyond the skies, and leaves the stars behind. Lo! angels lead me to the happy shores, And floating paans fill the buoyant wind. Farewell! base earth, farewell! my soul is freed, Far from its clayey cell it springs,—

* * * * *

And must thou go, and must we part? Yes, Fate decrees, and I submit; The pang that rends in twain my heart, Oh, Fanny, dost thou share in it?

Thy sex is fickle,—when away, Some happier youth may win thy——

* * * * *

Ah! who can say, however fair his view, Through what sad scenes his path may lie? Ah! who can give to others' woes his sigh, Secure his own will never need it too?

Let thoughtless youth its seeming joys pursue, Soon will they learn to scan with thoughtful eye The illusive past and dark futurity; Soon will they know—

* * * * *

Hush'd is the lyre—the hand that swept The low and pensive wires, Robb'd of its cunning, from the task retires.

Yes—it is still—the lyre is still; The spirit which its slumbers broke Hath pass'd away,—and that weak hand that woke Its forest melodies hath lost its skill.

Yet I would press you to my lips once more, Ye wild, yet withering flowers of poesy; Yet would I drink the fragrance which ye pour, Mix'd with decaying odours: for to me Ye have beguiled the hours of infancy, As in the wood-paths of my native—

* * * * *

When high romance o'er every wood and stream Dark lustre shed, my infant mind to fire, Spell-struck, and fill'd with many a wondering dream, First in the groves I woke the pensive lyre. All there was mystery then, the gust that woke The midnight echo was a spirit's dirge, And unseen fairies would the moon invoke To their light morrice by the restless surge. Now to my sober'd thought with life's false smiles, Too much ... The vagrant Fancy spreads no more her wiles, And dark forebodings now my bosom fill.

Once more, and yet once more, I give unto my harp a dark woven lay; I heard the waters roar, I heard the flood of ages pass away. O thou, stern spirit, who dost dwell In thine eternal cell, Noting, gray chronicler! the silent years, I saw thee rise,—I saw the scroll complete; Thou spakest, and at thy feet The universe gave way.

Footnotes:

[1] These Fragments were written upon the back of his mathematical papers, during the last year of his life.



FRAGMENT OF AN ECCENTRIC DRAMA.

WRITTEN AT A VERY EARLY AGE.

THE DANCE OF THE CONSUMPTIVES.

Ding-dong! ding-dong! Merry, merry go the bells, Ding-dong! ding-dong! Over the heath, over the moor, and over the dale, "Swinging slow with sullen roar," Dance, dance away the jocund roundelay! Ding-dong, ding-dong calls us away.

Round the oak, and round the elm, Merrily foot it o'er the ground! The sentry ghost it stands aloof, So merrily, merrily foot it round. Ding-dong! ding-dong! Merry, merry go the bells, Swelling in the nightly gale, The sentry ghost, It keeps its post, And soon, and soon our sports must fail: But let us trip the nightly ground, While the merry, merry bells ring round.

Hark! Hark! the deathwatch ticks! See, see, the winding-sheet! Our dance is done, Our race is run, And we must lie at the alder's feet! Ding-dong! ding-dong! Merry, merry go the bells, Swinging o'er the weltering wave! And we must seek Our deathbeds bleak, Where the green sod grows upon the grave.

They vanish—The Goddess of Consumption descends, habited in a sky-blue robe, attended by mournful music.

Come, Melancholy, sister mine! Cold the dews, and chill the night! Come from thy dreary shrine! The wan moon climbs the heavenly height, And underneath her sickly ray Troops of squalid spectres play, And the dying mortals' groan Startles the night on her dusky throne. Come, come, sister mine! Gliding on the pale moonshine: We'll ride at ease On the tainted breeze, And oh! our sport will be divine.

The Goddess of Melancholy advances out of a deep glen in the rear, habited in black, and covered with a thick veil.—She speaks.

Sister, from my dark abode, Where nests the raven, sits the toad, Hither I come, at thy command: Sister, sister, join thy hand! I will smooth the way for thee, Thou shalt furnish food for me. Come, let us speed our way Where the troops of spectres play. To charnel-houses, churchyards drear, Where Death sits with a horrible leer, A lasting grin, on a throne of bones, And skim along the blue tombstones. Come, let us speed away, Lay our snares, and spread our tether! I will smooth the way for thee, Thou shalt furnish food for me; And the grass shall wave O'er many a grave, Where youth and beauty sleep together.

CONSUMPTION.

Come, let us speed our way, Join our hands, and spread our tether! I will furnish food for thee, Thou shalt smooth the way for me! And the grass shall wave O'er many a grave, Where youth and beauty sleep together.

MELANCHOLY.

Hist, sister, hist! who comes here? Oh! I know her by that tear, By that blue eye's languid glare, By her skin, and by her hair: She is mine, And she is thine, Now the deadliest draught prepare.

CONSUMPTION.

In the dismal night air dress'd, I will creep into her breast: Flush her cheek, and bleach her skin, And feed on the vital fire within. Lover, do not trust her eyes,— When they sparkle most, she dies! Mother, do not trust her breath,— Comfort she will breathe in death! Father, do not strive to save her,— She is mine, and I must have her! The coffin must be her bridal bed! The winding-sheet must wrap her head; The whispering winds must o'er her sigh, For soon in the grave the maid must lie: The worm it will riot On heavenly diet, When death has deflower'd her eye.

[They vanish. While Consumption speaks, Angelina enters.]

ANGELINA.

With [1] what a silent and dejected pace Dost thou, wan Moon! upon thy way advance In the blue welkin's vault!—Pale wanderer! Hast thou too felt the pangs of hopeless love, That thus, with such a melancholy grace, Thou dost pursue thy solitary course? Has thy Endymion, smooth-faced boy, forsook Thy widow'd breast—on which the spoiler oft Has nestled fondly, while the silver clouds Fantastic pillow'd thee, and the dim night, Obsequious to thy will, encurtain'd round With its thick fringe thy couch? Wan traveller, How like thy fate to mine!—Yet I have still One heavenly hope remaining, which thou lack'st; My woes will soon be buried in the grave Of kind forgetfulness—my journey here. Though it be darksome, joyless, and forlorn, Is yet but short, and soon my weary feet Will greet the peaceful inn of lasting rest. But thou, unhappy Queen! art doom'd to trace Thy lonely walk in the drear realms of night, While many a lagging age shall sweep beneath The leaden pinions of unshaken time; Though not a hope shall spread its glittering hue To cheat thy steps along the weary way. O that the sum of human happiness Should be so trifling, and so frail withal, That when possess'd, it is but lessened grief; And even then there's scarce a sudden gust That blows across the dismal waste of life, But bears it from the view. Oh! who would shun The hour that cuts from earth, and fear to press The calm and peaceful pillows of the grave, And yet endure the various ills of life, And dark vicissitudes! Soon, I hope, I feel, And am assured, that I shall lay my dead, My weary aching head, on its last rest, And on my lowly bed the grass-green sod Will flourish sweetly. And then they will weep That one so young, and what they're pleased to call So beautiful, should die so soon. And tell How painful Disappointment's canker'd fang Wither'd the rose upon my maiden cheek. Oh, foolish ones! why, I shall sleep so sweetly, Laid in my darksome grave, that they themselves Might envy me my rest! And as for them, Who, on the score of former intimacy, May thus remembrance me—they must themselves Successive fall.

Around the winter fire (When out-a-doors the biting frost congeals, And shrill the skater's irons on the pool Ring loud, as by the moonlight he performs His graceful evolutions) they not long Shall sit and chat of older times, and feats Of early youth, but silent, one by one, Shall drop into their shrouds. Some, in their age, Ripe for the sickle; others young, like me, And falling green beneath the untimely stroke. Thus, in short time, in the churchyard forlorn, Where I shall lie, my friends will lay them down, And dwell with me, a happy family. And oh! thou cruel, yet beloved youth, Who now hast left me hopeless here to mourn, Do thou but shed one tear upon my corse And say that I was gentle, and deserved A better lover, and I shall forgive All, all thy wrongs;—and then do thou forget The hapless Margaret, and be as bless'd As wish can make thee—Laugh, and play, and sing With thy dear choice, and never think of me. Yet hist, I hear a step.—In this dark wood—

* * * * *

Footnotes:

[1] With how sad steps, O Moon! thou climb'st the skies, How silently, and how wan a face! Sir P. Sidney.



TO A FRIEND.

WRITTEN AT A VERY EARLY AGE.

I've read, my friend, of Dioclesian, And many another noble Grecian, Who wealth and palaces resigned, In cots the joys of peace to find; Maximian's meal of turnip-tops (Disgusting food to dainty chops) I've also read of, without wonder; But such a cursed egregious blunder, As that a man of wit and sense Should leave his books to hoard up pence,— Forsake the loved Aonian maids For all the petty tricks of trades, I never, either now, or long since, Have heard of such a peace of nonsense; That one who learning's joys hath felt, And at the Muse's altar knelt, Should leave a life of sacred leisure To taste the accumulating pleasure; And, metamorphosed to an alley duck, Grovel in loads of kindred muck. Oh! 't is beyond my comprehension! A courtier throwing up his pension,— A lawyer working without a fee,— A parson giving charity,— A truly pious methodist preacher,— Are not, egad, so out of nature. Had nature made thee half a fool, But given thee wit to keep a school, I had not stared at thy backsliding: But when thy wit I can confide in, When well I know thy just pretence To solid and exalted sense; When well I know that on thy head Philosophy her lights hath shed, I stand aghast! thy virtues sum to, I wonder what this world will come to! Yet, whence this strain? shall I repine That thou alone dost singly shine? Shall I lament that thou alone, Of men of parts, hast prudence known?



LINES

ON READING THE POEMS OF WARTON. AGE FOURTEEN.

Oh, Warton! to thy soothing shell, Stretch'd remote in hermit cell, Where the brook runs babbling by, For ever I could listening lie; And catching all the muses' fire, Hold converse with the tuneful quire.

What pleasing themes thy page adorn, The ruddy streaks of cheerful morn, The pastoral pipe, the ode sublime, And Melancholy's mournful chime! Each with unwonted graces shines In thy ever lovely lines.

Thy muse deserves the lasting meed; Attuning sweet the Dorian reed, Now the lovelorn swain complains, And sings his sorrows to the plains; Now the sylvan scenes appear Through all the changes of the year;

Or the elegiac strain Softly sings of mental pain, And mournful diapasons sail On the faintly dying gale. But, ah! the soothing scene is o'er, On middle flight we cease to soar, For now the muse assumes a bolder sweep, Strikes on the lyric string her sorrows deep, In strains unheard before. Now, now the rising fire thrills high, Now, now to heaven's high realms we fly, And every throne explore: The soul entranced, on mighty wings, With all the poet's heat upsprings, And loses earthly woes; Till all alarm'd at the giddy height, The Muse descends on gentler flight, And lulls the wearied soul to soft repose.



