748 BARRY CORNWALL'S MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. SERENADE.-(TWILIGHT.) THE western skies are no longer gay, For ere the Spirit of heaven went, To each sweet breeze that haunts the world, He has left a life in these marble halls, 'Twould please her did she think That my poor frame did shrink, And waste and wither; and that Love'w light Did blast its temple, where Oh! had you seen her when What matters this?-thou lyre, SONNE T. Imagination. On, for that winged steed, Bellerophon' That Pallas gave thee in her infinite grav And love for innocence, when thou didst is The treble-shaped Chimæra. But he is That struck the sparkling stream fr Helicon; And never hath one risen in his place. Stamped with the features of that mightys Yet wherefore grieve I-seeing how c The plumed spirit may its journey take Through yon blue regions of the middle And note all things below that own a gra Mountain, and cataract, and silent lake And wander in the fields of poesy, Where avarice never comes, and seldom ca“ SONNE T. On a sequester'd Rivalet. THERE is no river in the world more 5 Or fitter for a sylvan poet's theme, Than this romantic solitary stream, And soft eyes chain man's heart to yours: Over whose banks so many branches the deer Thus bound by beauty's chain Prisoner to love, like me-never to fear. She whom I loved has fled; And now with the lost dead Entangling-a more shady bower or m Was never fashioned in a summer-them Where Nymph or Naiad from the hot +beam Might hide, or in the waters cool her A lovelier rivulet was never seen Wandering amidst Italian meadows, vi 1 rank her: and the heart that loved her so, Clitumnus lapses from his fountain fai (But could not bear her pride) In its own cell hath died, And turned to dust, Nor in that land where Gods, 'tis said, been; but this she shall not Yet there Cephisus ran thro' olives gr And on its banks Aglaia bound her har know. SWEET flowers! that from your humble beds Retire, retire! THESE tepid airs Are not the genial brood of May; Stern Winter's reign is not yet past- And nips your root, and lays you low. Alas, for such ungentle doom! But I will shield you; and supply Come then-ere yet the morning-ray Has drunk the dew that gems your crest, And drawn your balmiest sweets away; O come, and grace my ANNA's breast. Ye droop, fond flowers! But, did ye know What worth, what goodness there reside, Your cups with liveliest tints would glow, And spread their leaves with conscious pride. For there has liberal Nature join'd Her riches to the stores of Art, And added to the vigorous mind, The soft, the sympathizing heart. Come then-ere yet the morning-ray Has drunk the dew that gems your crest, And drawn your balmiest sweets away; O come and grace my ANNA's breast. O! I should think-that fragrant bed Might I but hope with you to shareYears of anxiety repaid By one short hour of transport there. More blest than me, thus shall ye live While I alas! no distant date, Mix with the dust from whence I came, Without a friend to weep my fate, Without a stone to tell my name. WRITTEN TWO YEARS AFTER THE PRECEDING. I wish I was where ANNA lies; For I am sick of lingering here, And every hour Affection cries: Go, and partake her humble bier. I wish I could ! For when she died, I lost my all; and life has prov'd Since that sad hour a dreary void, A waste unlovely, and unlov'd. But who, when I am turn'd to clay, Shall duly to her grave repair, And pluck the ragged moss away, And weeds that have no business there? And who with pious hand shall bring To scatter o'er her hollow'd mold? And who, while memory loves to dwell I DID IT; and would fate allow, Should visit still, should still deploreBut health and strength have left me now, And I alas! can weep no more. Take then, sweet maid! this simple strain, And can thy soft persuasive look, Thy voice that might with music vie, Thy air, that every gazer took, Thy matchless eloquence of eye, Thy spirits, frolicksome, as good, Perhaps-but sorrow dims my eye: Cold turf, which I no more must view, Dear name, which I no more must sigh, A