Poems : electronic version.

%iso-lat1; %iso-lat2; %iso-num; %iso-pub;]> Poems : electronic version. Hofland, Barbara Wreaks Hoole, 1770-1844. Electronic text encoded by Charlotte Payne Electronic edition 300Kb University of California, Davis, General Library, Digital Initiatives Program Davis, Calif. 2007 hoflbpoems

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Davis British Women Romantic Poets Series 42 Managing Editor Charlotte Payne Founding Editor Nancy Kushigian Poems Hofland, Barbara Wreaks Hoole, 1770-1844. by Barbara Hoole Printed by J. Montgomery, at the Iris Office, Sheffield Sold by Vernor and Hood, Booksellers, London [1805]

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April 5, 2007 Charlotte Payne ed. Proofed and entered final corrections.

[Title Page]

POEMS, BY BARBARA HOOLE. "I never list presume to Parnass' hill, "But piping low in shade of lowly grove, "I play to please my self, albeit ill." SPENSER. SHEFFIELD: PRINTED BY J. MONTGOMERY, AT THE IRIS OFFICE, And sold by VERNOR and HOOD, Booksellers, in the Poultry, London. TOTHE RIGHT HONOURABLE COUNTESS FITZWILLLAM, By Her Ladyship's permission, THISLITTLE VOLUME,ISMOST HUMBLY AND GRATEFULLY DEDICATED,BY

THE AUTHOR. ADVERTISEMENT.

The Author of the following Poems most gratefully acknowledges the kindness of her Friends, and the liberality of the Public. Her subscription list is nearly unexampled in numbers and respectability: it has exceeded her hopes, and crowned her wishes.

The names of several of her Patrons, however, arrived too late for publication; some may have been overlooked, and others inaccurately expressed:—such errors and omissions, she trusts, will be freely forgiven, as they have been unavoidable or unintentional.

Concerning the Poems themselves it becomes her to be silent. It is well known in the circle of her acquaintance, that they have not been printed from motives of ambition or ostentation: she, therefore, requests that they may be judged with an indulgence rather worthy of the generosity of her Readers, than due to their merits.

May 5, 1805. NAMES OF SUBSCRIBERS.

Those subscribers to whose Names no place of abode is affixed, are, in general, inhabitants of Sheffield and the Vicinity.

A. Lady Amcotts, Kettlethorpe. Lady Armitage, Kirklees. 4 Copies. Lady Anderson, Lea. Mrs. J. Alderson, Eckington. Thomas Archer, Esq. Birmingham. Joseph Atkinson, Esq. Dublin. James Akers, Esq. Beverley. Mrs Akers, do. Mr. Akers, do. Miss Akers, do. Miss C. Akers, do. Miss J. Akers, do. Miss A. Akers, do. Miss M. Ackerley, Liverpool. Mrs. John Ashton, do. Mrs. John Astley, do. Miss J. Allen, do. Miss Allen, Doncaster. Miss Alexander, Halifax. Mrs. Abbot, Highbury Place, near London. Mrs. Affleck, Queen Street, Westminster. Mrs. Alston, Winson Green, near Birmingham. Miss Alston, do. Mrs. Ashforth, Leigh. Mr. John Aldred, Rotherham. Mr. Samuel Anderton. Mrs. Atkin. Miss Atkin. Miss H. Atkin. Mr. Atkin, jun. Mrs. C. Armitage. Mrs. W. Armitage. Mr. George Abraham. Miss Acton, Ludlow. Miss Jane Acton, do. Miss Anne Acton, do Mrs. Margaret Adlington. Miss Askham, Wakefield. Miss—, Askham, do. William Askham, Esq. do. Mr. G. Allold, Halifax. John Arden, Esq. Beverley Mr. Arden, jun. do. Mr. Adams, St. John's College, Cambridge. Rev. Richard Armistead, A.M. Whitehaven. John Arden, Esq. Beverley. Mr. John Arden, jun. do. Mr. James Akers, jun. do. Mrs. Ashton, Scarbro', Mrs. A. Adkinson, Hull. Mr. Abrahams, Penrith, Cumberland. Mrs. Atkins, Beverley. B. Lady Barker, Glasswell. John Brown, Esq. M.D. Rowland Berkeley, Esq. Cotheridge. J. P. Bosville, Esq. Ravenfield Park. Mrs. Bosville, do. W. C. Bagshaw, Esq. Oaks, Derbyshire. Mrs. Bagshaw, do. C. Bolton, Esq. Hull. Mrs. Bolton, do. Mr. John Birket, merchant, Whitehaven. Miss Brown, do. Rev. G. Bayliffe. Mr. Brittain. Mrs. Brittain. Miss Brittain. 3 Copies. Mr. Frederic Brittain, Lisbon. 4 Copies. Mr. William Brittain. Mr. C Brookfield. Mrs. Brookfield. Mr. T. Brookfield. Mr. Binks, Darnall. 2 Copies. Mrs. Binks, do. 2 Copies. Miss Binks, do. Mr. Binks, jun. Mr. Birks. 2 Copies. Miss Birks. Mrs. Bower, Mills. Mr. Best. 2 Copies. Mr. Badger. 2 Copies. Mr Butcher. Mr. Baskett. Mr. Butterman, Dronfield. Mrs. Brownell. 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Mr. William Waddilove, Ripon. Miss Waddilove, Ripon. Miss Wordsworth, Featherstone. Rev. Thomas Wright, do. Mr. Robert Wright, Liverpool. J. Willington, Esq. Cor. Chris. College, Oxon. Mr. Whitehouse. Mr. G. Woollen. Mr. Wostenholm. Mrs. White. Mr. Walker. Mrs J. W. Wright. Mrs. Woodcock, Doncaster. Miss Walker, do. Mr. Paul Wynch, do. Mr. Peter Wynch, do. Mr. Walker, do Rev. Luke Willey, do. Miss White, do. Mrs. Wroughton, Adwick Hall, near do. Miss Wood, do. Miss Woolley, Birmingham. 4 Copies. Mrs. Ward, do. 2 Copies. Mrs. Walker, do. Mr. Wilmore, do. Mrs Wilmore, do. Miss Wilmore, do. Mr. Woody, do —. Wilmot, MD. Ashford, Kent. Mrs. Wilmot, do. Jeremiah White, Esq. London. Miss Warren, St. Albans. Mr. Wordsworth, Lincoln. College, Oxon. Rev. T. Woodcock, Swillington. Mr. Edmund Wells. Hannah Whitwell. H. Walker, Oulton. Miss Webb, Litchfield. Mrs. Wilson, Preston. Mr. Wilde, Tinsley. Miss Walker, Wincobank. Mr. D. Whitehouse. Mrs. Webb, Litchfield. Miss A. Wilson, Sandbeck. Mrs. Wilson, Stockport. Charles Weston, Esq. Thorpe. Miss Weston, do. Miss Wheeler, Winterfold. Mr. Allen Wheeler, Burford. Mr. Edward Wheeler, Pershon. Mr. Woollen. Captain Warner, 40th Regiment. Rev. M. Wilson, Chapeltown, near Leeds. Mr. T. Wetherhead, Liverpool. Mrs Edmund Wilson. Miss Wilson, Settle. Rev. John Wilson, Winterton, Lincolnshire. Y. William Younge, M. D. F. L S. Rev. T. Younge. Mr. S. A. Younge. Miss Younge. Miss Isabella Young. Mr. Charles Younge. 4 Copies. Mrs. S. Younge. Anthony Yeall, Esq. Hull. Mrs. Yeall, do. Miss Yeall, do. Thomas Lawes Yeall, Esq, Greatham, near Stockton. Mrs. Yeend, Birmingham. Z. Mrs Zouch, Workington. THE CONTENTS. Verses on the threatened Invasion 1 The Fireside 3 Stanzas to the River Dun 6 The Cottage 11 Elegiac Lines composed in the Ruins of Roche Abbey 13 An Old Man's Tale 18 Lines addressed to a Young Gentleman 23 Lines addressed to a Young Lady 25 Cumberland Rocks 28 To Death 30 To a Friend on his Marriage 32 On the Birth-day of the REV. JAMES WILKINSON 36 The Soldier's Wife 38 Sonnet to the Oak 40 To the Evening Star 41 To Bath 42 To Hope 43 To the Primrose 44 Lines written November1, 1801,45 To a Friend 46 The Widow to her Infant 47 Impromptu on absence of Friends 49 To Taste 51 To Death, supposed to be written by WERTER, 52 Stanzas addressed to MRS. RADCLIFFE 53 On the Peace of180259 On the death of the REV. THOMAS BROWNE 63 Sonnet composed on the Banks of Ulswater 69 Sonnet composed in a Cell on the Banks of the Eimont 70 Lines presented with a Snow-drop to a little Girl, after severe illness, 71 Stanzas written on Christmas Day 72 Stanzas to Winter 74 Rhapsody of Sorrow 78 To Enthusiasm 82 Lines occasioned by the Question—"Can you love me?" 85 Stanzas inscribed to a Winter Stock 87 A Friendly Epistle, written from Banner Cross, 89 Lines composed whilst climbing some Rocks in Derbyshire 99 To Melancholy 100 To Despair 101 To War 102 To Wealth 103 To Fear 104 Complaint 105 Address to Mr. Grundall, who was blind 106 Lines occasioned by hearing that some Moravian Missionaries were sent to Greenland 107 Lines written when FREDERIC was very ill 108 Lines written in a Friend's Garden at Bath 109 Lines addressed to MISS MEE 110 The Genius of the Rocks addressing a Party at Roche Abbey 111 Lines composed near Hilsborough 112 Lines addressed to the Avon at Bristol 113 A Tale 117 Lines on the Death of MR. TAYLOR, of Whitworth, 126 Lines written in November, 1796, 129 William and Ellen 132 To FREDERIC 140 To Autumn 142 Lines addressed to a Married Lady 145 Lines sent to a Lady with an Infant's Cap 147 To Midnight 149 Lines presented with an Ice Plant to a Young Lady 150 To Disease 151 To Disappointment 152 Ode on the Death of DR. DARWIN 153 To a Friend 159 Letter to MISS MEE,1800, 160 Stanzas on the death of MR. S. RADFORD, Lieutenant Royal Engineers, 165 Lines addressed to a Young Gentleman, of Lincoln College, Oxon, 1800, 169 Inscription for a rustic Tablet 171 To a Young Lady 173 Lines addressed to a beautiful little Boy 176 On the Death of MR. F. BURTON, at Cape Coast Castle 178 Lines written at Keye Hill, in1803, 180 To the Wall Flower 182 To MISS SMITH on her Birth Day 183 To the Memory of SMOLLET 186 To Industry 189 Lines addressed to MR. ERSKINE 192 The Sorrows of Hope 195 To Time 208 Friendly Epistle to a Young Gentleman 210 Ode to Apathy 219 Inscription for a sod Seat in G. D's Garden 222 Lines composed during a walk in the Leasowes 223 Impromptu occasioned by the Question "What is marriage?" 225 To Harmony 228 To Solitude 229 To September 230 Occasional Lines 231 Invocation to Poetry 232 Verses written on reading HOLCROFT'S 'Gaffer Gray' 236 Lines composed near the Sheffield Infirmary,1797, 238 Lines written at the beginning of March,1805, 242 Lines occasioned by the Death of a little Relative 246 Evening Meditation on the Water,1801, 249 On the Death of MRS. GARDINER, late of Hereford, 252 POEMS. VERSES ON THE THREATENED INVASION, WRITTEN IN JULY,1803. SPIRIT of ancient days! arise And seize thy ponderous shield; And roll around those lightning eyes That flash'd o'er SELWOOD's field.∗ Spirit of ancient days! awake And wield thy conquering spear; And bid the fiery serpent quake, That hisses in thine ear.