FRAGMENT.

The western gale, Mild as the kisses of connubial love, Plays round my languid limbs, as all dissolved, Beneath the ancient elm's fantastic shade I lie, exhausted with the noontide heat: While rippling o'er its deep worn pebble bed, The rapid rivulet rushes at my feet, Dispensing coolness. On the fringed marge Full many a floweret rears its head,—or pink, Or gaudy daffodil. 'Tis here, at noon, The buskin'd wood-nymphs from the heat retire, And lave them in the fountain; here secure From Pan, or savage satyr, they disport: Or stretch'd supinely on the velvet turf, Lull'd by the laden bee, or sultry fly, Invoke the god of slumber.... * * * * *

And, hark! how merrily, from distant tower, Ring round the village bells! now on the gale They rise with gradual swell, distinct and loud; Anon they die upon the pensive ear, Melting in faintest music. They bespeak A day of jubilee, and oft they bear, Commix'd along the unfrequented shore, The sound of village dance and tabor loud, Startling the musing ear of Solitude.

Such is the jocund wake of Whitsuntide, When happy Superstition, gabbling eld! Holds her unhurtful gambols. All the day The rustic revellers ply the mazy dance On the smooth shaven green, and then at eve Commence the harmless rites and auguries; And many a tale of ancient days goes round.

They tell of wizard seer, whose potent spells Could hold in dreadful thrall the labouring moon, Or draw the fix'd stars from their eminence, And still the midnight tempest. Then anon Tell of uncharnel'd spectres, seen to glide Along the lone wood's unfrequented path, Startling the 'nighted traveller; while the sound Of undistinguished murmurs, heard to come From the dark centre of the deepening glen, Struck on his frozen ear.

Oh, Ignorance! Thou art fallen man's best friend! With thee he speeds In frigid apathy along his way. And never does the tear of agony Burn down his scorching cheek; or the keen steel Of wounded feeling penetrate his breast.

E'en now, as leaning on this fragrant bank, I taste of all the keener happiness Which sense refined affords—E'en now my heart Would fain induce me to forsake the world, Throw off these garments, and in shepherd's weeds, With a small flock, and short suspended reed, To sojourn in the woodland.—Then my thought Draws such gay pictures of ideal bliss, That I could almost err in reason's spite, And trespass on my judgment.

Such is life: The distant prospect always seems more fair, And when attain'd, another still succeeds, Far fairer than before,—yet compass'd round With the same dangers, and the same dismay. And we poor pilgrims in this dreary maze, Still discontented, chase the fairy form Of unsubstantial Happiness, to find, When life itself is sinking in the strife, 'Tis but an airy bubble and a cheat.



COMMENCEMENT OF A POEM ON DESPAIR.

Some to Aonian lyres of silver sound With winning elegance attune their song, Form'd to sink lightly on the soothed sense, And charm the soul with softest harmony: 'Tis then that Hope with sanguine eye is seen Roving through Fancy's gay futurity; Her heart light dancing to the sounds of pleasure, Pleasure of days to come. Memory, too, then Comes with her sister, Melancholy sad, Pensively musing on the scenes of youth, Scenes never to return.[1] Such subjects merit poets used to raise The attic verse harmonious; but for me A deadlier theme demands my backward hand, And bids me strike the strings of dissonance With frantic energy. 'Tis wan Despair I sing, if sing I can Of him before whose blast the voice of Song, And Mirth, and Hope, and Happiness all fly, Nor ever dare return. His notes are heard At noon of night, where, on the coast of blood, The lacerated son of Angola Howls forth his sufferings to the moaning wind; And, when the awful silence of the night Strikes the chill death-dew to the murderer's heart, He speaks in every conscience-prompted word Half utter'd, half suppressed. 'Tis him I sing—Despair—terrific name, Striking unsteadily the tremulous chord Of timorous terror—discord in the sound: For to a theme revolting as is this, Dare not I woo the maids of harmony, Who love to sit and catch the soothing sound Of lyre Aolian, or the martial bugle, Calling the hero to the field of glory, And firing him with deeds of high emprise And warlike triumph: but from scenes like mine Shrink they affrighted, and detest the bard Who dares to sound the hollow tones of horror.

Hence, then, soft maids, And woo the silken zephyr in the bowers By Heliconia's sleep-inviting stream: For aid like yours I seek not; 'tis for powers Of darker hue to inspire a verse like mine! 'Tis work for wizards, sorcerers, and fiends.

Hither, ye furious imps of Acheron, Nurslings of hell, and beings shunning light, And all the myriads of the burning concave: Souls of the damned:—Hither, oh! come and join The infernal chorus. 'Tis Despair I sing! He, whose sole tooth inflicts a deadlier pang Than all your tortures join'd. Sing, sing Despair! Repeat the sound, and celebrate his power; Unite shouts, screams, and agonizing shrieks, Till the loud paan ring through hell's high vault, And the remotest spirits of the deep Leap from the lake, and join the dreadful song.

Footnotes:

[1] Alluding to the two pleasing poems, the Pleasures of Hope and of Memory.



THE EVE OF DEATH.

IRREGULAR.

Silence of death—portentous calm, Those airy forms that yonder fly Denote that your void foreruns a storm, That the hour of fate is nigh. I see, I see, on the dim mist borne, The Spirit of battles rear his crest! I see, I see, that ere the morn, His spear will forsake its hated rest, And the widow'd wife of Larrendill will beat her naked breast.

O'er the smooth bosom of the sullen deep, No softly ruffling zephyrs fly; But nature sleeps a deathless sleep, For the hour of battle is nigh. Not a loose leaf waves on the dusky oak, But a creeping stillness reigns around; Except when the raven, with ominous croak, On the ear does unwelcomely sound. I know, I know what this silence means; I know what the raven saith— Strike, oh, ye bards! the melancholy harp, For this is the eve of death.

Behold, how along the twilight air The shades of our fathers glide! There Morven fled, with the blood-drench'd hair, And Colma with gray side. No gale around its coolness flings, Yet sadly sigh the gloomy trees; And hark! how the harp's unvisited strings Sound sweet, as if swept by a whispering breeze! 'Tis done! the sun he has set in blood! He will never set more to the brave; Let us pour to the hero the dirge of death, For to-morrow he hies to the grave.



THANATOS.

Oh! who would cherish life, And cling unto this heavy clog of clay, Love this rude world of strife, Where glooms and tempests cloud the fairest day; And where, 'neath outward smiles, Conceal'd the snake lies feeding on its prey, Where pitfalls lie in every flowery way, And sirens lure the wanderer to their wiles! Hateful it is to me, Its riotous railings and revengeful strife; I'm tired with all its screams and brutal shouts Dinning the ear;—away—away with life! And welcome, oh! thou silent maid, Who in some foggy vault art laid,

Where never daylight's dazzling ray Comes to disturb thy dismal sway; And there amid unwholesome damps dost sleep, In such forgetful slumbers deep, That all thy senses stupefied Are to marble petrified. Sleepy Death, I welcome thee! Sweet are thy calms to misery. Poppies I will ask no more, Nor the fatal hellebore; Death is the best, the only cure, His are slumbers ever sure. Lay me in the Gothic tomb, In whose solemn fretted gloom I may lie in mouldering state, With all the grandeur of the great: Over me, magnificent, Carve a stately monument; Then thereon my statue lay, With hands in attitude to pray, And angels serve to hold my head, Weeping o'er the father dead. Duly too at close of day, Let the pealing organ play; And while the harmonious thunders roll, Chant a vesper to my soul: Thus how sweet my sleep will be, Shut out from thoughtful misery!



ATHANATOS.

Away with Death—away With all her sluggish sleeps and chilling damps, Impervious to the day, Where nature sinks into inanity. How can the soul desire Such hateful nothingness to crave, And yield with joy the vital fire To moulder in the grave! Yet mortal life is sad, Eternal storms molest its sullen sky; And sorrows ever rife Drain the sacred fountain dry— Away with mortal life! But, hail the calm reality, The seraph Immortality! Hail the heavenly bowers of peace, Where all the storms of passion cease. Wild life's dismaying struggle o'er, The wearied spirit weeps no more; But wears the eternal smile of joy, Tasting bliss without alloy. Welcome, welcome, happy bowers, Where no passing tempest lowers; But the azure heavens display The everlasting smile of day; Where the choral seraph choir Strike to praise the harmonious lyre; And the spirit sinks to ease, Lull'd by distant symphonies. Oh! to think of meeting there The friends whose graves received our tear, The daughter loved, the wife adored, To our widow'd arms restored; And all the joys which death did sever, Given to us again for ever! Who would cling to wretched life, And hug the poison'd thorn of strife; Who would not long from earth to fly, A sluggish senseless lump to lie, When the glorious prospect lies Full before his raptured eyes?



MUSIC

WRITTEN BETWEEN THE AGES OF FOURTEEN AND FIFTEEN, WITH A FEW SUBSEQUENT VERBAL ALTERATIONS.

Music, all powerful o'er the human mind, Can still each mental storm, each tumult calm, Soothe anxious care on sleepless couch reclined, And e'en fierce Anger's furious rage disarm.

At her command the various passions lie; She stirs to battle, or she lulls to peace; Melts the charm'd soul to thrilling ecstasy, And bids the jarring world's harsh clangour cease.

Her martial sounds can fainting troops inspire With strength unwonted, and enthusiasm raise; Infuse new ardour, and with youthful fire Urge on the warrior gray with length of days.

Far better she, when, with her soothing lyre, She charms the falchion from the savage grasp, And melting into pity vengeful ire, Looses the bloody breastplate's iron clasp.

With her in pensive mood I long to roam, At midnight's hour, or evening's calm decline, And thoughtful o'er the falling streamlet's foam, In calm seclusion's hermit walks recline.

Whilst mellow sounds from distant copse arise, Of softest flute or reeds harmonic join'd, With rapture thrill'd each worldly passion dies, And pleased attention claims the passive mind.

Soft through the dell the dying strains retire, Then burst majestic in the varied swell; Now breathe melodious as the Grecian lyre, Or on the ear in sinking cadence dwell.

Romantic sounds! such is the bliss ye give, That heaven's bright scenes seem bursting on the soul, With joy I'd yield each sensual wish, to live For ever 'neath your undefiled control.

