"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove; Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,

Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. "One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,

Along the heath and near his fav'rite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill,

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

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"The next, with dirges due in sad array

Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him born. -Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."

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THE EPITAPH.

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth,
A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown:
Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth,
And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,

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Heav'n did a recompense as largely send:

He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear,

He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.

Headlong, impetuous, see it pour;

The rocks and nodding groves rebellow to the roar.

And frantic Passions hear thy soft controul.
On Thracia's hills the Lord of War
Has curb'd the fury of his car,

And drop'd his thirsty lance at thy command.
Perching on the scept'red hand

Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd king
With ruffled plumes, and flagging wing:
Quench'd in dark clouds of slumber lie

The terror of his beak, and light'ning of his eye.

I. 3.

Thee the voice, the dance, obey,

Temper'd to thy warbled lay.

O'er Idalia's velvet-green

The rosy-crowned Loves are seen

On Cytherea's day

With antic Sport, and blue-eyed Pleasures,
Frisking light in frolic measures;

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Now pursuing, now retreating,

Now in circling troops they meet :

To brisk notes in cadence beating,

Glance their many-twinkling feet.

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Slow melting strains their Queen's approach declare:
Where'er she turns, the Graces homage pay:

With arms sublime, that float upon the air,

In gliding state she wins her easy way:

O'er her warm cheek, and rising bosom, move

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The bloom of young Desire, and purple light of Love.

II. I.

Man's feeble race what ills await!

Labour and Penury, the racks of Pain,

Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train,

And Death, sad refuge from the storms of Fate!

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The fond complaint, my song, disprove,

And justify the laws of Jove.

Say, has he giv'n in vain the heav'nly Muse?

Night and all her sickly dews,

Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry,

He gives to range the dreary sky;

Till down the eastern cliffs afar

Hyperion's march they spy, and glitt'ring shafts of war.

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To chear the shiv'ring native's dull abode.

II. 2.

In climes beyond the solar road,

Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam,

The Muse has broke the twilight-gloom

And oft, beneath the od'rous shade

Of Chili's boundless forests laid,

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Th' unconquerable Mind, and Freedom's holy flame.

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They sought, oh Albion! next thy sea-encircled coast.

III. I.

Far from the sun and summer-gale,

In thy green lap was Nature's Darling laid,
What time, where lucid Avon stray'd,

To him the mighty Mother did unveil
Her aweful face: The dauntless Child
Stretch'd forth his little arms, and smil'd.

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"This pencil take (she said), whose colours clear

Richly paint the vernal year:

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Thine too these golden keys, immortal Boy!
This can unlock the gates of Joy;

Of Horror that, and thrilling Fears,

Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic Tears."

III. 2.

Nor second He, that rode sublime

Upon the seraph-wings of Extasy,

The secrets of th' Abyss to spy.

He pass'd the flaming bounds of Place and Time:

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With necks in thunder cloath'd, and long-resounding pace.

Such forms as glitter in the Muse's ray,

With orient hues, unborrow'd of the sun :

Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way

Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate,

Beneath the Good how far but far above the Great.

THE BARD.

I. I.

"RUIN seize thee, ruthless King!
Confusion on thy banners wait;
Tho' fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing,
They mock the air with idle state.
Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail,
Nor e'en thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail

To save thy secret soul from nightly fears,
From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!"\
Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride
Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay,
As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side

He wound with toilsome march his long array.

Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance:

"To arms!" cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quiv'ring lance.

I. 2.

On a rock, whose haughty brow

Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood,

Rob'd in the sable garb of woe,

With haggard eyes the Poet stood

(Loose his beard, and hoary hair

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Stream'd, like a meteor, to the troubled air),
And with a Master's hand and Prophet's fire
Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre.

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Hark, how each giant-oak, and desert cave,
Sighs to the torrent's aweful voice beneath!

O'er thee, oh King! their hundred arms they wave,
Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe ;

Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day,
To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay.

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