When ALFRED conquered the Danes.

O tell the Monster, black with crimes, Drunk with Egyptian gore,— That firm in these degenerate times, Strong as in days of yore,— 'Tis thine the scorpion-scourge to wave, To bend the mighty bow, And doom the humbled wretch thy slave, Who laid the nations low. Tell him, tho' SWITZERLAND no more Can boast her happy plains; And lost ITALIA'S mourning shore Partakes BATAVIA'S chains; Yet here amid her ALBION'S rocks Sweet Liberty retires; And hence his fierce defiance mocks With her avenging fires. Her standard soon, on GALLIA'S coast, By, BRITAIN'S bands unfurled, Shall blast the CORSICAN'S proud boast And save a sinking world. THE FIRESIDE. THE rain beats hard, the wind is high, Come, LUCY, lay your spinning by, And let us chat an hour or two, As married folks are wont to do. The rain beats hard, the wind is high, But fiercer storms have pass'd us by; And yet our cottage, safe and warm, Protects us from surrounding harm. When first grim Poverty did creep And through our humble lattice peep, I saw thee, pale, with terror, start, And snatch'd thee trembling to my heart. But when at length the haggard dame Across our luckless threshold came, And LUCY saw her neat fire-side Despoil'd of all its modest pride; I mark'd the workings of thy breast, The sigh was hush'd, the tear supprest, The fearful, fainting LUCY fled, The wife, the angel rose instead! Thy care prepared the frugal meal, Thy fingers whirl'd the busy wheel; What Squire could like thy HENRY dine? What Lordling boast a robe like mine? From thy firm, patient mind I caught The strong resolve, the active thought, Wrung comfort from hard Labour's hand, And sorrow fled at Love's command. —From day's long toil when I return On my clean hearth bright faggots burn, And in my LUCY's brighter eyes Sweet beams of grateful transport rise; Yet as I haste thy steps to meet, Two prattling darlings clasp my feet, Claim the first kiss, the first fond smile, And e'en my LUCY waits awhile. Blow, blow ye winds! ye tempests roll! Affection closer clasps the soul; Amidst your wildest rage at rest Love nestles deeper in the breast. STANZAS TO THE RIVER DUN. IF to thine oft polluted name,∗ A Muse unknown to sylvan fame May touch the vent'rous string; Charm'd with the rich, tho' injured theme, Pleased with the trace thy varying stream, And mark thine infant spring. Emerging from the lofty plains Where sterile desolation reigns, Thou bidst that scene adieu,

"Polluted Name" alludes to many bad Verses which had been written on this River.

And winding thro' the' expansive vale Thy hoarse romantic waters hail The towers of MONTAGUE.∗ From thence, with flow and lingering wave That weeps on Beauty's classic grave, To aid commercial sway, Thro' many a flower-embroider'd dell, By many a verdant mountain's swell, Thy current winds its way. And now with renovated smile, To aid the Artist's useful toil, On SHEFF'S industrious shore, Thy strong waves turn the rolling wheel, Lave in chill streams the hissing steel, And tame the stubborn ore.

Wortley Hall, formerly the residence of LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGUE.

There on Reflection's pensive breast, A shade of distant days will rest, When near yon ivy'd tower,∗ Thy stream would warble soft and low, Listening to sounds of royal woe, Told to the midnight hour. On thee, with many a tear suffused, The beauteous Captive nightly mused, And in thy fleeting wave Saw the light bubble glittering rise, Then break in air;—"Behold," she cries, "MARY thy crown, thy grave!" Still murmuring o'er the mournful theme, Till mingling with the ROTHER'S stream Thy waters glad the town,

MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS was confined some time both in the Manor and in the Castle of Sheffield.

Of social trade the busy mart, The nest of Industry and Art, That boasts a just renown.∗ Adown green slopes and verdant plains, Where ever-smiling Plenty reigns— With undulating grace, To where old CON'SBRO'S towers sublime Survive the hurricanes of time, Thy wandering stream I trace. Oft sighing in the evening air, The dull chill sounds of sad despair, From dark dank dungeon walls; And maddening shouts of jocund song, And martial notes have pour'd along From CON'SBRO'S echoing halls.