Oh! surely melody from heaven was sent, To cheer the soul when tired with human strife, To soothe the wayward heart by sorrow rent, And soften down the rugged road of life.



ON BEING CONFINED TO SCHOOL ONE PLEASANT MORNING IN SPRING.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN.

The morning sun's enchanting rays Now call forth every songster's praise; Now the lark, with upward flight, Gaily ushers in the light; While wildly warbling from each tree, The birds sing songs to Liberty.

But for me no songster sings, For me no joyous lark upsprings; For I, confined in gloomy school, Must own the pedant's iron rule, And far from sylvan shades and bowers, In durance vile must pass the hours; There con the scholiast's dreary lines, Where no bright ray of genius shines, And close to rugged learning cling, While laughs around the jocund spring. How gladly would my soul forego All that arithmeticians know, Or stiff grammarians quaintly teach, Or all that industry can reach, To taste each morn of all the joys That with the laughing sun arise; And unconstrain'd to rove along The bushy brakes and glens among; And woo the muse's gentle power In unfrequented rural bower: But, ah! such heaven-approaching joys Will never greet my longing eyes; Still will they cheat in vision fine, Yet never but in fancy shine.

Oh, that I were the little wren That shrilly chirps from yonder glen! Oh, far away I then would rove To some secluded bushy grove; There hop and sing with careless glee. Hop and sing at liberty; And, till death should stop my lays, Far from men would spend my days.



TO CONTEMPLATION.

Thee do I own, the prompter of my joys, The soother of my cares, inspiring peace; And I will ne'er forsake thee. Men may rave, And blame and censure me, that I don't tie My every thought down to the desk, and spend The morning of my life in adding figures With accurate monotony: that so The good things of the world may be my lot, And I might taste the blessedness of wealth: But, oh! I was not made for money getting; For me no much respected plum awaits. Nor civic honour, envied. For as still I tried to cast with school dexterity The interesting sums, my vagrant thoughts Would quick revert to many a woodland haunt, Which fond remembrance cherished, and the pen Dropp'd from my senseless fingers as I pictured, In my mind's eye, how on the shores of Trent I erewhile wander'd with my early friends In social intercourse. And then I'd think How contrary pursuits had thrown us wide, One from the other, scatter'd o'er the globe; They were set down with sober steadiness, Each to his occupation. I alone, A wayward youth, misled by Fancy's vagaries, Remain'd unsettled, insecure, and veering With every wind to every point of the compass. Yes, in the counting-house I could indulge In fits of close abstraction; yea, amid The busy bustling crowds could meditate, And send my thoughts ten thousand leagues away Beyond the Atlantic, resting on my friend. Ay, Contemplation, even in earliest youth I woo'd thy heavenly influence! I would walk A weary way when all my toils were done, To lay myself at night in some lone wood, And hear the sweet song of the nightingale. Oh, those were times of happiness, and still To memory doubly dear; for growing years Had not then taught me man was made to mourn; And a short hour of solitary pleasure, Stolen from sleep, was ample recompense For all the hateful bustles of the day. My opening mind was ductile then, and plastic, And soon the marks of care were worn away, While I was sway'd by every novel impulse, Yielding to all the fancies of the hour. But it has now assumed its character; Mark'd by strong lineaments, its haughty tone, Like the firm oak, would sooner break than bend. Yet still, O Contemplation! I do love To indulge thy solemn musings; still the same With thee alone I know to melt and weep, In thee alone delighting. Why along The dusky tract of commerce should I toil, When, with an easy competence content, I can alone be happy; where with thee I may enjoy the loveliness of Nature, And loose the wings of Fancy? Thus alone Can I partake the happiness on earth; And to be happy here is a man's chief end, For to be happy he must needs be good.



MY OWN CHARACTER.

ADDRESSED (DURING ILLNESS) TO A LADY.

Dear Fanny, I mean, now I'm laid on the shelf, To give you a sketch—ay, a sketch of myself. 'Tis a pitiful subject, I frankly confess, And one it would puzzle a painter to dress; But, however, here goes, and as sure as a gun, I'll tell all my faults like a penitent nun; For I know, for my Fanny, before I address her, She wont be a cynical father confessor.

Come, come, 'twill not do! put that curling brow down; You can't, for the soul of you, learn how to frown. Well, first I premise, it's my honest conviction, That my breast is a chaos of all contradiction; Religious—deistic—now loyal and warm; Then a dagger-drawn democrat hot for reform: This moment a fop, that, sententious as Titus; Democritus now, and anon Heraclitus; Now laughing and pleased, like a child with a rattle; Then vex'd to the soul with impertinent tattle; Now moody and sad, now unthinking and gay, To all points of the compass I veer in a day.

I'm proud and disdainful to Fortune's gay child, But to Poverty's offspring submissive and mild; As rude as a boor, and as rough in dispute; Then as for politeness—oh! dear—I'm a brute! I show no respect where I never can feel it; And as for contempt, take no pains to conceal it. And so in the suite, by these laudable ends, I've a great many foes, and a very few friends.

And yet, my dear Fanny, there are who can feel That this proud heart of mine is not fashion'd of steel. It can love (can it not?)—it can hate, I am sure; And it's friendly enough, though in friends it be poor. For itself though it bleed not, for others it bleeds; If it have not ripe virtues, I'm sure it's the seeds; And though far from faultless, or even so-so, I think it may pass as our worldly things go.

Well, I've told you my frailties without any gloss; Then as to my virtues, I'm quite at a loss! I think I'm devout, and yet I can't say, But in process of time I may get the wrong way. I'm a general lover, if that's commendation, And yet can't withstand you know whose fascination. But I find that amidst all my tricks and devices, In fishing for virtues, I'm pulling up vices; So as for the good, why, if I possess it, I am not yet learned enough to express it.

You yourself must examine the lovelier side, And after your every art you have tried, Whatever my faults, I may venture to say, Hypocrisy never will come in your way. I am upright, I hope; I'm downright, I'm clear! And I think my worst foe must allow I'm sincere; And if ever sincerity glow'd in my breast, 'Tis now when I swear——.



LINES WRITTEN IN WILFORD CHURCHYARD.

ON RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS.

Here would I wish to sleep. This is the spot Which I have long mark'd out to lay my bones in. Tired out and wearied with the riotous world, Beneath this yew I would be sepulchred. It is a lovely spot! The sultry sun, From his meridian height, endeavours vainly To pierce the shadowy foliage, while the zephyr Comes wafting gently o'er the rippling Trent, And plays about my wan cheek. 'Tis a nook Most pleasant. Such a one perchance did Gray Frequent, as with a vagrant muse he wanton'd.

Come, I will sit me down and meditate, For I am wearied with my summer's walk; And here I may repose in silent ease; And thus, perchance, when life's sad journey's o'er, My harass'd soul, in this same spot, may find The haven of its rest—beneath this sod Perchance may sleep it sweetly, sound as death.

I would not have my corpse cemented down With brick and stone, defrauding the poor earthworm Of its predestined dues; no, I would lie Beneath a little hillock, grass o'ergrown, Swath'd down with osiers, just as sleep the cotters. Yet may not undistinguish'd be my grave; But there at eve may some congenial soul Duly resort, and shed a pious tear, The good man's benison—no more I ask. And, oh! (if heavenly beings may look down From where, with cherubim, inspired they sit, Upon this little dim-discover'd spot, The earth,) then will I cast a glance below On him who thus my ashes shall embalm; And I will weep too, and will bless the wanderer, Wishing he may not long be doom'd to pine In this low-thoughted world of darkling woe, But that, ere long, he reach his kindred skies.

Yet 't was a silly thought, as if the body, Mouldering beneath the surface of the earth, Could taste the sweets of summer scenery, And feel the freshness of the balmy breeze! Yet nature speaks within the human bosom, And, spite of reason, bids it look beyond His narrow verge of being, and provide A decent residence for its clayey shell, Endear'd to it by time. And who would lay His body in the city burial-place, To be thrown up again by some rude sexton, And yield its narrow house another tenant, Ere the moist flesh had mingled with the dust, Ere the tenacious hair had left the scalp, Exposed to insult lewd, and wantonness? No, I will lay me in the village ground; There are the dead respected. The poor hind, Unletter'd as he is, would scorn to invade The silent resting place of death. I've seen The labourer, returning from his toil, Here stay his steps, and call his children round, And slowly spell the rudely sculptured rhymes, And, in his rustic manner, moralize. I've mark'd with what a silent awe he'd spoken, With head uncover'd, his respectful manner, And all the honours which he paid the grave, And thought on cities, where e'en cemeteries, Bestrew'd with all the emblems of mortality, Are not protected from the drunken insolence Of wassailers profane, and wanton havoc. Grant, Heaven, that here my pilgrimage may close! Yet, if this be denied, where'er my bones May lie—or in the city's crowded bounds, Or scatter'd wide o'er the huge sweep of waters, Or left a prey on some deserted shore To the rapacious cormorant,—yet still, (For why should sober reason cast away A thought which soothes the soul?) yet still my spirit Shall wing its way to these my native regions, And hover o'er this spot. Oh, then I'll think Of times when I was seated 'neath this yew In solemn rumination; and will smile With joy that I have got my long'd release.



VERSES.

Thou base repiner at another's joy, Whose eye turns green at merit not thine own, Oh, far away from generous Britons fly, And find on meaner climes a fitter throne. Away, away, it shall not be, Thou shalt not dare defile our plains; The truly generous heart disdains Thy meaner, lowlier fires, while he Joys at another's joy, and smiles at other's jollity.

Triumphant monster! though thy schemes succeed— Schemes laid in Acheron, the brood of night, Yet, but a little while, and nobly freed, Thy happy victim will emerge to light; When o'er his head in silence that reposes Some kindred soul shall come to drop a tear; Then will his last cold pillow turn to roses, Which thou hadst planted with the thorn severe; Then will thy baseness stand confess'd, and all Will curse the ungenerous fate, that bade a Poet fall.

* * * * *

Yet, ah! thy arrows are too keen, too sure: Couldst thou not pitch upon another prey? Alas! in robbing him thou robb'st the poor, Who only boast what thou wouldst take away. See the lone Bard at midnight study sitting, O'er his pale features streams his dying lamp; While o'er fond Fancy's pale perspective flitting, Successive forms their fleet ideas stamp. Yet say, is bliss upon his brow impress'd? Does jocund Health in Thought's still mansion live? Lo, the cold dews that on his temples rest, That short quick sigh—their sad responses give.

