And He the glitter of the Dew
Scatters on the Rose's hue.
Bashful, lo! she bends her head,
And darts a blush of deeper red!
Too well those lovely lips disclose
The triumphs of the opening Rose;
O fair! O graceful! bid them prove
As passive to the breath of Love.
In tender accents, faint and low,
Well-pleased I hear the whisper'd "No!"
The whisper'd "No"-how little meant!
Sweet falsehood that endears consent!
For on those lovely lips the while
Dawns the soft-relenting smile,
And tempts with feign'd dissuasion coy
The gentle violence of Joy.
ITS MOTHER BEING TETHERED NEAR IT.
Poor little foal of an oppressed race!
I love the languid patience of thy face:
And oft with gentle hand I give thee bread,
And clap thy ragged coat, and pat thy head.
But what thy dulled spirits hath dismay'd,
That never thou dost sport along the 'glade?
And (most unlike the nature of things young)
That earthward still thy moveless head is hung?
Do thy prophetic fears anticipate,
Meek Child of Misery! thy future fate?
The starving meal, and all the thousand aches
"Which patient merit of the unworthy takes?"
Or is thy sad heart thrill'd with filial pain
To see thy wretched mother's shorten'd chain?
And truly, very piteous is her lot-
Chain'd to a log within a narrow spot
Where the close-eaten grass is scarcely seen,
While sweet around her waves the tempting green!
Poor Ass! thy master should have learnt to show
Pity-best taught by fellowship of woe!
For much I fear me that he lives like thee,
Half famish'd in a land of luxury!
How askingly its footsteps hither bend?
It seems to say,
And have I then one friend?"
Innocent Foal! thou poor despised forlorn!
I hail thee brother-spite of the fool's scorn!
And fain would take thee with me, in the dell
Of peace and mild equality to dwell,
From the pomp of sceptred state,
From the rebel's noisy hate.
In a cottaged vale She dwells
Listening to the Sabbath bells'
Still around her steps are seen
Spotless Honor's meeker mien,
Love, the sire of pleasing fears,
Sorrow smiling through her tears,
And, conscious of the past employ,
Memory, bosom-spring of joy
WHEN Youth his faery reign began
Ere sorrow had proclaim'd me man;
While Peace the present hour beguiled,
And all the lovely prospect smiled;
Then, Mary! 'mid my lightsome glee
I heaved the painless Sigh for thee.
And when, along the waves of woe,
My harass'd heart was doom'd to know
The frantic burst of outrage keen,
And the slow pang that gnaws unseen;
Then shipwreck'd on life's stormy sea,
I heaved an anguish'd Sigh for thee'
But soon reflection's power impress'd
A stiller sadness on my breast;
And sickly hope with waning eye
Was well content to droop and die:
I yielded to the stern decree,
Yet heaved a languid Sigh for thee!
And though in distant climes to roam,
A wanderer from my native home,
I fain would soothe the sense of Care
And lull to sleep the Joys that were!
Thy Image may not banish'd be-
Still, Mary! still I sigh for thee.
June, 1794.
EPITAPH ON AN INFANT. ERE Sin could blight or Sorrow fade, Death came with friendly care; The opening bud to Heaven convey'd, And bade it blossom there.
Where Toil shall call the charmer Health his Bride, LINES WRITTEN AT THE KING'S ARMS
And Laughter tickle Plenty's ribless side!
How thou wouldst toss thy heels in gamesome play,
And frisk about, as lamb or kitten gay!
Yea! and more musically sweet te me
Thy dissonant harsh bray of joy would be,
Than warbled melodies that soothe to rest
The aching of pale fashion's vacant breast!
TELL me, on what holy ground May Domestic Peace be found? Halcyon Daughter of the skies, Far on fearful wings she flies.
FORMERLY THE HOUSE OF THE "MAN OF ROSS."
RICHER than miser o'er his countless hoards,
Nobler than kings, or king-polluted lords,
Here dwelt the man of Ross! O Traveller, hear!
Departed merit claims a reverent tear.