ROTHERHAM.

Fall'n is the Castle's wide domain, A Fairy's hand hath drest the plain In village beauty's pride; —Thence to thy Town,∗ with all replete That marks the Graces' favourite seat, Thy widening waters glide. Ennobled River! now the sail Expanding shivers in the gale; The streamer wanton flies;— The busy hum is heard around, The stately vessel quits the ground And to thy bosom hies. Thence to old HUMBER'S parent breast 'Tis thine to guide the gallant guest, And bid it dare explore

DONCASTER.

What Ocean shows of great or good, From DUN'S green margin, HUMBER'S flood, To Earth's remotest shore THE COTTAGE. ADIEU! dearest COTTAGE, adieu! For ah! 'tis with sorrow I ween, That I shall no longer review Thy woodbine, thy turf-seat to green. No more, save in memory's eye, See the sylphs that enliven'd thy grove, And give to past pleasures a sigh On the sight of connubial love. Yet deep in my heart shall remain The feelings engraven by thee; And fondly my soul shall retain Each image of seat, flower and tree. And dearly remembrance shall dwell On the beauties from which I depart, And bear from thee sweets of this cell Some treasure to solace my heart. ELEGIAC LINES COMPOSED IN THE RUINS OF ROCHE ABBEY. THE moon's pale lustre gilds yon chrystal stream, On whose green banks, the proud elms towering rise; The lone swan sees the stars, reflected, beam In the pure wave,—a mirror of the skies. Whilst from that mouldering, consecrated wall, Whose ivy'd ruins strike the pensive eye, The doleful screech-owl prophecies their fall, And hails the hour of desolation nigh. Beneath these towers, whose deep monastic gloom Hath veil'd sweet Nature's most delightful scene, Full many a beauty pined in luckless bloom, And many a tear bedew'd the lovely mien. Yet may these walls inspire devotion pure, These hoary relics, now in dark decay, A brighter flame, a better prayer insure, Than ghastly superstition knew to pay. When the sun's orb hath climb'd the mountain's brow, Tinged every green tree with his lucid beam, When o'er yon spire his golden lustres glow And quiver on the undulating stream;— Whilst from the oak, whose verdant branch expands Beneath the ray, melodious strains aspire; The herbaged rock in dreadful beauty stands, Half quench'd in shade and half illumed in fire; Then shall the bosom glow with heavenly joy, And Nature waken her CREATOR'S praise:— But, ah! to mourn be now our sad employ, And tune to tender themes our softening lays. For the poor vestal heave the pious sigh; Join night's dull bird in sorrow's plaintive moan; Tread with chill foot the darkling path, or fly With trembling step from horror's fancied groan; See, in the barkless branch, the imaged sprite; Watch the pale moon-beam glance athwart the grove; The dusky ruins nod to kindred night, And awful visions o'er the landscape rove. O loved employ, tho' sad yet ever dear! Fain would my heart thy memory still retain, Dew the sweet scene with many a silent tear, And paint its form unfading on the brain. For ah! no more these hallow'd haunts are mine; This sacred melancholy friendship's boon, Shall my worn breast for deeper pangs resign, And mourn the sad exchange of griefs too soon. Ah, cruel thought!—beneath this cloistered shade, What secret woes have rent the feeling heart! How many wretched sought devotion's aid To heal the venom of misfortune's dart. Where these proud columns swell'd in solemn state, This sternly gothic arch majestic vied, Mayhap some lovely victim pining fate, And eyed, with longing look, the portal wide. E'en while she held the superstitious charm Her truant heart obey'd a softer flame; Insidious Love would heaven itself disarm, And leave the harass'd bosom still the same. On these dark battlements, o'erhanging Fate No more shall chain the generous wish to bless; No more pale Sorrow, thro' the gloomy grate, Look the keen anguish of confirm'd distress. AN OLD MAN'S TALE. YOUNG HENRY was a charming lad. I loved him well in days of yore, For many a virtue sure he had, Of learning too a plenteous store; But he was proud as lad could be, And oft belied his own heart's worth, For talk, so wildly talk would he, You'd think him only made for mirth. "The joys of sense alone I prize, "Give me," he cried, "the sparkling bowl, "The flash of Beauty's melting eyes, "To slake the thirstings of my soul! "Let others sigh at Friendship's name, "And talk of Mind's congenial charms; "Be mine the glass that feeds my flame, "Be mine the Beauty in my arms!" Yet, while he spake, with glistening eye, While youth sat dimpling on his cheek, If Want and Woe went limping by, A sigh from HENRY'S heart would break; And I have seen a poor old dame, Whose bloom for many a year had flown, With raptures call on HENRY'S name, And bless the life that saved her own. And I have seen this HENRY stand Beside a Parent's sad sick-bed, And stooping, with a duteous hand Support an aching head: Yet long he laugh'd, and rattled wild, Till on a sudden silent grown, So meek his look, his voice so mild, His wonted spirits, courage, flown;— Slow grew his gait, and sunk his eye, And looks of tenderest woe he wore, And pallid softness heaved a sigh, Where rosy pleasure laugh'd before. For HENRY loved, the blithe, the gay;— I knew and read his bosom's state; "Tell me," I cried, "what Nymph of May "Has touch'd thy heart, and fix'd thy fate. "For what new charm, does HENRY sign? "The coral lip, the chesnut hair?" "For all:" was HENRY'S grave reply; "And more than all, a mind as fair. "Yes, when those locks are thin and grey, "And time that beauteous cheek hath prest, "I'll love a charm more dear than they, "I'll love the charm within her breast!" Not long he sigh'd: with timid glance The Maid's soft eyes his looks approve; And generous Friendship plann'd the chance, And led the path of mutual love: Now HENRY'S once divided heart, Where passions long for mastery vied, Where folly, impulse bore their part, He gives entire to Virtue's side. New blessings still new duties charm, Our social cares and joys combine, The Husband's, Parent's, Master's name In HENRY meet, in HENRY shine. Last night I met him on the lawn, One lovely boy he proudly bore, Another, playful as the fawn, With agile step sprang on before. While beauteous LUCY loitering nigh, Bless'd the sweet prattler as he past, And warm'd by HENRY'S beaming eye Such looks of love on all she cast, With tears, I cried, "to you 'tis given "To share and merit life's true zest; "'Tis earth anticipating heaven, "'Tis Virtue robed in Pleasure's vest." LINES ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN. AH, BERTRAM! can the magic power Of passion's fond fallacious hour Delight thee, like the holier charm, Serenely sweet,—beningly warm, Which hovering o'er Affection's breast Soothes every trembling nerve to rest? Canst thou the highest bliss forego, Which mind can taste, or mind bestow, The rapturous sympathy of soul! For Pleasure's wild Circean bowl; And thence the witching beverage drain Of transient joy and endless pain? Say! in the eye, whose brilliant rays Awake thine ardent glowing gaze, Dwells there one charm so soft, so dear, As suffering Virtue's patient tear? Can the red lip one sweet disclose, Like that which innocence bestows? Say! can it be, ingenuous youth! A heart like thine, illumed by Truth, Touch'd with pure Friendship's sacred flame, And rapt by scientific fame, Should dare forego its best employ, To mingle with a base born joy? Ah no! on purer wings to soar, And Love's sublimest heights explore, The stern ascents of duty climb, To snatch the charms that laugh at Time, Be thine; and prove how truly Fate Design'd thee good, and made thee great! LINES ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY. AND dost thou woo me, gentle Maid! And seek to share the languid hour; Where cypress forms the dusky shade Of Sorrow's dark and lonely bow'r? Remains there yet one feeling heart? Remains there yet one pitying eye? Of power to turn Misfortune's dart, And breathe sweet comfort in a sigh? Can'st thou forego the joyous train, Where Mirth illumines Pleasure's dome, And Youth proclaims his rosy reign; For