And canst thou rob a poet of his song; Snatch from the bard his trivial meed of praise? Small are his gains, nor does he hold them long; Then leave, oh, leave him to enjoy his lays While yet he lives—for to his merits just, Though future ages join his fame to raise, Will the loud trump awake his cold unheeding dust?

* * * * *



LINES.

Yes, my stray steps have wander'd, wander'd far From thee, and long, heart-soothing Poesy! And many a flower, which in the passing time My heart hath register'd, nipp'd by the chill Of undeserved neglect, hath shrunk and died. Heart-soothing Poesy! Though thou hast ceased To hover o'er the many-voiced strings Of my long silent lyre, yet thou canst still Call the warm tear from its thrice hallow'd cell, And with recalled images of bliss Warm my reluctant heart. Yes, I would throw, Once more would throw a quick and hurried hand O'er the responding chords. It hath not ceased— It cannot, will not cease; the heavenly warmth Plays round my heart, and mantles o'er my cheek; Still, though unbidden, plays. Fair Poesy! The summer and the spring, the wind and rain, Sunshine and storm, with various interchange, Have mark'd full many a day, and week, and month. Since by dark wood, or hamlet far retired, Spell-struck, with thee I loiter'd. Sorceress! I cannot burst thy bonds. It is but lift Thy blue eyes to that deep-bespangled vault, Wreathe thy enchanted tresses round thine arm, And mutter some obscure and charmed rhyme, And I could follow thee, on thy night's work, Up to the regions of thrice chasten'd fire, Or, in the caverns of the ocean flood, Thrid the light mazes of thy volant foot. Yet other duties call me, and mine ear Must turn away from the high minstrelsy Of thy soul-trancing harp, unwillingly Must turn away; there are severer strains (And surely they are sweet as ever smote The ear of spirit, from this mortal coil Released and disembodied), there are strains Forbid to all, save those whom solemn thought, Through the probation of revolving years, And mighty converse with the spirit of truth, Have purged and purified. To these my soul Aspireth; and to this sublimer end I gird myself, and climb the toilsome steep With patient expectation. Yea, sometimes Foretaste of bliss rewards me; and sometimes Spirits unseen upon my footsteps wait, And minister strange music, which doth seem Now near, now distant, now on high, now low, Then swelling from all sides, with bliss complete, And full fruition filling all the soul. Surely such ministry, though rare, may soothe The steep ascent, and cheat the lassitude Of toil; and but that my fond heart Reverts to day-dreams of the summer gone, When by clear fountain, or embower'd brake, I lay a listless muser, prizing, far Above all other lore, the poet's theme; But for such recollections I could brace My stubborn spirit for the arduous path Of science unregretting; eye afar Philosophy upon her steepest height, And with bold step and resolute attempt Pursue her to the innermost recess, Where throned in light she sits, the Queen of Truth.



THE PROSTITUTE.

DACTYLICS.

Woman of weeping eye, ah! for thy wretched lot, Putting on smiles to lure the lewd passenger, Smiling while anguish gnaws at thy heavy heart;

Sad is thy chance, thou daughter of misery, Vice and disease are wearing thee fast away, While the unfeeling ones sport with thy sufferings.

Destined to pamper the vicious one's appetite; Spurned by the beings who lured thee from innocence; Sinking unnoticed in sorrow and indigence;

Thou hast no friends, for they with thy virtue fled; Thou art an outcast from house and from happiness; Wandering alone on the wide world's unfeeling stage!

Daughter of misery, sad is thy prospect here; Thou hast no friend to soothe down the bed of death; None after thee inquires with solicitude;

Famine and fell disease shortly will wear thee down, Yet thou hast still to brave often the winter's wind, Loathsome to those thou wouldst court with thine hollow eyes.

Soon thou wilt sink into death's silent slumbering, And not a tear shall fall on thy early grave. Nor shall a single stone tell where thy bones are laid.

Once wert thou happy—thou wert once innocent; But the seducer beguiled thee in artlessness, Then he abandoned thee unto thine infamy.

Now he perhaps is reclined on a bed of down: But if a wretch like him sleeps in security, God of the red right arm! where is thy thunder-bolt?



ODES.



TO MY LYRE.

Thou simple Lyre! thy music wild Has served to charm the weary hour, And many a lonely night has 'guiled, When even pain has own'd, and smiled, Its fascinating power.

Yet, O my Lyre! the busy crowd Will little heed thy simple tones; Them mightier minstrels harping loud Engross,—and thou and I must shroud Where dark oblivion 'thrones.

No hand, they diapason o'er, Well skill'd I throw with sweep sublime; For me, no academic lore Has taught the solemn strain to pour, Or build the polish'd rhyme.

Yet thou to sylvan themes canst soar; Thou know'st to charm the woodland train; The rustic swains believe thy power Can hush the wild winds when they roar, And still the billowy main.

These honours, Lyre, we yet may keep, I, still unknown, may live with thee, And gentle zephyr's wing will sweep Thy solemn string, where low I sleep, Beneath the alder tree.

This little dirge will please me more Than the full requiem's swelling peal; I'd rather than that crowds should sigh For me, that from some kindred eye The trickling tear should steal.

Yet dear to me the wreath of bay, Perhaps from me debarr'd; And dear to me the classic zone, Which, snatch'd from learning's labour'd throne, Adorns the accepted bard.

And O! if yet 'twere mine to dwell Where Cam or Isis winds along, Perchance, inspired with ardour chaste, I yet might call the ear of taste To listen to my song.

Oh! then, my little friend, thy style I'd change to happier lays, Oh! then the cloister'd glooms should smile, And through the long, the fretted aisle Should swell the note of praise.



TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE.

Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire! Whose modest form, so delicately fine, Was nursed in whirling storms, And cradled in the winds.

Thee when young spring first question'd winter's sway, And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight, Thee on this bank he threw To mark his victory.

In this low vale, the promise of the year, Serene thou openest to the nipping gale, Unnoticed and alone, Thy tender elegance.

So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms Of chill adversity, in some lone walk Of life she rears her head, Obscure and unobserved;

While every bleaching breeze that on her blows Chastens her spotless purity of breast, And hardens her to bear Serene the ills of life.



ODE ADDRESSED TO H. FUSELI, ESQ. R. A.

ON SEEING ENGRAVINGS FROM HIS DESIGNS.

Mighty magician! who on Torneo's brow, When sullen tempests wrap the throne of night, Art wont to sit and catch the gleam of light That shoots athwart the gloom opaque below; And listen to the distant death-shriek long From lonely mariner foundering in the deep, Which rises slowly up the rocky steep, While the weird sisters weave the horrid song: Or, when along the liquid sky Serenely chant the orbs on high, Dost love to sit in musing trance, And mark the northern meteor's dance (While far below the fitful oar Flings its faint pauses on the steepy shore), And list the music of the breeze, That sweeps by fits the bending seas; And often bears with sudden swell The shipwreck'd sailor's funeral knell, By the spirits sung, who keep Their night-watch on the treacherous deep, And guide the wakeful helmsman's eye To Helice in northern sky; And there upon the rock reclined With mighty visions fill'st the mind, Such as bound in magic spell Him[1] who grasp'd the gates of Hell, And, bursting Pluto's dark domain, Held to the day the terrors of his reign.

Genius of Horror and romantic awe, Whose eye explores the secrets of the deep, Whose power can bid the rebel fluids creep, Can force the inmost soul to own its law; Who shall now, sublimest spirit, Who shall now thy wand inherit, From him[2] thy darling child who best Thy shuddering images expressed? Sullen of soul, and stern, and proud, His gloomy spirit spurn'd the crowd, And now he lays his aching head In the dark mansion of the silent dead.

Mighty magician! long thy wand has lain Buried beneath the unfathomable deep; And oh! for ever must its efforts sleep, May none the mystic sceptre e'er regain? Oh, yes, 'tis his! Thy other son! He throws thy dark-wrought tunic on, Fuesslin waves thy wand,—again they rise, Again thy wildering forms salute our ravish'd eyes. Him didst thou cradle on the dizzy steep Where round his head the vollied lightnings flung, And the loud winds that round his pillow rung Woo'd the stern infant to the arms of sleep.

Or on the highest top of Teneriffe Seated the fearless boy, and bade him look Where far below the weather-beaten skiff On the gulf bottom of the ocean strook. Thou mark'dst him drink with ruthless ear The death-sob, and, disdaining rest, Thou saw'st how danger fired his breast, And in his young hand couch'd the visionary spear. Then, Superstition, at thy call, She bore the boy to Odin's Hall, And set before his awe-struck sight The savage feast and spectred fight; And summoned from his mountain tomb The ghastly warrior son of gloom, His fabled runic rhymes to sing, While fierce Hresvelger flapp'd his wing; Thou show'dst the trains the shepherd sees, Laid on the stormy Hebrides, Which on the mists of evening gleam, Or crowd the foaming desert stream; Lastly her storied hand she waves, And lays him in Florentian caves; There milder fables, lovelier themes, Enwrap his soul in heavenly dreams, There pity's lute arrests his ear, And draws the half reluctant tear; And now at noon of night he roves Along the embowering moonlight groves, And as from many a cavern'd dell The hollow wind is heard to swell, He thinks some troubled spirit sighs, And as upon the turf he lies, Where sleeps the silent beam of night, He sees below the gliding sprite, And hears in Fancy's organs sound Aerial music warbling round.

Taste lastly comes and smooths the whole, And breathes her polish o'er his soul; Glowing with wild, yet chasten'd heat, The wondrous work is now complete.

The Poet dreams:—The shadow flies, And fainting fast its image dies. But lo! the Painter's magic force Arrests the phantom's fleeting course; It lives—it lives—the canvas glows, And tenfold vigour o'er it flows. The Bard beholds the work achieved, And as he sees the shadow rise Sublime before his wondering eyes, Starts at the image his own mind conceived.

Footnotes:

[1] Dante.

[2] Ibid.



TO THE EARL OF CARLISLE, K. G.

I. 1.

Retired, remote from human noise, An humble Poet dwelt serene; His lot was lowly, yet his joys Were manifold, I ween. He laid him by the brawling brook At eventide to ruminate, He watch'd the swallow skimming round, And mused, in reverie profound, On wayward man's unhappy state, And ponder'd much, and paused on deeds of ancient date.

II. 1.

"Oh, 'twas not always thus," he cried, "There was a time, when genius claim'd Respect from even towering pride, Nor hung her head ashamed: But now to wealth alone we bow, The titled and the rich alone Are honour'd, while meek merit pines, On penury's wretched couch reclines, Unheeded in his dying moan, As, overwhelmed with want and woe, he sinks unknown.