long, a last, a sad adieu ! JOHN WOLCOTT. ODE TO THE GLOW - WORM. BRIGHT stranger, welcome to my field, Say, dost thou kindly light the fairy-train, How different man,the imp of noise and strif Who courts the storm that tears and darkes life ; Blessed when the passions wild the sou invade! How nobler far to bid those whirlwinds crast: To taste, like thee, the luxury of peace, And shine in solitude and shade! TO MY CANDLE. THOU lone companion of the spectred vigi, I wake amid thy friendly-watchful light To steal a precious hour from lifeless skepHark,the wild uproar of the winds! and bark Hell's genius roams the regions of the dan And swells the thundering horrors of deep. From cloud to cloud the pale moon hurryis. flies, Now blackened, and now flashing thro her skies. But all is silence here-beneath thy beam I own I labour for the voice of praise– For who would sink in dull Oblivion's stream Who would not live in songs of distant days" Thus while I wondering pause o'er Shar A column in the melancholy waste, I view, alas! what ne'er should die, Ah! could the muse's simple prayer Art thou departing too, my trembling fr Ah! draws thy little lustre to its end Yes, on thy frame Fate too shall fix herw O let me, pensive, watch thy pale dec How fast that frame, so tender, wears 2o How fast thy life the restless minutes » Snows are fled that hung the bowers, Buds to blossoms softly steal, How slender now, alas! thy thread of fire! Thus shall the suns of Science sink away, And thus of Beauty fade the fairest flower— For where's the giant who to Time shall say: Destructive tyrant, I arrest thy power? JOHN CLARE. WHAT IS LIFE? AND what is Life?--An hour-glass on the run, And happiness?-A bubble on the stream, And what is Hope?-The puffing gale of morn, That robs each floweret of its gem,-and dies; A cobweb, hiding disappointment's thorn, Which stings more keenly through the thin disguise. And what is Death? Is still the cause unfound? That dark, mysterious name of horrid sound? A long and lingering sleep, the weary crave. And Peace? Where can its happiness abound? No where at all, save Heaven, and the grave. Then what is Life?-when stripp'd of its disguise, A thing to be desired it cannot be; Tis but a trial all must undergo; BALLAD. WINTER'S gone, the summer-breezes Breathe the shepherd's joys again; Village-scene no longer pleases, Pleasures meet upon the plain; Charmer, leave thy spinning-wheel, And tend the sheep with me. Careless here shall pleasures lull thee, Cast away thy twilly willy, Winter's warm protecting gown, Sweet to sit where brooks are flowing, In the thorn-bower we'll conceal: Ne'er a sunbeam pierces there:Charmer, leave thy spinning-wheel, And tend the sheep with me. Their dark orbs roll in vain-in sufferance As in the sight of God, intent to seek, pride, Our themes are like; for he the games ex Held in the chariot-shaken Grecian plain Where the vain victor, arrogant and ba Of wisdom, patient, and content to brook Parsley or laurel got for all his pains; All ills, to that sole master's task applied,—I sing of sports more worthy to be tald Still show, before high Heaven, th' unaltered mind, Milton, though thou art poor, and old, and blind. (Lulling to sad repose the weary sense) That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear, As some lone bird, at day's departing hour, WILLIAM TENNANT. Where better prize the Scottish victor gas And O! that king Apollo would but gre game, Till the bright gold, bowl'd forth along But lo! from bosom of yon southern che Glitter with golden yoke, approach my sho no more— A little spark I ask'd in moderation, Why scorch me'ev'n to death with fe inspiration? EXTRACTS FROM ANSTER-FAIR. INVOCATION OF THE POET. WHILE SOME of Troy and pettish heroes sing, To smite off heads in Mars's bloody game, THE APPARITION OF PUCK. HERE broke the lady her soliloquy, 'Gan caper on her table to and fro, I sing a theme far livelier, happier, gladder, | As leaps, instinct with mercury, a bladde I sing of ANSTER-FAIR and bonny MAGGIE So leaps the mustard-pot of bonnie Mace LAUDER. LAUDER. |