the 'reft Widow's lonely home? Amidst the ruins of the mind, A bruised, broken heart to trace, And ere to earth's cold lap consign'd To light a smile on Sorrow's face? To mark the dawn of heavenly hope Shed o'er the soul a brightening ray, And teach the wretch forlorn to cope With present woe's disastrous day? Yes, gentle Maid! thy heart benign Well suits the task thy friendship chose, Melting in sympathy divine O'er the sad train of human woes. Thou seem'st, to Fancy's gladden'd eye, Some radiant Herald from the spheres; Blending the lustres of the sky With earth's best gems—compassion's tears. CUMBERLAND ROCKS. SCENES of magnificence! your powerful charms, That burst stupendous on mine aching sight, Now thrill the trembling vein with wild alarms, Now wrap the' exulting soul in high delight! From Alpine mountains gush the maddening streams, That sweep with snow-tipt wave the verdant vale; Catch with pellucid drops light's quivering beams, The gay foam sparkling in the gusty gale:— While on the hoary rock, whose rugged breast Hath braved the pelting storms of many a year, Eve's brilliant sunbeams sink in lovely rest, And tinge the purple clouds that linger near. Sweet scenes of wonder, scenes of beauty cease; Ye charm the eye, but can your powers impart The long-lost vision of returning peace, The long-lost raptures of a widow'd heart? Ah! no, in vain your mighty rocks arise, Your soft streams murmur in the pensive ear; Like them my drooping heart more deeply sighs, Like them dissolves in many an anxious tear. TO DEATH. To her, who sits in Fortune's bark, While favouring Zephyrs sing "rejoice!" Thou wear'st a visage grimly dark, And sad and fearful sounds thy voice. To her, who on Affection's breast All day her happy cheek reclines, Thou comest a most unwelcome guest, She shudders at thy dread designs. But to that heart whom sever'd joys Have left cold, bleeding and forlorn, To her on whose benighted eyes No more shall wake Hope's radiant morn; To her whose "dull cold ear" no more Shall lift sweet Love's impassioned strain, Muse on the long-regretted lore, And mourn that she must muse in vain; To such an one thy grisly form, That scares gay Pleasure's glittering train, Appears no Demon of the storm, No dreaded Messenger of pain. No!—gentle Spectre! kind and mild I deem thy dart, and bless thy power; I woo thee to thy willing child, I court thee for thine awful dower. Ah! why then from my wishes fly, While shrinking thousands shun thy face? Oh! hear the solitary cry That begs thy long, thy cold embrace LINES ADDRESSED TO A FRIENDON HIS MARRIAGE. WHEN first, from mighty chaos hurl'd, Sprang to new life the infant world, Nature with anxious eye survey'd The wonders which her hand had made; Here piled sublime the rocky mount, There pour'd unseen the wellingfount; Bade the majestic cedar rise, Adorn'd the pure cerulean skies; And o'er the scene, with being rife, Kindled the dormant sparks of life. Among her woods and wild dells ran Erect the noble savage-Man; Rude graces stamp'd his lofty mien And mark'd him monarch of the scene, But, like that scene, a sombre air His features and his manners wear, For then no feather'd warbler sung, Dark clouds o'er all the landscape hung, And sighing Nature mourn'd to see Her world involved in apathy. When lo! from heaven a brighter ray Than graced the first sabbatic day Burst from the concave's azure height, Pre-eminent, celestial light! For now the child of hallow'd birth, Connubial Love, descends to earth; In his refulgent looks are seen Fine forms of Beauty's varying mien, Angelic Grace round him wait And Virtues guard his glorious state. Then first adown the verdant hills Murmur the soft meandering rills; Green mosses spread the velvet way, And dewy roses scent the spray; In every echoing vale was found The mighty witchery of sound; For Beauty reign'd in every grove And music spake the voice of love, While every gale that rustled by Awoke a smile, or stole a sigh, And Man, a gentler being, felt 'Twas wise to yield, 'twas sweet to melt. A purer joy, till now unknown, Gives all his mind its finer tone, His softening voice, his opening face Reflect the charm, and glow with grace; Love perfects all in Nature's plan, And blest at once, and polish'd man. Thus on your home, my valued friend, The brilliant blessing shall descend, With social smiles, and light-wing'd hours, And strew life's chequer'd path with flowers, Pluck from your brow the thorns of care To plant unfading roses there, And prove, tho' in this changing scene Some transient clouds may intervene, The purest sunshine given to life Is man's best friend—a faithful wife. LINES.written ON THE BIRTH DAY OF THE REV. J. WILKINSON. AUSPICIOUS Star! whose lenient rays, Thro' many a bright revolving year, Have shone with undiminish'd blaze Around our social hemisphere: Again we hail thy natal hour, Again we bless thy rising light, Strong as the sun's refulgent power, Soft as the dewy queen of night. At thy dear name the grateful tear, Quick springing, speaks the bliss we prove, When in the Master we revere We greet the Parent whom we love. 'Tis thine the trembling heart to warm With Mercy's soul-subduing voice, Give sacred Truth a lovelier charm, And stamp the bosom's hallowed choice: 'Tis thine, through every stage of life, Unshrinking, Virtue to pursue, And grace the paths of thorny strife With the green olive's cheerful hue. To sing thy praise in life's mild wane Young Genius proudly shall aspire; Nor PRESTON! rest thy classic strain, Nor INCHBALD sleep thy tuneful lyre! Thence shall succeeding ages tell, To Memory's love, how strong thy claim; And many an honest heart shall swell With the best trophies of thy fame. THE SOLDIER'S WIFE. WRITTEN AT THE RETURN OF PEACE,1802. OH listen! my baby, that shout is for joy, Nay cling not for fear to my breast; It tells of thy father's return, my dear boy! It says, that we yet shall be blest. Look up, my sweet baby! increase with thy smile The joy that revisits my heart; The joy that now whispers, "sad anguish and toil From this moment are doom'd to depart" Ah yes! my dear William again in these arms Shall welcome his long-lost repose; Shall proudly survey thy fair infantine charms, And wipe the glad tear as it flows. O rapture! O transport! my husband! my child! Dear ties that entwine my fond soul; Together I clasp you, my feelings are wild, They scorn and they baffle controul. The heart, that has trembled, has suffered like mine, Alone can the extacy share; And exulting confess the transition divine, Hope snatch'd from the hand of Despair. SONNET TO THE OAK. MAJESTIC Plant! Britannia's guardian tree, With fruitful sprigs and verdant beauties crown Whole liberal branches, like thy country free, Spread their protecting arms o'er all around. But ah! too soon, far from thy native plain, Ambition's hand shall bear thy mangled form To grace his triumph on the purpled main, Or brave the wide Atlantic's fiercest storm. 