III. 1.

"Yet was the muse not always seen In poverty's dejected mien, Not always did repining rue, And misery her steps pursue. Time was, when nobles thought their titles graced By the sweet honours of poetic bays, When Sidney sung his melting song, When Sheffield join'd the harmonious throng, And Lyttelton attuned to love his lays. Those days are gone—alas, for ever gone! No more our nobles love to grace Their brows with anadems, by genius won, But arrogantly deem the muse as base; How differently thought the sires of this degenerate race!"

I. 2.

Thus sang the minstrel:—still at eve The upland's woody shades among In broken measures did he grieve, With solitary song. And still his shame was aye the same, Neglect had stung him to the core; And he with pensive joy did love To seek the still congenial grove, And muse on all his sorrows o'er, And vow that he would join the abjured world no more.

II. 2.

But human vows, how frail they be! Fame brought Carlisle unto his view, And all amazed, he thought to see The Augustan age anew. Fill'd with wild rapture, up he rose, No more he ponders on the woes Which erst he felt that forward goes, Regrets he'd sunk in impotence, And hails the ideal day of virtuous eminence.

III. 2.

Ah! silly man, yet smarting sore With ills which in the world he bore, Again on futile hope to rest, An unsubstantial prop at best, And not to know one swallow makes no summer! Ah! soon he'll find the brilliant gleam, Which flash'd across the hemisphere, Illumining the darkness there, Was but a single solitary beam, While all around remained in custom'd night. Still leaden ignorance reigns serene, In the false court's delusive height, And only one Carlisle is seen To illume the heavy gloom with pure and steady light.



TO CONTEMPLATION.

Come, pensive sage, who lovest to dwell In some retired Lapponian cell, Where, far from noise and riot rude, Besides sequester'd solitude. Come, and o'er my longing soul Throw thy dark and russet stole, And open to my duteous eyes The volume of thy mysteries.

I will meet thee on the hill, Where, with printless footsteps still, The morning in her buskin gray Springs upon her eastern way; While the frolic zephyrs stir, Playing with the gossamer, And, on ruder pinions borne, Shake the dewdrops from the thorn. There, as o'er the fields we pass, Brushing with hasty feet the grass, We will startle from her nest The lively lark with speckled breast, And hear the floating clouds among Her gale-transported matin song, Or on the upland stile, embower'd With fragrant hawthorn snowy flower'd, Will sauntering sit, and listen still To the herdsman's oaten quill, Wafted from the plain below; Or the heifer's frequent low; Or the milkmaid in the grove, Singing of one that died for love. Or when the noontide heats oppress, We will seek the dark recess, Where, in the embower'd translucent stream, The cattle shun the sultry beam, And o'er us on the marge reclined, The drowsy fly her horn shall wind, While echo, from her ancient oak, Shall answer to the woodman's stroke; Or the little peasant's song, Wandering lone the glens among, His artless lip with berries dyed, And feet through ragged shoes descried.

But oh! when evening's virgin queen Sits on her fringed throne serene, And mingling whispers rising near Steal on the still reposing ear; While distant brooks decaying round, Augment the mix'd dissolving sound, And the zephyr flitting by Whispers mystic harmony, We will seek the woody lane, By the hamlet, on the plain, Where the weary rustic nigh Shall whistle his wild melody, And the croaking wicket oft Shall echo from the neighbouring croft; And as we trace the green path lone, With moss and rank weeds overgrown, We will muse on penbive lore? Till the full soul, brimming o'er, Shall in our upturn'd eyes appear, Embodied in a quivering tear. Or else, serenely silent, sit By the brawling rivulet, Which on its calm unruffled breast Rears the old mossy arch impressed, That clasps its secret stream of glass, Half hid in shrubs and waving grass, The wood-nymph's lone secure retreat, Unpress'd by fawn or sylvan's feet, We'll watch in eve's ethereal braid The rich vermilion slowly fade; Or catch, faint twinkling from afar The first glimpse of the eastern star; Fair vesper, mildest lamp of light, That heralds in imperial night: Meanwhile, upon our wondering ear, Shall rise, though low, yet sweetly clear, The distant sounds of pastoral lute, Invoking soft the sober suit Of dimmest darkness—fitting well With love, or sorrow's pensive spell, (So erst did music's silver tone Wake slumbering chaos on his throne). And haply then, with sudden swell, Shall roar the distant curfew bell, While in the castle's mouldering tower The hooting owl is heard to pour Her melancholy song, and scare Dull silence brooding in the air. Meanwhile her dusk and slumbering car Black-suited night drives on from far, And Cynthia, 'merging from her rear, Arrests the waxing darkness drear, And summons to her silent call, Sweeping, in their airy pall, The unshrived ghosts, in fairy trance, To join her moonshine morris-dance; While around the mystic ring The shadowy shapes elastic spring, Then with a passing shriek they fly, Wrapt in mists, along the sky, And oft are by the shepherd seen In his lone night-watch on the green.

Then, hermit, let us turn our feet To the low abbey's still retreat, Embower'd in the distant glen, Far from the haunts of busy men, Where as we sit upon the tomb, The glowworm's light may gild the gloom, And show to fancy's saddest eye Where some lost hero's ashes lie. And oh, as through the mouldering arch, With ivy fill'd and weeping larch, The night gale whispers sadly clear, Speaking dear things to fancy's ear, We'll hold communion with the shade Of some deep wailing, ruin'd maid— Or call the ghost of Spenser down, To tell of woe and fortune's frown; And bid us cast the eye of hope Beyond this bad world's narrow scope. Or if these joys, to us denied, To linger by the forest's side; Or in the meadow, or the wood, Or by the lone, romantic flood; Let us in the busy town, When sleep's dull streams the people drown, Far from drowsy pillows flee, And turn the church's massy key; Then, as through the painted glass The moon's faint beams obscurely pass, And darkly on the trophied wall Her faint, ambiguous shadows fall, Let us, while the faint winds wail Through the long reluctant aisle, As we pace with reverence meet, Count the echoings of our feet, While from the tombs, with confess'd breath, Distinct responds the voice of death. If thou, mild sage, wilt condescend Thus on my footsteps to attend, To thee my lonely lamp shall burn By fallen Genius' sainted urn, As o'er the scroll of Time I pore, And sagely spell of ancient lore, Till I can rightly guess of all That Plato could to memory call, And scan the formless views of things; Or, with old Egypt's fetter'd kings, Arrange the mystic trains that shine In night's high philosophic mine; And to thy name shall e'er belong The honours of undying song.



TO THE GENIUS OF ROMANCE.

Oh! thou who, in my early youth, When fancy wore the garb of truth, Wert wont to win my infant feet To some retired, deep fabled seat, Where, by the brooklet's secret tide, The midnight ghost was known to glide; Or lay me in some lonely glade, In native Sherwood's forest shade, Where Robin Hood, the outlaw bold, Was wont his sylvan courts to hold; And there, as musing deep I lay, Would steal my little soul away, And all my pictures represent, Of siege and solemn tournament; Or bear me to the magic scene, Where, clad in greaves and gabardine, The warrior knight of chivalry Made many a fierce enchanter flee; And bore the high-born dame away, Long held the fell magician's prey. Or oft would tell the shuddering tale Of murders, and of goblins pale, Haunting the guilty baron's side (Whose floors with secret blood were dyed), Which o'er the vaulted corridor On stormy nights was heard to roar, By old domestic, waken'd wide By the angry winds that chide: Or else the mystic tale would tell Of Greensleeve, or of Blue-Beard fell.

* * * * *



TO MIDNIGHT.

Season of general rest, whose solemn still Strikes to the trembling heart a fearful chill, But speaks to philosophic souls delight; Thee do I hail, as at my casement high, My candle waning melancholy by, I sit and taste the holy calm of night.

Yon pensive orb, that through the ether sails, And gilds the misty shadows of the vales, Hanging in thy dull rear her vestal flame; To her, while all around in sleep recline, Wakeful I raise my orisons divine, And sing the gentle honours of her name;

While Fancy lone o'er me, her votary, bends, To lift my soul her fairy visions sends, And pours upon my ear her thrilling song, And Superstition's gentle terrors come,— See, see yon dim ghost gliding through the gloom! See round yon churchyard elm what spectres throng!

Meanwhile I tune, to some romantic lay, My flageolet—and as I pensive play, The sweet notes echo o'er the mountain scene: The traveller late journeying o'er the moors, Hears them aghast,—(while still the dull owl pours Her hollow screams each dreary pause between).

Till in the lonely tower he spies the light, Now faintly flashing on the glooms of night, Where I, poor muser, my lone vigils keep, And, 'mid the dreary solitude serene, Cast a much-meaning glance upon the scene, And raise my mournful eye to Heaven, and weep.



TO THOUGHT.

WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT.

Hence, away, vindictive thought; Thy pictures are of pain; The visions through thy dark eye caught, They with no gentle charms are fraught, So pr'y thee back again. I would not weep, I wish to sleep, Then why, thou busy foe, with me thy vigils keep?

Why dost o'er bed and couch recline? Is this thy new delight? Pale visitant, it is not thine To keep thy sentry through the mine, The dark vault of the night: 'Tis thine to die, While o'er the eye The dews of slumber press, and waking sorrows fly.

Go thou, and bide with him who guides His bark through lonely seas; And as reclining on his helm, Sadly he marks the starry realm, To him thou mayst bring ease: But thou to me Art misery, So pr'ythee, pr'ythee, plume thy wings, and from my pillow flee.

And, memory, pray what art thou? Art thou of pleasure born? Does bliss untainted from thee flow? The rose that gems thy pensive brow, Is it without a thorn? With all thy smiles, And witching wiles, Yet not unfrequent bitterness thy mournful sway defiles.

The drowsy night-watch has forgot To call the solemn hour; Lull'd by the winds, he slumbers deep, While I in vain, capricious sleep, Invoke thy tardy power; And restless lie, With unclosed eye, And count the tedious hours as slow they minute by.



GENIUS.

AN ODE.

I. 1.

Many there be, who, through the vale of life, With velvet pace, unnoticed, softly go, While jarring discord's inharmonious strife Awakes them not to woe. By them unheeded, carking care, Green-eyed grief and dull despair; Smoothly they pursue their way, With even tenor and with equal breath, Alike through cloudy and through sunny day, Then sink in peace to death.

