THE gipsy-race my pity rarely move; Yet their strong thirst of liberty I love.
For this in Norwood's patrimonial groves The tawhy father with his offspring roves; When summer suns lead slow the sultry day, In mossy caves, where welling waters play, Fann'd by each gale that cools the fervid sky, With this in ragged luxury they lie. Oft at the sun the dusky elfins strain The sable eye, then snuggling, sleep again; Oft as the dews of cooler evening fall, For their prophetic mother's mantle call.
Far other cares that wand'ring mother wait,
The mouth, and oft the minister of fate!
From her to hear, in ev'ning's friendly shade,
Of future fortune, flies the village- maid,
Draws her long-hoarded copper from its hold;
And rusty halfpence purchase hopes of gold.
Seest thou afar yon solitary thorn,
Whose aged limbs the heath's wild winds have torn?
While yet to cheer the homeward shepherd's eye,
A few seen straggling in the evening sky!
Not many suns have hasten'd down the day,
Or blushing moons immers'd in clouds their way,
Since there, a scene that stain'd their sacred light,
With horror stopp'd a felon in his flight;
A babe just born that signs of life exprest,
Lay naked o'er the mother's lifeless breast.
The pitying robber, conscious that, pursu'd,
He had no time to waste, yet stood and view'd;
To the next cot the trembling infant bore,
And gave a part of what he stole before;
Nor known to him the wretches were, nor dear,
He felt as man, and dropp'd a human tear.
Far other treatment she who breathless lay,
Found from a viler animal of prey.
Worn with long toil on many a painful road,
That toil increas'd by nature's growing load,
When evening brought the friendly hour of rest,
And all the mother throng'd about her breast,
The ruffian officer oppos'd her stay,
And, cruel, bore her in her pangs away,
So far beyond the town's last limits drove,
That to return were hopeless had she strove.
Abandon'd there-with famine, pain and cold,
And anguish, she expir'd-the rest I've told.
"Now let me swear-for by my soul's last sigh,
That thief shall live, that overseer shall die."
Too late!-his life the generous robber paid,
Lost by that pity which his steps delay'd!
No soul-discerning Mansfield sat to hear,
No Hertford bore his prayer to mercy's ear;
No liberal justice first assign'd the jail,
Or urg'd, as Camplin would have urg'd, his tale.
The living object of thy honest rage, Old in parochial crimes, and steel'd with age, The grave churchwarden !-unabash'd he bears Weekly to church his book of wicked prayers; And pours, with all the blasphemy of praise, His creeping soul in Sternhold's creeping lays!
BEAUTIFUL Eden! parent stream,
Yet shall the maids of memory say,
(When, led by fancy's fairy dream,
My young steps trac'd thy winding way)
How oft along thy mazy shore,
That many a gloomy alder bore,
In pensive thought their poet stray'd; Or, careless thrown thy bank beside, Beheld thy dimly waters glide,
Bright through the trembling shade.
Yet shall they paint those scenes again,
Where once with infant joy he play'd,
And bending o'er thy liquid plain,
The azure worlds below survey'd :
Led by the rosy-handed hours,
When time tripp'd o'er yon bank of flowers,
Which in thy crystal bosom smil'd;
Though old the god, yet light and gay,
He flung his glass and scythe away,
And seem'd himself a child.
The poplar tall, that waving near
Would whisper to thy murmurs free;
Yet rustling seems to soothe mine ear,
And trembles when I sigh for thee.
Yet seated on thy shelving brim,
Can fancy see the naiads trim
Burnish their green locks in the sun;
Or at the last lone hour of day,
To chace the lightly glancing fay,
But, Fancy, can thy mimic power
Again those happy moments bring? Canst thou restore that golden hour,
When young Joy wav'd his laughing wing? When first in Eden's rosy vale,
My full heart pour'd the lover's tale,
The vow sincere, devoid of guile!
While Delia in her panting breast,
With sighs the tender thought supprest,
And look'd as angels smile.
O goddess of the crystal bow,
That dwell'st the golden meads among;
Whose streams still fair in memory flow,
Whose murmurs melodise my song!
Oh! yet those gleams of joy display,
Which brightening glow'd in fancy's ray,
When near the lucid urn reclin'd,
The dryad, Nature, bar'd her breast,
And left, in naked charms imprest,
Her image on my mind.
In vain—the maids of memory fair
No more in golden visions play;
No friendship smooths the brow of care,
No Delia's smile approves my lay.
Yet, love and friendship lost to me,
'Tis yet some joy to think of thee,
And in thy breast this moral find—
That life, though stain'd with sorrow's showers,
Shall flow serene, while virtue pours
Her sunshine on the mind.
INSCRIPTION ON A STUDY DOOR:
O THOU that shalt presume to tread
This mansion of the mighty dead,
Come with the free, untainted mind;
The nurse, the pedant leave behind;
And all that superstition, fraught
With folly's lore, thy youth has taught-
Each thought that reason can't retain-
Yet, while thy studious eyes explore,
And range these various volumes o'er,
Trust blindly to no fav'rite pen,
Remembering authors are but men.
Has fair Philosophy thy love?
Away! she lives in yonder grove.
If the sweet Muse thy pleasure gives,
With her, in yonder grove, she lives:
And if Religion claims thy care,
Religion, fled from books, is there.
For first from nature's works we drew
Our knowledge, and our virtue too.
LITTLE bird, with bosom red,
Welcome to my humble shed!
Courtly domes of high degree
Have no room for thee and me;
Pride and pleasure's fickle throng
Nothing mind an idle song.
Daily near my table steal,
While I pick my scanty meal.
Doubt not, little though there be,
But I'll cast a crumb to thee;
Well rewarded, if I spy
Pleasure in thy glancing eye:
See thee, when thou'st eat thy fill,
Plume thy breast, and wipe thy bill.
Come, my feather'd friend, again,
Well thou know'st the broken pane.
Ask of me thy daily store:
Go not near Avaro's door;
Once within his iron hall,
Woful end shall thee befall..
Savage -He would soon divest
Of its rosy plumes thy breast;
Then, with solitary joy,
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