'Tis thus, Lorenzo, that thy generous heart Foregoes its comfort for another's weal, From tender friendship flies, though loth to part, And gives the social joy it cannot feel. I view thy mind admiringly, morn its state, Applaud the man, but weep the lover's fate. TO THE EVENING STAR. AH! beauteous and benignant star! Bright wanderer through the realms of space! Hast thou not, in some clime afar, Beam'd one sweet ray on HENRY'S face? Oh! tell me, if he lingers here, What lovely land delights his eye? —Or if, in thy resplendent sphere, His spirit navigates the sky? Oh bear him, gentle planet! bear From my fond heart a sigh most true; And waft with it as pure a tear, As Evening sheds, of rosy dew. SONNET TO BATH. AH! yet in fancy's view, delightful place! Thy towers majestic rise upon mine eye; Thy spacious streets, thy splendid domes I trace, And o'er them breathe a recollective sigh. Not the pale wretch thy health-inspiring springs Have snatch'd from dreaded death or dire disease, With purer gratitude his homage brings, And drinks thy fountains, and inhales thy breeze. But not thy temples, nor thy flowery meads Where the dull Avon lingers, loth to part; Nor the gay crowd that ever jocund treads Thy fairy regions, thus enchant my heart: Friendship! dear friendship; 'tis for thee alone That fond remembrance bids me BATH bemoan. SONNET TO HOPE. Enchanting Nymph! whose soul-composing power Soothes the sad heart and wakes its dying fires, That kindly constant, till the mortal hour Art faithful still, till life's last spark expires; Why from this drooping soul for ever fled? Must I still hapless mourn my wayward fate? And my poor heart, each sense of pleasure dead, Still, still be rent in passion's wild debate? Say, in the series of revolving years, Is there reserved one gentle hour for me, Unstain'd by silent sorrow's secret tears, From haggard Care's unblest intrusion free? No! rigid fate has cut the tenderest tie, And left my sinking heart to break, to die. SONNET TO THE PRIMROSE. SWEET timid flower! whose beauty gilds the bank 'Ere yet gay Spring proclaims her rising reign, While Winter's sullen genius, dark and dank, Spreads his broad wings o'er all the gloomy plain; Thou with mild lustre comest, in gentle guise, To promise brighter hours and lengthening days, Catch the first sunbeams from the opening skies And from thy saffron breast reflect the rays. Dear modest plant! to hope, to pity dear Thy tender hues their simple charms unfold: Whether thou droop'st, bedewed with winter's tear, Or smilest, dedeck'd with lightly-chastened gold; I trace thy sweet resemblance, best pourtray'd Where Virtue blooms beneath life's humble shade. LINES,WRITTEN DURING THE FINE MORNING OF SUNDAYTHE FIRST OF NOVEMBER, 1801. THOU comest in "such a questionable guise" "That I will greet thee," Parent of the Storm! And ask where now are fled thy wintry skies, The threatening tempests which thy face deform? Charm'd with the moral world, does dawning peace Light thy fierce features to a tender smile, And the proud war of blustering demons cease To scourge with icy blasts our favour'd isle? Thus shalt thou bring fair Plenty's genial reign, For Commerce' sons unfurl the wanton sail; Pour varied treasures o'er the splendid main, And waft new joys with every lenient gale: Like the blest morn, that dates thy placid birth, Dawn a great sabbath o'er the tranquil earth. TO A FRIEND. NOT Philomel's melodious strain, Pour'd softly to the queen of night, While fairy bands in jocund train Guard the sweet minstrel's lovelorn flight; Not the sweet breeze that Autumn flings O'er dewy vales of waving gold, Nor odours that the roseate wings Of May's delicious hours unfold; Delight me like the sweeter sound Of thy mild sympathetic voice, Thy voice that soothes the bosom's wound, That bid the breaking heart rejoice; Or still more dear, when thy soft beaming eye Shines with a tear at friendship's frequent sigh. THE WIDOW TO HER INFANT,IN THE CRADLE. BLOSSOM of Hope! whose cherub-smile Can all thy Mother's woes beguile; Sweet bud of comfort! in whose face Her sorrowing eye delights to trace Through every feature, opening fair, An image of thy Father there! Ah! gentle germ of joy unborn, Pale beam of an o'ershadow'd morn, How shall thy Mother's soul express Her hope, her fear, her soft distress, As, bending o'er thy cradled form, She deprecates life's future storm, And prays, with all a Parent's fears, For blessings on thine early years: Ah! babe beloved! condemn'd to bloom A floweret on thy Father's tomb; Unmindful thou, that sorrow's power Hath mark'd thee from life's earliest hour; Wreckless of many a bitter tear That flow'd upon thy Father's bier, And many a briny torrent shed Upon thine own unconscious head: Yet while thy little cheek hath prest Thy hapless Mother's throbbing breast, No tongue could urge a plea like thine To soothe a breaking heart like mine, Pour thro' the breast so sweet a charm, And e'en Despair's fell pang disarm. IMPROMPTU ON ABSENCE OF FRIENDS. AND can the sight of envious Time Remove the image of a friend? Can changing place, or varying clime The dear delightful contract end? Can the loved form, the pictured face, Engraven on the feeling breast, The eye that memory loves to trace Still beaming with its wonted zest,— Can these the absent heart no more With inly-thrilling sweetness charm? Can Virtue's venerable lore With kindling transport cease to warm? No! faithful memory still pourtrays, To the fond bosom's anxious view, The visions of departed days, In soften'd shades of tenderest hue: Still knit in friendship's sacred tie, Days, months and years shall vainly roll; They but demand the passing sigh, But dare not disunite the soul. TO TASTE. DAUGHTER of elegance and simple grace, With whom enamour'd Genius loves to rove, Contemplative, the scientific maze Of Attic learning's solitary grove! Thy lovely form his piercing eyes behold, Robed in fantastic wreaths of many a hue, And richest gems the fairest tints unfold Of glowing Nature to his raptur'd view. Now through the splendid domes of polish'd art Lead him admiring,—or the hoary cell, Where breezy willows whisper to the heart, Here Love and Poetry delight to dwell; For still thy varied powers new charms impart To please the fancy and expand the heart. SONNET TO DEATH, SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY WERTER. TERRIFIC Monster! from whose hideous form The trembling wretch in vain essays to fly, Undaunted braves fate's most tremendous storm Rather than meet thine horror-teeming eye. Few are the victims who can pleased obey Thy stern relentless call, and calm resign To thine insensate arms the long-loved clay, Whose soft endearments round the soul entwine; But yet in me behold one willing heart Fearless advance thy fatal power to prove: What are the terrors of thy dreaded dart To one thus 'crazed with care' and cross'd in love? Thy dart alone can my soft peace restore And bid this aching bosom ache no more. STANZAS ADDRESSED TO MRS. RADCLIFFE, AUTHOR OF "THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO." WHERE sleeps thy wand, sublime Enchantress! where On poppy banks reclines thy magic lyre, That thou no more dost charm the raptured air, And wake to wond'rous strains the dulcet wire? Though thou hast ranged Creation's ample bound, And fairy Fiction's farthest realms explored, Traversed, With SHAKESPEARE, Nature's varied ground, And thy bright page with all his splendor stored; Still claims the' unwearied eye thy latest flight; For thou art Love and Terror's darling child! And though around thine infant breast Ten thousand blue-eyed Cherubs press'd, Consenting Horror on thy cradle smiled; For well she knew thy mantling power Would wrap her soul-appalling hour In all the dread array of Superstition's night. Yet soft as the couch, where the fairy reposes, Thy strains sweetly warbling will break on the ear, When the glow-worm beams mild in the valley of roses, And gurgles the cold rill o'er green mosses clear! And who like thee can trace the impassion'd heart Through every scene Affection can impart? Lives there on earth, that o'er a parent's bier Has dropt with pious woe the hallow'd tear, But with ST. AUBIN'S DAUGHTER feels anew Fond Memory's current swell'd with pity's dew? Or who that e'er has felt the sweet alarms Of timid love, or roseate beauty's power, But glows entranced with soft ELVIRA'S charms, Or seeks mild ADELAIDE'S sequester'd tower? To EMILY'S, to Pity's tender prayer, One rebel only breathes;—thine hand alone Could paint MONTONI'S fierce and peerless air, And the grand terrors of his awful frown: The gliding spectre's hollow eye aghast, The mystic picture deathly-faint and pale, The chilling whisper quivering in the blast, The wild notes trembling in the western gale, The dark banditti's grisly train, The warrior's loud exulting strain, Etherial music borne on evening's breeze, The melting moonbeam on Venetian seas, The rough tall mountain's castellated head, The clustering vine o'er blooming vallies spread, The rushing cataract's o'erwhelming roar, The rill that whispers on the pebbled shore, All, all are thine! bewitching MINSTREL! Thou With force majestic, to no track confined, With radiant tints canst paint creation's glow, Or mark with strength the energetic mind, Touch