II. 1.

But, ah! a few there be whom griefs devour, And weeping woe, and disappointment keen, Repining penury, and sorrow sour, And self-consuming spleen. And these are Genius' favourites: these Know the thought-throned mind to please, And from her fleshy seat to draw To realms where Fancy's golden orbits roll, Disdaining all but 'wildering rapture's law, The captivated soul.

III. 1.

Genius, from thy starry throne, High above the burning zone, In radiant robe of light array'd, Oh! hear the plaint by thy sad favourite made, His melancholy moan. He tells of scorn, he tells of broken vows, Of sleepless nights, of anguish-ridden days, Pangs that his sensibility uprouse To curse his being and his thirst for praise. Thou gavest to him with treble force to feel The sting of keen neglect, the rich man's scorn, And what o'er all does in his soul preside Predominant, and tempers him to steel, His high indignant pride.

I. 2.

Lament not ye, who humbly steal through life. That Genius visits not your lowly shed; For, ah, what woes and sorrows ever rife Distract his hapless head! For him awaits no balmy sleep, He wakes all night, and wakes to weep; Or by his lonely lamp he sits At solemn midnight, when the peasant sleeps, In feverish study, and in moody fits His mournful vigils keeps.

II. 2.

And, oh! for what consumes his watchful oil? For what does thus he waste life's fleeting breath? 'T is for neglect and penury he doth toil, 'Tis for untimely death. Lo! where dejected pale he lies, Despair depicted in his eyes, He feels the vital flame decrease, He sees the grave wide yawning for its prey, Without a friend to soothe his soul to peace, And cheer the expiring ray.

III. 2.

By Sulmo's bard of mournful fame, By gentle Otway's magic name, By him, the youth, who smiled at death, And rashly dared to stop his vital breath, Will I thy pangs proclaim; For still to misery closely thou'rt allied, Though gaudy pageants glitter by thy side, And far resounding Fame. What though to thee the dazzled millions bow, And to thy posthumous merit bend them low; Though unto thee the monarch looks with awe, And thou at thy flash'd car dost nations draw, Yet, ah! unseen behind thee fly Corroding Anguish, soul-subduing Pain, And Discontent that clouds the fairest sky, A melancholy train.

Yes, Genius, thee a thousand cares await, Mocking thy derided state; Thee chill Adversity will still attend, Before whose face flies fast the summer's friend And leaves thee all forlorn; While leaden Ignorance rears her head and laughs, And fat Stupidity shakes his jolly sides, And while the cup of affluence he quaffs With bee-eyed Wisdom, Genius derides, Who toils, and every hardship doth outbrave, To gain the meed of praise when he is mouldering in his grave.



FRAGMENT OF AN ODE TO THE MOON.

Mild orb, who floatest through the realm of night, A pathless wanderer o'er a lonely wild, Welcome to me thy soft and pensive light, Which oft in childhood my lone thoughts beguiled. Now doubly dear as o'er my silent seat, Nocturnal study's still retreat, It casts a mournful melancholy gleam, And through my lofty casement weaves, Dim through the vine's encircling leaves, An intermingled beam.

These feverish dews that on my temples hang, This quivering lip, these eyes of dying flame; These the dread signs of many a secret pang, These are the meed of him who pants for fame! Pale Moon, from thoughts like these divert my soul; Lowly I kneel before thy shrine on high; My lamp expires;—beneath thy mild control These restless dreams are ever wont to fly.

Come, kindred mourner, in my breast Soothe these discordant tones to rest, And breathe the soul of peace; Mild visitor, I feel thee here, It is not pain that brings this tear, For thou hast bid it cease. Oh! many, a year has pass'd away Since I, beneath thy fairy ray, Attuned my infant reed; When wilt thou, Time, those days restore, Those happy moments now no more—

* * * * *

When on the lake's damp marge I lay, And mark'd the northern meteor's dance, Bland Hope and Fancy, ye were there To inspirate my trance. Twin sisters, faintly now ye deign Your magic sweets on me to shed, In vain your powers are now essay'd To chase superior pain.

And art thou fled, thou welcome orb! So swiftly pleasure flies, So to mankind, in darkness lost, The beam of ardour dies. Wan Moon, thy nightly task is done, And now, encurtain'd in the main, Thou sinkest into rest; But I, in vain, on thorny bed Shall woo the god of soft repose—

* * * * *



TO THE MUSE.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN.

Ill-fated maid, in whose unhappy train Chill poverty and misery are seen, Anguish and discontent, the unhappy bane Of life, and blackener of each brighter scene. Why to thy votaries dost thou give to feel So keenly all the scorns—the jeers of life? Why not endow them to endure the strife With apathy's invulnerable steel, Of self-content and ease, each torturing wound to heal?

Ah! who would taste your self-deluding joys, That lure the unwary to a wretched doom, That bid fair views and flattering hopes arise, Then hurl them headlong to a lasting tomb? What is the charm which leads thy victims on To persevere in paths that lead to woe? What can induce them in that route to go, In which innumerous before have gone, And died in misery poor and woe-begone?

Yet can I ask what charms in thee are found; I, who have drunk from thine ethereal rill, And tasted all the pleasures that abound Upon Parnassus' loved Aonian hill? I, through whose soul the Muse's strains aye thrill! Oh! I do feel the spell with which I'm tied; And though our annals fearful stories tell, How Savage languish'd, and how Otway died, Yet must I persevere, let whate'er will betide.



TO LOVE.

Why should I blush to own I love? 'Tis Love that rules the realms above. Why should I blush to say to all, That Virtue holds my heart in thrall?

Why should I seek the thickest shade, Lest Love's dear secret be betray'd? Why the stern brow deceitful move, When I am languishing with love?

Is it weakness thus to dwell On passion that I dare not tell? Such weakness I would ever prove; 'Tis painful, though 'tis sweet to love.



ON WHIT-MONDAY.

Hark! how the merry bells ring jocund round, And now they die upon the veering breeze Anon they thunder loud Full on the musing ear.

Wafted in varying cadence, by the shore Of the still twinkling river, they bespeak A day of jubilee, An ancient holiday.

And lo! the rural revels are begun, And gaily echoing to the laughing sky, On the smooth shaven green Resounds the voice of Mirth.

Alas! regardless of the tongue of Fate, That tells them 'tis but as an hour since they Who now are in their graves Kept up the Whitsun dance.

And that another hour, and they must fall Like those who went before, and sleep as still Beneath the silent sod, A cold and cheerless sleep.

Yet why should thoughts like these intrude to scare The vagrant Happiness, when she will deign To smile upon us here, A transient visitor?

Mortals! be gladsome while ye have the power, And laugh and seize the glittering lapse of joy; In time the bell will toll That warns ye to your graves.

I to the woodland solitude will bend My lonesome way—where Mirth's obstreperous shout Shall not intrude to break The meditative hour.

There will I ponder on the state of man, Joyless and sad of heart, and consecrate This day of jubilee To sad reflection's shrine;

And I will cast my fond eye far beyond This world of care, to where the steeple loud Shall rock above the sod, Where I shall sleep in peace.



TO THE WIND, AT MIDNIGHT.

Not unfamiliar to mine ear, Blasts of the night! ye howl as now My shuddering casement loud With fitful force ye beat.

Mine ear has dwelt in silent awe, The howling sweep, the sudden rush; And when the passing gale Pour'd deep the hollow dirge.

* * * * *



TO THE HARVEST MOON.

Cum ruit imbriferum ver: Spicea jam campis cum messis inhorruit, et cum Frumenta in viridi stipula lactentia turgent. Cuncta tibi Cererem pubes agrestis adoret. VIRGIL.

Moon of Harvest, herald mild Of plenty rustic labour's child, Hail! oh hail! I greet thy beam, As soft it trembles o'er the stream, And gilds the straw-thatch'd hamlet wide, Where Innocence and Peace reside! 'Tis thou that gladd'st with joy the rustic throng, Promptest the tripping dance, the exhilarating song.

Moon of Harvest, I do love O'er the uplands now to rove, While thy modest ray serene Gilds the wide surrounding scene; And to watch thee riding high In the blue vault of the sky, Where no thin vapour intercepts thy ray, But in unclouded majesty thou walkest on thy way.

Pleasing 'tis, oh! modest Moon! Now the night is at her noon, 'Neath thy sway to musing lie, While around the zephyrs sigh, Fanning soft the sun-tann'd wheat, Ripen'd by the summer's heat; Picturing all the rustic's joy When boundless plenty greets his eye, And thinking soon, Oh, modest Moon! How many a female eye will roam Along the road, To see the load, The last dear load of harvest home.

Storms and tempests, floods and rains, Stern despoilers of the plains, Hence, away, the season flee, Foes to light-heart jollity: May no winds careering high Drive the clouds along the sky, But may all nature smile with aspect boon, When in the heavens thou show'st thy face, oh Harvest Moon!

'Neath yon lowly roof he lies, The husbandman, with deep-seal'd eyes: He dreams of crowded barns, and round The yard he hears the flail resound; Oh! may no hurricane destroy His visionary views of joy! God of the winds! oh, hear his humble prayer, And while the Moon of Harvest shines, thy blustering whirlwind spare.

Sons of luxury, to you Leave I sleep's dull power to woo; Press ye still the downy bed, While feverish dreams surround your head; I will seek the woodland glade, Penetrate the thickest shade, Wrapp'd in contemplation's dreams, Musing high on holy themes, While on the gale Shall softly sail The nightingale's enchanting tune, And oft my eyes Shall grateful rise To thee, the modest Harvest Moon!



TO THE HERB ROSEMARY.[1]

Sweet scented flower! who art wont to bloom On January's front severe, And o'er the wintry desert drear To waft thy waste perfume! Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now, And I will bind thee round my brow; And as I twine the mournful wreath, I'll weave a melancholy song; And sweet the strain shall be, and long, The melody of death.

Come, funeral flower! who lovest to dwell With the pale corse in lonely tomb, And throw across the desert gloom A sweet decaying smell. Come, press my lips, and lie with me Beneath the lowly alder tree, And we will sleep a pleasant sleep, And not a care shall dare intrude To break the marble solitude, So peaceful and so deep.

And hark! the wind god, as he flies, Moans hollow in the forest trees, And sailing on the gusty breeze, Mysterious music dies. Sweet flower! that requiem wild is mine, It warns me to the lonely shrine, The cold turf altar of the dead: My grave shall be in yon lone spot, Where as I lie, by all forgot, A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed.

Footnotes:

[1] The Rosemary buds in January. It is the flower commonly put in the coffins of the dead.



TO THE MORNING.

WRITTEN DURING ILLNESS.