Friend to the friendless, to the sick man health,
With generous joy he view'd his modest wealth,
He hears the widow's heaven-breath'd prayer of
praise,
He mark'd the shelter'd orphan's tearful gaze,
Or where the sorrow-shrivell'd captive lay,
Pours the bright blaze of Freedom's noontide ray
|Beneath this roof if thy cheer'd moments pass,
Fill to the good man's name one grateful glass
To higher zest shall Memory wake thy soul,
And Virtue mingle in the ennobled bowl.
But if, like me, through life's distressful scene,
Lonely and sad, thy pilgrimage hath been;
And if thy breast with heart-sick anguish fraught,
Thou journeyest onward tempest-toss'd in thought;
Here cheat thy cares! in generous visions melt,
And dream of goodness, thou hast never felt!
LINES TO A BEAUTIFUL SPRING IN A
VILLAGE.
Remorse, the poison'd arrow in his side,
And loud lewd Mirth, to anguish close allied:
Till Frenzy, fierce-eyed child of moping pain,
Darts her hot lightning flash athwart the brain.
Rest, injured shade! Shall Slander squatting near
Spit her cold venom in a dead Man's ear?
"Twas thine to feel the sympathetic glow
In Merit's joy, and Poverty's meek woe,
Thine all that cheer the moment as it flies,
The zoneless Cares, and smiling Courtesies.
Nursed in thy heart the firmer Virtues grew,
And in thy heart they wither'd! Such chill dew
Wan indolence on each young blossom shed;
And Vanity her filmy net-work spread,
With eye that roll'd around, in asking gaze,
ONCE more, sweet Stream! with slow foot wander- And tongue that traffick'd in the trade of praise.
I bless thy milky waters cold and clear.
Escaped the flashing of the noontide hours
With one fresh garland of Pierian flowers
(Ere from thy zephyr-haunted brink I turn)
My languid hand shall wreath thy mossy urn.
For not through pathless grove with murmur rude
Thou soothest the sad wood-nymph, Solitude;
Nor thine unseen in cavern depths to well,
The Hermit-fountain of some dripping cell!
Pride of the Vale! thy useful streams supply
The scatter'd cots and peaceful hamlet nigh.
The elfin tribe around thy friendly banks
With infant uproar and soul-soothing pranks,
Released from school, their little hearts at rest,
Launch paper navies on thy waveless breast.
The rustic here at eve with pensive look
Whistling lorn ditties leans upon his crook,
Or, starting, pauses with hope-mingled dread
To list the much-loved maid's accustom'd tread:
She, vainly mindful of her dame's command,
Loiters, the long-fill'd pitcher in her hand.
Unboastful Stream! thy fount with pebbled falls
The faded form of past delight recalls,
What time the morning sun of Hope arose,
And all was joy; save when another's woes
A transient gloom upon my soul imprest,
Like passing clouds impictured on thy breast.
Life's current then ran sparkling to the noon,
Or silvery stole beneath the pensive Moon:
Ah! now it works rude brakes and thorns among,
Or o'er the rough rock bursts and foams along!
Thy follies such! the hard world mark'd them well
Were they more wise, the proud who never fell?
Rest, injur'd shade! the poor man's grateful prayer
On heavenward wing thy wounded soul shall bear
As oft at twilight gloom thy grave I pass,
And sit me down upon its recent grass,
With introverted eye I contemplate
Similitude of soul, perhaps of-Fate!
To me hath Heaven with bounteous hand assign'd
Energic Reason and a shaping mind,
The daring ken of Truth, the Patriot's part,
And Pity's sigh, that breathes the gentle heart.
Sloth-jaundic'd all! and from my graspless hand
Drop Friendshi-'s precious pearls, like hour-glass
I weep, yet stoop not! the faint anguish flows,
A dreamy pang in Morning's feverish doze.
Is this piled earth our being's passless mound?
Tell me, cold grave! is Death with poppies crown'd
Tired sentinel! 'mid fitful starts I nod,
And fain would sleep, though pillow'd on a clod!
TO A YOUNG LADY, WITH A POEM ON
THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.
MUCH on my early youth I love to dwell,
Ere yet I bade that friendly dome farewell,
Where first, beneath the echoing cloisters pale,
I heard of guilt and wonder'd at the tale!