with fine pencil every action's source, Unfold the germ of passion's deepest zest, And through each secret winding of the breast Trace the small stream swell to the torrent's force. Ah! who shall thy unmatch'd SCHEDONI scan, The proud fiend mingling with the finish'd man? Who pierce a being so sublimely dark Through every veil duplicity can wear, Call into desperate guilt the struggling spark, And lay the assassin's secret dagger bare? Thou on the world of spirits' secret verge, Mid shadowy forms, to mortal ken unknown, And sightless crimes, thy daring steps wilt urge, Where gasping Terror quakes on her cold throne. Rapt by thy genius, I have trembling walk'd Thro' hollow vales, or on bold rocks reclined, Till in each shade methought a phantom stalk'd, And muttering murmurs died upon the wind; Or by the midnight taper's dim blue ray Seen the pale spectre glide along the wall, What time poor PUSS pursued her harmless way, Or the hoarse Watchman howl'd his wintry call; And I have wept with tears so justly given To virtue's child, in sorrow's sacred hour; The holy sigh was register'd in heaven, A grateful tribute to thy worth and power. Then seize again, BRITANNIA'S MUSE! thy lute, Exert o'er spell-bound minds thy sweet controul; While charm'd attention listening, fondly mute, Owns and enjoys thine empire o'er the soul. ON THE PEACE OF 1802. OH! seize a shell, whose potent sound Through Europe's gladden'd plains shall bound, And breathe a strain so sweet, so long, That buoyant on the wings of air Ten thousand sylphs the notes may bear, And wake etherial realms to join the song. Rous'd by the conch's re-echoing swell, From coral grove and watery dell, Light liquid forms that skim the wave, And green-hair'd nymphs that proudly lave, With those angelic sprites that mourn O'er the lost seaman's pearly urn, Shall, crouding round old Ocean's throne, Cry, "hail thee, awful Father! hail! "No more shall thunders not thine own "Roll black destruction on the gale; "No more presumptuous man shall dare "To mock thy rage sublime, "And bid the bloody standard glare "Red with the spoils of time; "No more thy generous waves be dyed "With purple streams of warriors slain; "The widow's hope, the parent's pride "No more be sunk beneath the pitying main." Lo! beaming with celestial day, Mild PEACE resumes her golden sway, Earth, ocean, air, their queen proclaim; From cliff to cliff thine ALBION pours Gay songs of triumph round her shores; From fruitful plains, rich vallies, rise Shouts that rend the answering skies, And glad great Nature's universal frame. Oh PEACE! benignant theme divine. With more than bliss thou warm'st the breast; And bid'st the pallid features shine Of Sorrow sore distrest, With joy impassion'd, unconfined, Till every nerve, and every mind, The dear, the thrilling charm pervades: PEACE wipes the tear from beauty's eye, PEACE soothes fond memory's lingering sigh, A pensive pleasure breathes around In misery's isolated ground, Singing sweet requiems to her warriors' shades. Oh! THOU, whom by no fabled name The' adoring Muse presumes to call, THOU, who, unchangeably the same, Shak'st with the storms of war this earthly ball, Making vain man to man thy scourging rod, Or bid'st thy dearer attributes dispense The showers of thy beneficence, THOU GLORIOUS, GREAT, ETERNAL GOD! To Thee the boundless hymn we raise; To thee we consecrate the lyre; In songs of rapture shout thy praise, And bless Thy gift, the PEACE, with tongues of fire. ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE REV. THOMAS BROWNE, LATE OF HULL. WRAPT in her dark and wintry shroud, The moon scarce pierced the murky cloud; Low sigh'd the dull breeze in the grove, Where once it fann'd the sweets of love; And stealing o'er the shrinking sense, Sad Evening pour'd her vapours dense. When lo! the Muse, her feet unshod, Her tresses fluttering in the gale, On HUMBER's margin swiftly trod, And hied her to his inmost vale. There on his sedgy banks reclined She breathed her sorrows to the wind, Till far in the mysterious cell Where disembodied spirits dwell, The sons of Genius heard the note Which trembled in the refluent air, As sounds celestial sometimes float, —The music of a brighter sphere: They heard, and instant every breast A sacred sympathy confest: But chief the bands of pastoral verse Wept o'er their loved ALEXIS' hearse. And as, low bending o'er the shrine, His widow'd Muse thus mourning laid, All felt the influence divine And rush'd impatient to her aid. Each could with magic song impart A tone of love to touch the heart, And each, with hand celestial, pour Soft Consolation's balmy shower. They chose a strain of deepest skill To charm the bosom at its will; The mingled lutes of all were heard Warbling thro' the silent night, Like the sweet notes of that dear bird Whose voice makes darkness lovelier than light. For there was THOMPSON'S heavenly lyre, And SHENSTONE'S sweetly pensive song, And COLLINS, rapt with seraph fire, And BURNS, in native genius strong; There WALLER mourn'd his tender pain, And SPENSER pour'd his mellow strain, And GOLDSMITH told a tale so sad, so sweet, It charm'd wild Echo from her last retreat; And thou wert there, Oh Nymph distrest! Thy pale cheek blanch'd with briny dews, Thou CELIA, to ALEXIS breast More dear than life, or e'en the Muse! But ah! thy sorrow who shall paint, What hand thy keener pangs pourtray? The Muse's warmest tints are faint, She veils in awe the dread essay. Each Poet now, 'twas so decreed, Shed o'er the tomb a flowery meed; They strew'd the gentle violet blue, His modest merit's genuine hue, The snow drop, like his fortune pale, The perfumed tenant of the vale; Each blossom glittering with a tear:— When instant from the opening sky, A flood of kindling glory streams, Lost in the blaze the spirits fly, The earthly mourners bless the beams. From FAITH it came; her form sublime 'Midst earth and heaven majestic shone, High o'er the wrecks of Death and Time, She proved ALEXIS yet her own: Bright in the air a crown she bore, Mild radiance sparkled in her mien, A robe of lucid white she wore, And leaning on the cross was seen. Close at her side, a Cherub boy Whose blue eye spake approaching joy, With smile angelic, words that stole Thro' each fine movement of the soul, With his meek accents calm'd their swelling fear, For Sorrow's train are Hope's peculiar care. Blest pair! Oh still to you be given Our ardent vows, our grateful prayer, The sigh that wafts our Friend to heaven, The glance that views our Poet there: And Friendship's dearest boon, more blest appear, Sprung from the dust that guards his hallow'd bier. SONNET, COMPOSED ON THE BANKS OF ULSWATER. AH scenes! beloved by Fancy's beaming eye, Enthusiast sweet, that o'er the mountain wild Breathes in soft extacy the rapturous sigh, Or sings exulting thro' the smiling vale; Now thro' the dark glen wandering sadly mild, Or slowly sauntering thro' the flowery dale: In each kind breeze that curls the dimpling lake, Each orient beam that gilds the rock's bold brow, She feels young Genius in her bosoms wake, And mental morn's resplendent beauties glow. Bless'd ray of heaven, which bids the soul inhale Whate'er of good delighted sense pourtrays, Pours from each rill, and wafts from every gale Imagination's intellectual blaze! SONNET, COMPOSED IN A CELL, (COMMONLY CALLED THEGIANT'S CAVE,) ON THE BANKS OF THE EIMONT,IN CUMBERLAND. HAIL holy glooms! and thou mysterious cell, Wash'd by the gurgling Eimont's wildest flood, Where for unnumber'd ages thou hast stood A hermit-cavern in the rocky dell, Shelter'd amid the close embowering wood, And shaded by the dimly distant fell: Unseen save where the eye of fear surveys Sad spectres roving round thy drear domain, And shrieking o'er the woes of other days, Pour on the frighted stream a direful strain; What time the moon recalls her feeble rays, And night, and death, and desolation reign, Till morn returns, whose first soft-streaming light In thy deep dungeon chains the wearied sprite. LINES, Presented with a Snow Drop to a little Girl, just recovered from a severe illness. ACCEPT this promise of the opening year, The tender emblem of thine infant form, Bedew'd with gelid Winter's icy tear, Like thee, sweet plant! that braved life's earliest storm! Sweet fairy gem! 