Beams of the daybreak faint! I hail Your dubious hues, as on the robe Of night, which wraps the slumbering globe, I mark your traces pale. Tired with the taper's sickly light, And with the wearying, number'd night, I hail the streaks of morn divine: And lo! they break between the dewy wreaths That round my rural casement twine; The fresh gale o'er the green lawn breathes, It fans my feverish brow,—it calms the mental strife, And cheerily re-illumes the lambent flame of life.

The lark has her gay song begun, She leaves her grassy nest, And soars till the unrisen sun Gleams on her speckled breast.

Now let me leave my restless bed, And o'er the spangled uplands tread; Now through the custom'd wood walk wend; By many a green lane lies my way, Where high o'er head the wild briers bend, Till on the mountain's summit gray, I sit me down, and mark the glorious dawn of day.

Oh Heaven! the soft refreshing gale It breathes into my breast! My sunk eye gleams; my cheek, so pale, Is with new colours dress'd.

Blithe Health! thou soul of life and ease! Come thou, too, on the balmy breeze, Invigorate my frame: I'll join with thee the buskin'd chase, With thee the distant clime will trace Beyond those clouds of flame.

Above, below, what charms unfold In all the varied view! Before me all is burnish'd gold, Behind the twilight's hue. The mists which on old Night await, Far to the west they hold their state, They shun the clear blue face of Morn; Along the fine cerulean sky The fleecy clouds successive fly, While bright prismatic beams their shadowy folds adorn.

And hark! the thatcher has begun His whistle on the eaves, And oft the hedger's bill is heard Among the rustling leaves. The slow team creaks upon the road, The noisy whip resounds, The driver's voice, his carol blithe, The mower's stroke, his whetting scythe Mix with the morning's sounds.

Who would not rather take his seat Beneath these clumps of trees, The early dawn of day to greet, And catch the healthy breeze, Than on the silken couch of Sloth Luxurious to lie; Who would not from life's dreary waste Snatch, when he could, with eager haste, An interval of joy!

To him who simply thus recounts The morning's pleasures o'er, Fate dooms, ere long, the scene must close To ope on him no more. Yet Morning! unrepining still, He'll greet thy beams awhile; And surely thou, when o'er his grave Solemn the whispering willows wave, Wilt sweetly on him smile: And the pale glowworm's pensive light Will guide his ghostly walks in the drear moonless night.



ON DISAPPOINTMENT.

Come, Disappointment, come! Not in thy terrors clad: Come, in thy meekest, saddest guise; Thy chastening rod but terrifies The restless and the bad. But I recline Beneath thy shrine, And round my brow resign'd thy peaceful cypress twine.

Though Fancy flies away Before thy hollow tread, Yet Meditation, in her cell, Hears with faint eye the lingering knell That tells her hopes are dead; And though the tear By chance appear, Yet she can smile, and say, My all was not laid here.

Come, Disappointment, come! Though from Hope's summit hurl'd, Still, rigid Nurse, thou art forgiven, For thou severe wert sent from heaven To wean me from the world; To turn my eye From vanity, And point to scenes of bliss that never, never die.

What is this passing scene? A peevish April day! A little sun—a little rain, And then night sweeps along the plain. And all things fade away. Man (soon discuss'd) Yields up his trust, And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust.

Oh, what is Beauty's power? It flourishes and dies; Will the cold earth its silence break, To tell how soft, how smooth a cheek Beneath its surface lies? Mute, mute is all O'er Beauty's fall; Her praise resounds no more when mantled in her pall.

The most beloved on earth Not long survives to-day; So music past is obsolete, And yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet, But now 'tis gone away. Thus does the shade In memory fade, When in forsaken tomb the form beloved is laid.

Then since this world is vain, And volatile, and fleet, Why should I lay up earthly joys, Where rust corrupts, and moth destroys, And cares and sorrows eat? Why fly from ill With anxious skill, When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing heart be still.

Come, Disappointment, come! Thou art not stern to me; Sad Monitress! I own thy sway, A votary sad in early day, I bend my knee to thee. From sun to sun My race will run, I only bow, and say, My God, thy will be done!

On another paper are a few lines, written probably in the freshness of his disappointment.

I dream no more—the vision flies away, And Disappointment.... There fell my hopes—I lost my all in this, My cherish'd all of visionary bliss. Now hope farewell, farewell all joys below; Now welcome sorrow, and now welcome woe. Plunge me in glooms....



ON THE DEATH OF DERMODY THE POET.

Child of Misfortune! Offspring of the Muse! Mark like the meteor's gleam his mad career; With hollow cheeks and haggard eye, Behold he shrieking passes by: I see, I see him near: That hollow scream, that deepening groan; It rings upon mine ear.

Oh come, ye thoughtless, ye deluded youth, Who clasp the syren pleasure to your breast, Behold the wreck of genius here, And drop, oh drop the silent tear For Dermody at rest: His fate is yours, then from your loins Tear quick the silken vest.

Saw'st thou his dying bed! Saw'st thou his eye, Once flashing fire, despair's dim tear distil; How ghastly did it seem; And then his dying scream: Oh God! I hear it still: It sounds upon my fainting sense, It strikes with deathly chill.

Say, didst thou mark the brilliant poet's death; Saw'st thou an anxious father by his bed, Or pitying friends around him stand: Or didst thou see a mother's hand Support his languid head: Oh none of these—no friend o'er him The balm of pity shed.

Now come around, ye flippant sons of wealth, Sarcastic smile on genius fallen low; Now come around who pant for fame, And learn from hence, a poet's name Is purchased but by woe: And when ambition prompts to rise, Oh think of him below.

For me, poor moralizer, I will run, Dejected, to some solitary state: The muse has set her seal on me, She set her seal on Dermody, It is the seal of fate: In some lone spot my bones may lie, Secure from human hate.

Yet ere I go I'll drop one silent tear, Where lies unwept the poet's fallen head: May peace her banners o'er him wave; For me in my deserted grave No friend a tear shall shed: Yet may the lily and the rose Bloom on my grassy bed.



SONNETS.



SONNET TO THE RIVER TRENT.

WRITTEN ON RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS.

Once more, O Trent! along thy pebbly marge A pensive invalid, reduced and pale, From the close sick-room newly set at large, Woos to his wan worn cheek the pleasant gale. O! to his ear how musical the tale Which fills with joy the throstle's little throat! And all the sounds which on the fresh breeze sail, How wildly novel on his senses float! It was on this that many a sleepless night, As lone he watch'd the taper's sickly gleam, And at his casement heard, with wild affright, The owl's dull wing, and melancholy scream, On this he thought, this, this, his sole desire, Thus once again to hear the warbling woodland choir.



SONNET.

Give me a cottage on some Cambrian wild, Where far from cities I may spend my days; And, by the beauties of the scene beguiled, May pity man's pursuits and shun his ways. While on the rock I mark the browsing goat, List to the mountain-torrent's distant noise, Or the hoarse bittern's solitary note, I shall not want the world's delusive joys; But with my little scrip, my book, my lyre, Shall think my lot complete, nor covet more; And when, with time, shall wane the vital fire, I'll raise my pillow on the desert shore, And lay me down to rest where the wild wave Shall make sweet music o'er my lonely grave.



SONNET.[1]

SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN ADDRESSED BY A FEMALE LUNATIC TO A LADY.

Lady, thou weepest for the Maniac's woe, And thou art fair, and thou, like me, art young; Oh! may thy bosom never, never know The pangs with which my wretched heart is wrung. I had a mother once—a brother too— (Beneath yon yew my father rests his head:) I had a lover once, and kind and true, But mother, brother, lover, all are fled! Yet, whence the tear which dims thy lovely eye? Oh! gentle lady—not for me thus weep, The green sod soon upon my breast will lie, And soft and sound will be my peaceful sleep. Go thou, and pluck the roses while they bloom— My hopes lie buried in the silent tomb.

Footnotes:

[1] This Quatorzain had its rise from an elegant Sonnet, "occasioned by seeing a young female Lunatic," written by Mrs. Lofft, and published in the Monthly Mirror.



SONNET.

Supposed to be written by the unhappy Poet Dermody in Storm, while on board a Ship in his Majesty's service.

Lo! o'er the welkin the tempestuous clouds Successive fly, and the loud piping wind Rocks the poor sea-boy on the dripping shrouds, While the pale pilot, o'er the helm reclined, Lists to the changeful storm: and as he plies His wakeful task, he oft bethinks him, sad, Of wife, and little home, and chubby lad, And the half strangled tear bedews his eyes; I, on the deck, musing on themes forlorn, View the drear tempest, and the yawning deep, Nought dreading in the green sea's caves to sleep, For not for me shall wife or children mourn, And the wild winds will ring my funeral knell, Sweetly as solemn peal of pious passing-bell.



SONNET. THE WINTER TRAVELLER.

God help thee, Traveller, on thy journey far; The wind is bitter keen,—the snow o'erlays The hidden pits, and dangerous hollow ways, And darkness will involve thee. No kind star To-night will guide thee, Traveller,—and the war Of winds and elements on thy head will break, And in thy agonizing ear the shriek Of spirits howling on their stormy car Will often ring appalling—I portend A dismal night—and on my wakeful bed Thoughts, Traveller, of thee will fill my head, And him who rides where winds and waves contend, And strives, rude cradled on the seas, to guide His lonely bark through the tempestuous tide.



SONNET.

BY CAPEL LOFFT, ESQ.

This Sonnet was addressed to the Author of this volume, and was occasioned by several little Quatorzains, misnomered Sonnets, which he published in the Monthly Mirror. He begs leave to return his thanks to the much respected writer, for the permission so politely granted to insert it here, and for the good opinion he has been pleased to express of his productions.

Ye whose aspirings court the muse of lays, "Severest of those orders which belong, Distinct and separate, to Delphic song," Why shun the sonnet's undulating maze? And why its name, boast of Petrarchian days, Assume, its rules disown'd? whom from the throng The muse selects, their ear the charm obeys Of its full harmony:—they fear to wrong The sonnet, by adorning with a name Of that distinguish'd import, lays, though sweet, Yet not in magic texture taught to meet Of that so varied and peculiar frame. O think! to vindicate its genuine praise Those it beseems, whose lyre a favouring impulse sways.



SONNET.

RECANTATORY, IN REPLY TO THE FOREGOING ELEGANT ADMONITION.

