TO MRS. CHARLOTTE SMITH.

WHEN infant flow'rs their fragrance breathe around,
And each poor flutt'rer wantons on the wing,
To fancy's ear how grateful is the sound.

That hymns the welcome smiles of lovely Spring.
But ere wild Autumn strips the hanging bow'r,
Some nestless, widow'd bird, is heard repeat.
Her song of sadness, oft at eve's pale hour,
Telling to pathless woods of man's deceit..
Such, sorrow's syren, dwell on my rapt ear,
Thy plaintive notes that speak of pleasures past;
Of joys long fled, and friends no longer dear,

How each sad day's embitter'd by the last.

For thee, tho' sympathy's soft tear may start, Alas! not pity's balm can heal thy broken heart!

1798.

TO EVENING.

HAIL, Sober Eve! to meditation dear;

Pure the delight, these well-known scenes to rove; The joys this placid bosom now can prove, Not yon proud city's wealth from me could tear: The warbler's last note twitters thro' the grove, And Caldew's murmurs gently strike the ear. O, were my Mary, virtuous fair but here,

Now smiling April woos the month of love! Then rapt in pleasure, we would fondly stray;A Nature, chaste love, by turns should be our theme; And oft as Luna lent a silv'ry ray,

On Mary's charms to gaze my soul away,

Methinks were Heav'n, compar'd with Poet's dream:

Then grant me, fate, a while this luxury supreme!

ADDRESSED TO THE INFANT SON OF GAELUS,

THE BARD OF DUNOVER.

SWEET Bud! thy full blue eye, health-blooming cheek,..

And dimpling smile, how cherub-like to see! Gazing on that wild flow'r, thou fain would'st speak, But dream'st not, Boy, how it resembleth thee. Alike, you'ré nurtur'd in seclusion's shade;

Ev'n as frail man, its reign is quickly o'er; Another hour may see its beauties fade,

It blooms its Summer, man enjoys no more. From many a nipping blast, that tender flow'r Ere long, must turn its drooping head aside; So thou, perchance, must fall by ruthless pow'r, Or live to bear the bitter taunts of pride.

Long may'st thou tread thy father's steps, sweet Boy! And crown thy parent's closing years with joy!

TO THE RIVER EDEN.

SWEET Stream! when on thy flow'ry banks I stray,
Or trace the wild-wood, mead, or fertile vale;
And hear the songsters mourn departing day,
Or taste at morn the health-bestowing gale,
Remembrance paints the change, in every scene,

That now delights not, but calls forth a tear:
From friends, still priz'd, an exile sad I've been
Life's joys are fled, and much have I to fear.
Sweet Stream! in fancy oft on thee I gaz'd,
When wand'ring with the Muse, in Erin's Isle;
And hope, perchance, in vain my spirits rais'd,
For hope, alas! oft whispers to beguile.
Now, sunk in want, on these lov'd banks I mourn,
And think of pleasures that can ne'er return!

Cumberland Ballads.