'twas thine with Pain to cope, Ere dawning Reason shed one genial ray, Ere blest Religion gave one beam of hope, To soothe the sorrows of Affliction's day: But like this gentle floweret, meek and mild, Pale bow'd thy fragile form, till smiling heaven Restored to trembling joy Thee darling child, Soft suffering snow drop by the tempest driven! May Spring's reviving breeze, and Summer's breath, Shed on thy breast, sweet Babe! their halcyon charms, Snatch'd from the wintry grasp of cheerless death, To bloom new blessings in thy Parents' arms STANZAS WRITTEN ON CHRISTMAS DAY. BEAM of oriental light, Breaking on the Gentile night! Star! whose beatific ray Waked ISAIAH'S hallow'd lay! Sun of Righteousness!—to THEE BRITAIN bends the suppliant knee. What though ROME, with pageant blaze, Idly mock thy solemn praise; What though impious GAUL disdain The mild blessings of thy reign; Still be ours the grace, the fame, Christian hopes and Christian name. Soon, as holy Seers foretold, All the world shall Thee behold, Crown'd in olive-wreathed car Trampling on the sons of war, O'er the willing nations sway Thro' eternity's bright day! Fly, ye lingering moments! fly, Bring the glorious vision nigh; Now begin the blissful hour, See! we now MESSIAH'S power! Now by every land adored Reign the UNIVERSAL LORD! STANZAS TO WINTER. MIRTH creating season, hail! Father of the wondrous tale; Thou who spread'st the social board, And the legendary hoard; While thy sparkling gleams aspire, Friendship lights her holy fire, Humour pours his merry song, Feast and dance the joys prolong. Tho' no flowerets grace thy brow, Honour'd tresses there shall flow; Intellectual worth is thine, Mental wreaths adorn thy shrine; Knowledge courts thy studious shade, Learning owns thy friendly aid, Music loves to soothe thy storm, Taste thy terrors to transform. Oft may I, with youthful train, Court Amusement's fairy reign; Or, in lonely pensive nook, Give my mind to storied book, Laugh at FIELDING'S sportive jest, Feel the truths by YOUNG imprest, Glance with MILTON'S piercing eye, Heave with GRAY the' elegiac sigh: While the evening embers glow, Watch the softy falling snow, Mark the rattling hail rebound, Listen to the tempest's sound, View the icy-fetter'd stream Thaw beneath a transient gleam, And the icicles on high Glittering in the partial sky: Nor alone these scenes be mine, Where enjoyments gaily shine; Banish'd from the social room, Pleased I court thy deepest gloom; For the setting sun I love Streaming thro' the leafless grove Purpled clouds around him cast, Changing in the northern blast: Till beneath the western shore, His red rays are seen no more: Thus the good man's parting breath Softly flits to silent death; Hope revives the drooping hour, Faith exerts her lenient power, Love illumes his happy breast, And lights him to eternal rest. RHAPSODY OF SORROW. WHEN on the morn I lift my eye, Its cool gale greets my rising sigh; When Sol his brightest beams displays, My sad soul sickens at his rays; And when the Queen of starry night With milder lustre soothes my sight, My heart to racking grief a prey Then mourns for the returning day. When round my feet gay flowerets rise, When Zephyrs play in cloudless skies, Waft fragrance o'er the murmuring floods, Or steal sweet music from the woods; In vain the beauteous scenes appear, In vain the melodies I hear; I long to see the tempest roll, And echo horrors to my soul. Yet if the welkin darkly lours, And o'er the plain the torrent pours; Or loud along the dark profound hear the deepening thunders sound; Or watch the lightnings forky glare Suffuse with death the livid air; And view the ALMIGHTY'S arrows hurl'd, Which soon may fire a sinking world: From these my soul affrighted flies And pants for Autumn's pensive joys, The falling leaf that shakes with death, The whistling wind that scours the heath, The fading verdure's yellow hue, The swelling brook, the cheerless view; Where Nature mourns her glories past And dreads November's hastening blast. Yet were these gloomy comforts mine, Their charms how soon should I resign! The sombre scene would fail to please A hapless heart so ill at ease; Then should I wish for Winter's mirth, The crackling fire, the glowing hearth, The jocund tale, the careless song, The festive dance, the sprightly throng! Ah cruel fate! not these, nor all The scenes that others happy call; Not all kind Nature's bounty spreads, Or Friendship's sweeter blossom sheds, Can this desponding heart restore To peace and comfort—mine no more, Exalt a soul so long deprest, And bid light Hope illume my breast. O, then be mine the silent woe, The secret tear that loves to flow; The sullen luxury of grief, That spurns the promise of relief, Thus rapt with Melancholy's charms, Or lock'd in Apathy's cold arms, Attach'd to these, to these a prey, I'll wear life's anxious hours away. TO ENTHUSIASM. AH sweet, bewitching Nymph! I love thee well, Whether on craggy cliffs thy footsteps stray; Or slowly rove the unfrequented dell, Where on the flinty rocks pale Pilgrims pray:— Whether thine ardour wakes Devotion's rays, Or beams in HOWARD'S philanthropic mind, Or from the Poet's heaven-strung lyre displays A song to charm and elevate mankind:— Whether high-throbbing in the Warrior's breast, Thy spirit leads him into climes unknown, Flames on his brow across the frigid waste, Or dares the danger of the torrid zone. Now thine inspiring voice and beaming eye To savage bands proclaim celestial truth; Or call to death, impatient for the sky, The martyr'd Hero in the blooming Youth. Now to the meek-eyed Nun I see thee turn, Slow winding to the cold saint's dreary shrine, Led on by thee to sorrow, weep and mourn, Or rise to extacy and joy divine. When in the virtuous heart thy tremors beat, 'Tis Heaven's own instinct given to bless mankind; Thou wakest the lingering ray's impulsive heat And new-born Genius lightens thro' the mind. How blest, how lovely THOU! when thus combined; But oft, what evils follow in thy train! How dire thy works! what miseries to mankind Mark the dark records of thy phrenzied reign! Ah! see the flame, that blazing o'er Peru, Speaks thy dread influence, listen to that yell! How shall the harrow'd soul sustain the view? Thy voice cried "Havoc!" slipp'd the dogs of hell! Yes! thou hast stained the sainted couch with blood, Hast bid the fire of fiends relentless glow; And driven the meek thro' stern oppression's flood, To desert caves, and wilds of polar snow. In later days let weeping GALLIA tell, While o'er her gory Plains ghaunt murder gleams, What tales of woe her hideous annals swell, How blend her horrors with thy frantic dreams! Oh! rise all lovely on BRITANNIA'S plains, Warm with thy purer rays her genial foil, Dart thy best lightning thro' the Patriot's veins, Guard the KING'S throne, and bless the Peasant's toil. LINES, OCCASIONED BY THE QUESTION, "Can you love me?" CAN Love again in this sad breast Resume his long deserted throne? His downy plume once more invest A heart by sorrow chill'd to stone? O'er the dark void of deep despair Again expand his infant wing, And from the pallid cheek of care Bid his own roseate blushes spring? Can the quick pulse of fond alarm In this cold bosom dare to beat? The trembling joy, the anxious charm, The bitter struggling with the sweet? The speaking glance, the mingling sigh, The conscious tremor of delight, Can there illume the sinking eye? Can there dispel the hopeless night? Ah no! all cold, and dark, and void, Scarce beams one spark of genial fire; The very power of Love destroy'd, Oh life! in mercy too expire! STANZAS INSCRIBED TO A WINTER STOCK. SWEET, luckless Plant! whose purpled flowerets bloom, Though chill November's cruel blasts assail, With ruthless fury antedate thy doom, And tell of life how sad the fleeting tale! Thus have I seen fair Virtue's suffering child, When fell disease display'd his rancorous power, Bow to the blast with resignation mild, And