Let the sublimer muse, who, wrapp'd in night, Rides on the raven pennons of the storm, Or o'er the field, with purple havoc warm, Lashes her steeds, and sings along the fight; Let her, whom more ferocious strains delight, Disdain the plaintive sonnet's little form, And scorn to its wild cadence to conform, The impetuous tenor of her hardy flight. But me, far lowest of the sylvan train, Who wake the wood-nymphs from the forest shade With wildest song;—me, much behoves thy aid Of mingled melody, to grace my strain, And give it power to please, as soft it flows Through the smooth murmurs of thy frequent close.



SONNET ON HEARING THE SOUNDS OF AN AOLIAN HARP.

So ravishingly soft upon the tide Of the infuriate gust, it did career, It might have soothed its rugged charioteer, And sunk him to a zephyr; then it died, Melting in melody;—and I descried, Borne to some wizard stream, the form appear Of Druid sage, who on the far-off ear Pour'd his lone song, to which the surge replied: Or thought I heard the hapless pilgrim's knell, Lost in some wild enchanted forest's bounds, By unseen beings sung; or are these sounds Such as, 'tis said, at night are known to swell By startled shepherd on the lonely heath, Keeping his night-watch sad, portending death?



SONNET.

What art thou, Mighty One! and where thy seat? Thou broodest on the calm that cheers the lands. And thou dost bear within thine awful hands The rolling thunders and the lightnings fleet. Stern on thy dark-wrought car of cloud and wind, Thou guidest the northern storm at night's dead noon, Or, on the red wing of the fierce monsoon, Disturb'st the sleeping giant of the Ind. In the drear silence of the polar span Dost thou repose? or in the solitude Of sultry tracts, where the lone caravan Hears nightly howl the tiger's hungry brood? Vain thought! the confines of his throne to trace, Who glows through all the fields of boundless space.



SONNET TO CAPEL LOFFT, ESQ.

Lofft, unto thee one tributary song The simple Muse, admiring, fain would bring; She longs to lisp thee to the listening throng, And with thy name to bid the woodlands ring. Fain would she blazon all thy virtues forth, Thy warm philanthropy, thy justice mild, Would say how thou didst foster kindred worth, And to thy bosom snatch'd Misfortune's child: Firm she would paint thee, with becoming zeal, Upright, and learned, as the Pylian sire, Would say how sweetly thou couldst sweep the lyre, And show thy labours for the public weal, Ten thousand virtues tell with joys supreme, But ah! she shrinks abash'd before the arduous theme.



SONNET TO THE MOON.

WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER.

Sublime, emerging from the misty verge Of the horizon dim, thee, Moon, I hail, As, sweeping o'er the leafless grove, the gale Seems to repeat the year's funereal dirge. Now Autumn sickens on the languid sight, And leaves bestrew the wanderer's lonely way, Now unto thee, pale arbitress of night, With double joy my homage do I pay. When clouds disguise the glories of the day, And stern November sheds her boisterous blight, How doubly sweet to mark the moony ray Shoot through the mist from the ethereal height, And, still unchanged, back to the memory bring The smiles Favonian of life's earliest spring.



SONNET WRITTEN AT THE GRAVE OF A FRIEND.

Fast from the west the fading day-streaks fly, And ebon Night assumes her solemn sway, Yet here alone, unheeding time, I lie, And o'er my friend still pour the plaintive lay. Oh! 'tis not long since, George, with thee I woo'd The maid of musings by yon moaning wave; And hail'd the moon's mild beam, which, now renew'd, Seems sweetly sleeping on thy silent grave! The busy world pursues its boisterous way, The noise of revelry still echoes round, Yet I am sad while all beside is gay; Yet still I weep o'er thy deserted mound. Oh! that, like thee, I might bid sorrow cease, And 'neath the greensward sleep the sleep of peace.



SONNET TO MISFORTUNE.

Misfortune, I am young, my chin is bare, And I have wonder'd much when men have told. How youth was free from sorrow and from care, That thou shouldst dwell with me, and leave the old. Sure dost not like me!—Shrivel'd hag of hate, My phiz, and thanks to thee, is sadly long; I am not either, beldame, over strong; Nor do I wish at all to be thy mate, For thou, sweet Fury, art my utter hate. Nay, shake not thus thy miserable pate; I am yet young, and do not like thy face; And, lest thou shouldst resume the wild-goose chase, I'll tell thee something all thy heat to assuage, —Thou wilt not hit my fancy in my age.



SONNET.

As thus oppressed with many a heavy care (Though young yet sorrowful), I turn my feet To the dark woodland, longing much to greet The form of Peace, if chance she sojourn there; Deep thought and dismal, verging to despair, Fills my sad breast; and, tired with this vain coil, I shrink dismay'd before life's upland toil. And as, amid the leaves, the evening air Whispers still melody,—I think ere long, When I no more can hear, these woods will speak; And then a sad smile plays upon my cheek, And mournful phantasies upon me throng, And I do ponder, with most strange delight, On the calm slumbers of the dead man's night.



SONNET TO APRIL.

Emblem of life! see changeful April sail In varying vest along the shadowy skies, Now bidding summer's softest zephyrs rise, Anon recalling winter's stormy gale, And pouring from the cloud her sudden hail; Then, smiling through the tear that dims her eyes, While Iris with her braid the welkin dyes, Promise of sunshine, not so prone to fail. So, to us, sojourners in life's low vale, The smiles of fortune flatter to deceive, While still the fates the web of misery weave. So Hope exultant spreads her aery sail, And from the present gloom the soul conveys To distant summers and far happier days.



SONNET.

Ye unseen spirits, whose wild melodies, At evening rising slow, yet sweetly clear, Steal on the musing poet's pensive ear, As by the wood-spring stretch'd supine he lies; When he, who now invokes you, low is laid, His tired frame resting on the earth's cold bed; Hold ye your nightly vigils o'er his head, And chant a dirge to his reposing shade! For he was wont to love your madrigals; And often by the haunted stream, that laves The dark sequester'd woodland's inmost caves, Would sit and listen to the dying falls, Till the full tear would quiver in his eye, And his big heart would heave with mournful ecstasy.



SONNET TO A TAPER.

'Tis midnight. On the globe dead slumber sits, And all is silence—in the hour of sleep; Save when the hollow gust, that swells by fits, In the dark wood roars fearfully and deep. I wake alone to listen and to weep, To watch my taper, thy pale beacon burn; And, as still Memory does her vigils keep, To think of days that never can return. By thy pale ray I raise my languid head, My eye surveys the solitary gloom; And the sad meaning tear, unmix'd with dread, Tells thou dost light me to the silent tomb. Like thee I wane;—like thine my life's last ray Will fade in loneliness, unwept, away.



SONNET TO MY MOTHER.

And canst thou, Mother, for a moment think That we, thy children, when old age shall shed Its blanching honours on thy weary head, Could from our best of duties ever shrink? Sooner the sun from his high sphere should sink Than we, ungrateful, leave thee in that day, To pine in solitude thy life away, Or shun thee, tottering on the grave's cold brink. Banish the thought!—where'er our steps may roam, O'er smiling plains, or wastes without a tree, Still will fond memory point our hearts to thee, And paint the pleasures of thy peaceful home; While duty bids us all thy griefs assuage, And smooth the pillow of thy sinking age.



SONNET.

Yes, 'twill be over soon.—This sickly dream Of life will vanish from my feverish brain; And death my wearied spirit will redeem From this wild region of unvaried pain. Yon brook will glide as softly as before, Yon landscape smile, yon golden harvest grow. Yon sprightly lark on mountain wing will soar When Henry's name is heard no more below. I sigh when all my youthful friends caress, They laugh in health, and future evils brave; Them shall a wife and smiling children bless, While I am mouldering in the silent grave. God of the just, Thou gavest the bitter cup; I bow to thy behest, and drink it up.



SONNET TO CONSUMPTION.

Gently, most gently, on thy victim's head. Consumption, lay thine hand!—let me decay Like the expiring lamp, unseen, away, And softly go to slumber with the dead. And if 'tis true what holy men have said, That strains angelic oft foretell the day Of death to those good men who fall thy prey, O let the aerial music round my bed, Dissolving sad in dying symphony, Whisper the solemn warning in mine ear; That I may bid my weeping friends good-by Ere I depart upon my journey drear: And, smiling faintly on the painful past, Compose my decent head, and breathe my last.



SONNET.

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF M. DESBARREAUX.

Thy judgments, Lord, are just; thou lovest to wear The face of pity and of love divine; But mine is guilt—thou must not, canst not spare, While heaven is true, and equity is thine. Yes, oh my God!—such crimes as mine, so dread, Leave but the choice of punishment to thee; Thy interest calls for judgment on my head, And even thy mercy dares not plead for me! Thy will be done, since 'tis thy glory's due, Did from mine eyes the endless torrents flow; Smite—it is time—though endless death ensue, I bless the avenging hand that lays me low. But on what spot shall fall thine anger's flood, That has not first been drench'd in Christ's atoning blood?



SONNET.

When I sit musing on the chequer'd past (A term much darken'd with untimely woes), My thoughts revert to her, for whom still flows The tear, though half disown'd; and binding fast Pride's stubborn cheat to my too yielding heart, I say to her she robb'd me of my rest, When that was all my wealth. 'Tis true my breast Received from her this wearying, lingering smart; Yet, ah! I cannot bid her form depart; Though wrong'd, I love her—yet in anger love, For she was most unworthy.—Then I prove Vindictive joy; and on my stern front gleams, Throned in dark clouds, inflexible.... The native pride of my much injured heart.



SONNET.

Sweet to the gay of heart is Summer's smile, Sweet the wild music of the laughing Spring; But ah! my soul far other scenes beguile, Where gloomy storms their sullen shadows fling. Is it for me to strike the Idalian string— Raise the soft music of the warbling wire, While in my ears the howls of furies ring, And melancholy waste the vital fire? Away with thoughts like these—To some lone cave Where howls the shrill blast, and where sweeps the wave, Direct my steps; there, in the lonely drear, I'll sit remote from worldly noise, and muse Till through my soul shall Peace her balm infuse, And whisper sounds of comfort in mine ear.



SONNET.

Quick o'er the wintry waste dart fiery shafts— Bleak blows the blast—now howls—then faintly dies— And oft upon its awful wings it wafts The dying wanderer's distant, feeble cries. Now, when athwart the gloom gaunt Horror stalks, And midnight hags their damned vigils hold, The pensive poet 'mid the wild waste walks, And ponders on the ills life's paths unfold. Mindless of dangers hovering round, he goes, Insensible to every outward ill; Yet oft his bosom heaves with rending throes, And oft big tears adown his worn cheeks trill. Ah! 'tis the anguish of a mental sore, Which gnaws his heart, and bids him hope no more.