Yet though the hours flew by on careless wing,
Full heavily of Sorrow would I sing.
Aye as the star of evening flung its beam
In broken radiance on the wavy stream,
WHO DIED OF A FRENZY FEVER INDUCED BY CALUM- My soul amid the pensive twilight gloom
Mourn'd with the breeze, O Lee Boo!* o'er thy tomb
Where'er I wander'd Pity still was near,
Breathed from the heart and glisten'd in the tear
No knell that toll'd, but fill'd my anxious eye,
And suffering Nature wept that one should die !t
Thus to sad sympathies I soothed my breast,
Calm, as the rainbow in the weeping West:
When slumbering Freedom roused with high disdain
With giant fury burst her triple chain!
Lee Boo, the son of Abba Thule, Prince of the Pelew Islands, came over to England with Captain Wilson, died of the small-pox, and is buried in Greenwich church-yard.-See Keate's Account.
Fierce on her front the blasting Dog-star glow'd;
Her banners like a midnight meteor, flow'd;
Amid the yelling of the storm-rent skies!
She came, and scatter'd battles from her eyes!
Then Exultation waked the patriot fire,
And swept with wilder hand the Alcæan lyre.
Red from the tyrant's wound I shook the lance,
And strode in joy the reeking plains of France!
Fallen is the oppressor, friendless, ghastly, low,
And my heart aches, though Mercy struck the blow.
With wearied thought once more I seek the shade,
Where peaceful Virtue weaves the myrtle braid.
And O! if eyes whose holy glances roll,
Swift messengers, and eloquent of soul;
If smiles more winning, and a gentler mien
Than the love-wilder'd Maniac's brain hath seen
Shaping celestial forms in vacant air,
If these demand the impassion'd poet's care-
If Mirth and soften'd Sense and Wit refined,
The blameless features of a lovely mind;
Then haply shall my trembling hand assign
No fading wreath to beauty's saintly shrine.
Nor, Sara! thou these early flowers refuse-
Ne'er lurk'd the snake beneath their simple hues ;
No purple bloom the child of nature brings
From Flattery's night-shade; as he feels, he sings.
September, 1792.
Content, as random Fancies might inspire, If his weak harp at times, or lonely lyre He struck with desultory hand, and drew Some soften'd tones to Nature not untrue.
My heart has thank'd thee, Bowles! for those soft strains,
Whose sadness soothes me, like the murmuring
Of wild-bees in the sunny showers of spring!
For hence not callous to the mourner's pains
Through youth's gay prime and thornless path I
And when the mightier throes of man began,
And drove me forth, a thought-bewilder'd man!
Their mild and manliest melancholy lent
A mingled charm, such as the pang consign'd
To slumber, though the big tear it renew'd;
Bidding a strange mysterious Pleasure brood
Over the wavy and tumultuous mind,
As the great Spirit erst with plastic sweep
Moved on the darkness of the unform'd deep.
As late I lay in slumber's shadowy vale,
With wetted cheek and in a mourner's guise,
saw the sainted form of Freedom rise:
She spake! not sadder moans the autumnal gale-
"Great Son of Genius! sweet to me thy name,
Ere in an evil hour with alter'd voice
Thou badst Oppression's hireling crew rejoice,
Blasting with wizard spell my laurell'd fame.
Of Pomp, and proud Precipitance of soul Wilder'd with meteor fires. Ah spirit pure' That error's mist had left thy purged eye: So might I clasp thee with a mother's joy!
THOUGH roused by that dark Vizir, Riot rude
Have driven our PRIEST over the ocean swell
Though Superstition and her wolfish brood
Bay his mild radiance, impotent and fell;
Calm in his halls of brightness he shall dwell
For lo! Religion at his strong behest
Starts with mild anger from the Papal spell,
And flings to earth her tinsel-glittering vest,
Her mitred state and cumbrous pomp unholy;
And Justice wakes to bid the Oppressor wail,
Insulting aye the wrongs of patient Folly:
And from her dark retreat by Wisdom won,
Meek Nature slowly lifts her matron veil
To smile with fondness on her gazing son!
