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SERENADE.-(TWILIGHT.)

THE western skies are no longer gay,
For the sun of the summer has died away,
Yet left no gloom:

For ere the Spirit of heaven went,
He strung night's shadowy instrument,
And hung on every leaf perfume.

To each sweet breeze that haunts the world,
And sleeps by day in the rose-leaf curled,
A warmth he gave:

He has left a life in these marble halls,
And beauty on yon white water-falls,
And still at his bidding these dark pines

'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
"Twas worshipped many a year;
Veiled (like some holy thing) from ha
sight.

Oh! had you seen her when
She languished, and the men
From the dark glancing of her fringed
Turned, but returned again
To mark the winding vein
Steal tow'rd her marble bosom, silently

What matters this?-thou lyre,
Nothing shall e'er inspire
Thy master to rehearse those songs 15%
She whom he loved is gone,
And he, now left alone,
Sings, when he sings of love, in vain, in va

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,

the deer

Thus bound by beauty's chain
Wanders not again:

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

(But could not bear her pride)

In its own cell hath died,

And turned to dust,

know.

SWEET flowers! that from your humble beds
Thus prematurely dare to rise,
And trust your unprotected heads
To cold Aquarius' watry skies;

Retire, retire! THESE tepid airs

Are not the genial brood of May;
THAT sun with light malignant glares,
And flatters only to betray.

Stern Winter's reign is not yet past-
Lo! while your buds prepare to blow,
On icy pinions comes the blast,

And nips your root, and lays you low.

Alas, for such ungentle doom!

But I will shield you; and supply
A kindlier soil on which to bloom,
A nobler bed on which to die.

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
Your little day; and when ye die,
Sweet flowers! the grateful muse shall give
A verse; the sorrowing maid, a sigh.

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
The flowers she cherish'd, snow-drops cold,
And violets that unheeded spring,

To scatter o'er her hollow'd mold?

And who, while memory loves to dwell
Upon her name for ever dear,
Shall feel his heart with passion swell,
And pour the bitter, bitter tear?

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,
The last I offer at thy shrine;
Thy grave must then undeck'd remain,
And all thy memory fade with mine.

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,
Thy courage, by no ills dismay'd,
Thy patience, by no wrongs subdu'd,
Thy gay good-humour-Can they fade !

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,
Here feed in safety, here thy radiance yield;
To me, oh nightly be thy splendour given:
Oh, could a wish of mine the skies command,
How would I gem thy leaf with liberal hand,
With every sweetest dew of heaven!

Say, dost thou kindly light the fairy-train,
Amidst their gambols on the stilly plain,
Hanging thy lamp upon the moistened blade?
What lamp so fit, so pure as thine,
Amidst the gentle elfin-band to shine,
And chase the horrors of the midnight-shade?

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
speare's page,
I mark, in visions of delight, the sage,
High o'er the wrecks of man, who stei
sublime,

A column in the melancholy waste,
(Its cities humbled, and its glories pastī
Majestic, 'mid the solitude of time.
Yet now to sadness let me yield the host
Yes, let the tears of purest friendship show

I view, alas! what ne'er should die,
A form, that wakes my deepest sigh;
A form that feels of death the leaden skup
Descending to the realms of shade,
I view a pale-eyed panting maid;
I see the Virtues o'er their favourite

Ah! could the muse's simple prayer
Command the envied trump of Fame,
Oblivion should Eliza spare:
A world should echo with her name."

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,

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,
A mist, retreating from the morning-sun,
A busy, bustling, still-repeated dream:-
Its length?—A minute's pause, a moment's
thought.

And happiness?-A bubble on the stream,
That in the act of seizing shrinks to nought.

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;
Since every thing that meets our foolish eyes,
Gives proof sufficient of its vanity.

Tis but a trial all must undergo;
To teach unthankful mortals how to prize
That happiness vain man's denied to know
Until he's call'd to claim it in the skies.

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,
From domestic troubles free;
Rushes for thy couch I'll pull thee,
In the shade thy seat shall be;
All the flower-buds will I get
Spring's first sunbeams do unseal,
Primrose, cowslip, violet:-
Charmer, leave thy spinning-wheel,
And tend the sheep with me.

Cast away thy twilly willy,

Winter's warm protecting gown,
Storms no longer blow to chill thee;
Come with mantle loosely thrown,
Garments, light as gale's embraces,
That thy lovely shape reveal;
Put thou on thy airy dresses :-
Charmer, leave thy spinning-wheel,
And tend the sheep with me.

Sweet to sit where brooks are flowing,
Pleasant spreads the gentle heat,
On the green's lap thyme is growing,
Fear not suns 'cause thou'rt so fair,
Every molehill forms a seat:

In the thorn-bower we'll conceal:

Ne'er a sunbeam pierces there:Charmer, leave thy spinning-wheel, And tend the sheep with me.