WHEN British Freedom for a happier land
Spread her broad wings, that flutter'd with affright,
ERSKINE! thy voice she heard, and paused her flight
Sublime of hope! For dreadless thou didst stand
(Thy censer glowing with the hallow'd flame)
A hireless Priest before the insulted shrine,
And at her altar pour the stream divine
Of unmatch'd eloquence. Therefore thy name
Her sons shall venerate, and cheer thy breast
With blessings heavenward breathed. And when
Of Nature bids thee die, beyond the tomb
Thy light shall shine: as sunk, beneath the West,
Though the great Summer Sun eludes our gaze,
Still burns wide Heaven with his distended blaze.
It was some Spirit, SHERIDAN! that breathed
O'er thy young mind such wildly various power!
My soul hath mark'd thee in her shaping hour,
Thy temples with Hymettian flow'rets wreathed:
And sweet thy voice, as when o'er Laura's bier
Sad music trembled through Vauclusa's glalo;
Sweet, as at dawn the lovelorn serenade
That wafts soft dreams to Slumber's listening
Now patriot rage and indignation high
Swell the full tones! And now thine eye-beam
dance
Meaning of Scorn and Wit's quaint revelry!
Writhes inly from the bosom-probing glance
The Apostate by the brainless rout adored,
As erst that elder fiend beneath great Michael's sword
O WHAT a loud and fearful shriek was there,
As though a thousand souls one death-groan pour'd
Yet never, Burke! thou drank'st Corruption's bowl!, Ah me! they view'd beneath a hireling's sword
The stormy Pity and the cherish'd lure
Faller KOSCIUSKO! Through the burthen'd air
As pauses the tired Cossack's barbarous yell
Of triumph) on the chill and midnight gale
Rises with frantic burst or sadder swell
The dirge of murder'd Hope! while Freedom pale
Bends in such anguish o'er her destined bier,
As if from eldest time some Spirit meek
Had gather'd in a mystic urn each tear
That ever on a Patriot's furrow'd cheek
Fit channel found; and she had drain'd the bowl
In the mere wilfulness, and sick despair of soul!
As when far off the warbled strains are heard
That soar on Morning's wing the vales among,
Within his cage the imprison'd matin bird
Swells the full chorus with a generous song:
He bathes no pinion in the dewy light,
No Father's joy, no Lover's bliss he shares,
Yet still the rising radiance cheers his sight;
His Fellows' freedom soothes the Captive's cares:
Thou, FAYETTE! who didst wake with startling voice
Life's better sun from that long wintry night,
Thus in thy Country's triumphs shalt rejoice,
And mock with raptures high the dungeon's might:
For lo! the morning struggles into day, And Slavery's spectres shriek and vanish from the ray!
I'HOU gentle Look, that didst my soul beguile,
Why hast thou left me? Still in some fond dream
Revisit my sad heart, auspicious Smile!
As falls on closing flowers the lunar beam:
What time, in sickly mood, at parting day
I lay me down and think of happier years;
Of joys, that glimmer'd in Hope's twilight ray,
Then left me darkling in a vale of tears.
O pleasant days of Hope-for ever gone!
Could I recall you!-But that thought is vain.
Availeth not Persuasion's sweetest tone
To lure the fleet-wing'd travellers back again:
Yet fair, though faint, their images shall gleam
Like the bright rainbow on a willowy stream.
PALE Roamer through the Night; thou poor Forlorn!
Remorse that man on his death-bed possess,
Who in the credulous hour of tenderness
Betray'd, then cast thee forth to Want and Scorn!
The world is pitiless: the Chaste one's pride,
Mimic of Virtue, scowls on thy distress:
Thy loves and they, that envied thee, deride:
And Vice alone will shelter wretchedness!
O! I am sad to think, that there should be
Cold-bosom'd lewd ones, who endure to place
Fcal offerings on the shrine of Misery,
And force from Famine the caress of Love;
May He shed healing on the sore disgrace,
He, the great Comforter that rules above!
SWEET Mercy! how my very heart has bled
To see thee, poor Old Man! and thy gray hairs
Hoar with the snowy blast: while no one cares
To clothe thy shrivell'd limbs and palsied head.
My Father! throw away this tatter'd vest
That mocks thy shivering! take my garment-use
A young man's arm! I'll melt these frozen dews
That hang from thy white beard and numb thy breast
My Sara too shall tend thee, like a Child:
And thou shalt talk, in our fire-side's recess,
Of purple Pride, that scowls on Wretchedness.
He did not so, the Galilæan mild,
Who met the Lazars turn'd from rich men's doors,
And call'd them Friends, and heal'd their noisome
Sores!
THOU bleedest, my poor Heart! and thy distress
Reasoning I ponder with a scornful smile,
And probe thy sore wound sternly, though the while
Swoln be mine eye and dim with heaviness.
Why didst tnou listen to Hope's whisper bland?
Or, listening, why forget the healing tale,
When Jealousy with feverish fancies pale
Jarr'd thy fine fibres with a maniac's hand?
Faint was that Hope, and rayless!-Yet 't was fair
And soothed with many a dream the hour of rest:
Thou shouldst have loved it most, when most opprest
And nursed it with an agony of Carc,
Even as a Mother her sweet infant heir
That wan and sickly droops upon her breast!
TO THE AUTHOR OF THE "ROBBERS." SCHILLER! that hour I would have wished to die, If through the shuddering midnight I had sent From the dark dungeon of the tower time-rent That fearful voice, a famish'd Father's cryLest in some after moment aught more mean Might stamp me mortal! A triumphant shout Black Horror scream'd, and all her goblin rout Diminish'd shrunk from the more withering scene! Ah Bard tremendous in sublimity!
Could I behold thee in thy loftier mood Wandering at eve with finely frenzied eye Beneath some vast old tempest-swinging wood; Awhile with mute awe gazing I would brood: Then weep aloud in a wild ecstasy!
COMPOSED WHILE CLIMBING THE LEFT ASCENT OF
BROCKLEY COOMB, SOMERSETSHIRE, MAY, 1795. WITH many a pause and oft-reverted eye
I climb the Coomb's ascent: sweet songsters near
Warble in shade their wild-wood melody:
Far off the unvarying Cuckoo soothes my ear.
Up scour the startling stragglers of the Flock
That on green plots o'er precipices browse:
From the forced fissures of the naked rock
The Yew-tree bursts! Beneath its dark green boughs
(Mid which the May-thorn blends its blossoms white)
Where broad smooth stones jut out in mossy seats,
I rest :-and now have gain'd the topmost site.
Ah! what a luxury of landscape meets
My gaze! Proud Towers, and Cots more dear to me,
Elm-shadow'd Fields, and prospect-bounding Sea!
Deep sighs my lonely heart I drop the tear:
Enchanting spot! O were my Sara here!
IN THE MANNER OF SPENSER.
O PEACE! that on a lilied bank dost love
To rest thine head beneath an Olive Tree,
I would, that from the pinions of thy Dove
One quill withouten pain ypluck'd might be !
For O! I wish my Sara's frowns to flee,
And fain to her some soothing song would write,
Lest she resent my rude discourtesy,
Who vow'd to meet her ere the morning light,
But broke my plighted word—ah! false and recreant
wight!
Last night as I my weary head did pillow
With thoughts of my dissever'd Fair engross'd,
Chill Fancy droop'd wreathing herself with willow,
As though my breast entomb'd a pining ghost.
From some blest couch, young Rapture's bridal
boast,
Rejected Slumber! hither wing thy way;
But leave me with the matin hour, at most!
As night-closed Floweret to the orient ray,
My sad heart will expand, when I the Maid survey."
But Love, who heard the silence of my thought,
Contrived a too successful wile, I ween:
And whisper'd to himself, with malice fraught-
"Too long our Slave the Damsel's smiles hath seen:
To-morrow shall he ken her alter'd mien!"
He spake, and ambush'd lay, till on my bed
The morning shot her dewy glances keen,
When as I 'gan to lift my drowsy head-
"Now, Bard! I'll work thee woe!" the laughing Elfin said.
Ан cease thy tears and Sobs, my little Life' I did but snatch away the unclasp'd Knife : Some safer Toy will soon arrest thine eye, And to quick Laughter change this peevish
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