smile submission in the chastening hour. Thus young LORENZO, rich in every grace, That shews the inly good, the truly great, The chilling form of early death could face, And blossom in the withering grasp of fate. Oh! tell the anguish, ye who round his bed Saw love maternal watch with ceaseless care, A Brother's arms support his drooping head, And weeping friends the sacred sorrow share! Oh! tell the transport of each feeling heart, When opening on the view his radiant mind Would every beam of reason's glory dart, Or breathe a sigh that spoke a soul resign'd. Yet oh! in vain your eloquence shall paint, In vain shall friendship mount on seraph's wings, Her highest strains how low, her tints how faint, How weak the lyre, with all its living strings! Alas! to mourn, dear Youth! be mine alone, Heave the soft sigh thy bosom knew to feel, Soothe sweet remembrance with pale Pity's moan, And love the virtues I can ne'er reveal! A FRIENDLY EPISTLE, WRITTEN FROM BANNERCROSS, WHILE ATTENDING THE SICK BED OF A SISTER. ASK you, my Friend, how wear the lonely hours In this sad mansion, where affection leads My humble efforts to partake the cares Pale sickness claims, support the sinking frame, Smooth the soft pillow, pour the cooling draught, Or tempt the sickly appetite to taste, Point the wide landscape to the glistening eye And in some happier moment to recall The forms of pleasure to the chilling heart?— Come you shall spend with me one evening hour, For well I know the rights of social woe, And all that soft humanity demands Can win your bosom;—nor will you disdain This humble offering of uncultured verse, Tho' Science opes to you her richest stores, And classic knowledge animates your mind. As now the balmy evening's sweetest airs Salubrious breathe, and from the vocal grove Ten thousand songsters pour their varied notes, In sweetest vespers to her lingering ear, Tread we the lawn, inhale the cheerful breeze and snatch a portion of the general joy, Which Nature in this liberal season pours On all around:—lo! from our velvet path In soft descent a beauteous valley spreads, Rich in the promise of autumnal fruits, Adorned with many a clump of towering trees And hedge-rows whitened by the odorous thorn: Thence rising full and bold with mountain swell And now with fine retreat ascending slow, Bedeck'd with all that charms the' enthusiast eye Of wood and field and peeping cottage, seen In every varied form of pastoral grace, Far spreads the distant view!—Now will we turn Thro' many a winding path of flowery shrubs That long unpruned and unregarded shoot; Whole wild luxuriance forms umbrageous bowers, And blends their fragrance o'er our stooping heads. Here the rich lilac veils her tyrian hues, And there laburnum flaunts her yellow locks; While o'er the ground in gay profusion swell Myriads of spiral leaves, and lovely flowers Of pink and azure hue, or brilliant white, Such as might tempt, with dewy feet unshod Health-breathing lip, and quickly glancing eye, The Muse Botanic, with her favourite YOUNGE, To' explore the' untrodden path, and point again Her vernal infants to his curious view. But haste we thro' these woodland-haunts to seek The closest foliage of the highest grove: This is my temple!—this the awful scene To which my wandering steps unconscious tend, Whene'er unusual sorrow on my heart Presses her iron hand:—here can I shed The silent tear; here pour the silent prayer, Till by degrees the bitter pang removes, And sainted stillness steals o'er all my soul, Meek and submitted to the will of Heaven: Sweet peace succeeds;—sometimes the trembling sigh Mingles a chasten'd rapture, as it thrills In adoration thro' the' awaken'd soul, And gives to earth-born woe's impassioned tear Devotion's ardent faith, and hope sublime. Short be our stay, for duty's urgent claim Demands the quick return; yet may I point To friendship's eye that tall and beauteous beech, (Whose spreading branches, like the good man's arms Protect and shelter all within their sphere,) For this hath grateful memory's fondest sigh, And holy fancy, sanctified by grief Esteem'd a monument of him, whose name (The Husband! Lover! Friend!) is all I boast; Like this erect he stood;—the good,—the great Commingled in his bosom, sternly just, Unwarpt by pleasure, unseduced by gain, The Roman virtue charm'd his glorying mind: Yet was he mild as April's dewy breeze, Prone to soft Pity's sigh, to Friendship's claim And all the tender charities of life. Tho' now no more my bursting bosom heaves Tempestuous sorrows, nor my pallid cheek Tells of the midnight hour's enanguish'd gloom, Believe me, Time, altho' he wiped the tear, Tore not the image from my stricken breast Of HIM, the best, the dearest;—deep enshrined His virtues and his kindness rest secure Ee'n in my "heart of hearts."—I oft am weak, I love to jest, to join in gay discourse, And but for keen Adversity's strong hand, That bound me down to sober sentiment, Perchance I ne'er had reason'd, ne'er had felt: Yet still there is a corner in my heart Where all the widow rests!——— ————We'll enter now The gloomy mansion, where in empty state And cobweb'd ruin hang a goodly list Of pictured Lords, and many a beauteous Dame Of ATHOL'S princely race; for time has been They graced these gloomy walls, and e'en of late Hath Beauty's Queen here shewn her peerless power And given her mandates from a MURRAY's eyes: Bereft of these the mouldering mansion wears, In every view, the signals of decay; Slow whispering winds creep thro' the chilling rooms, The tatter'd hangings shake with every breeze, Thro' the long passages and cold dark halls, So fame reports, the flimsy spirits glide In robes of white, or sweep the narrow stairs In all the shapes of fear-form'd misery! But chief alas! amid this general scene Of Desolation is the wasted form Of my poor ANNA!—mark that sunken eye, Where revel'd once the brightest beams of mind! That cheek where only hectic roses glow, Mocking the hapless victim they adorn: Oh! listen to that voice so soft, so sweet, Tho' now perhaps a slight delirium marks The various wanderings of a weakened brain, Soon will the powers of reason full return, Like the bright gleam, that in a wintry sky Shoots one short ray amid a world of gloom! This is a sight to mourn! so fair, so young, So excellent, so formed to every hope Of gentle goodness, and of active worth, Thus smitten, thus subdued;—the faded face, Where youth and innocence once planted joy, And health and loveliness, thus all resign'd To the dread graces of consumption's growth, The fragile form, reduced till Friendship's self Shrink' to behold a breathing skeleton, And scarce can touch the hand she flew to clasp! Day after day, and hour succeeding hour, The secret silent fire that feeds on life Still urges, still delays the dreadful stroke: While dearer still the patient Sufferer winds New bonds of love around the bleeding breast, And nearer as the approaching blow descends The Friend, the Parent cries "we cannot part." But tho' thus desolated, thus bereft Of all that youth, and life, and love demands, Thus withering in thy prime, sweet blighted flower! Sure thou shalt flourish in a better soil, A brighter sun, a purer day shall dawn, Rich in eternal joy, on thy blest eye, When that resplendent orb, that pours a flood Of golden glory on the western hills, And gladdens Nature with his evening beams, Shall vanish into everlasting night. LINES,COMPOSED WHILST CLIMBING SOME ROCKS IN DERBYSHIRE. YE hoary rocks, primeval turrets, hail! That scowling crown the mighty mountain's brow Tremendous contrast to the smiling vale, Where dimpling Derwent laves the meads below; I love your rugged tops, your batter'd sides, Snow-cover'd glens, and unfrequented dells, Where many a winding streamlet gurgling slide, And o'er the moss-clad stones meandering swells: Still would my feet your pathless tracks explore, Climb the rude crags, and dare the threatening height, 'Till Sol's last rays illume the western shore And tinge the' empurpled clouds with golden light; Feel your dread powers exalt my placid mind, And leave to care the trifling world behind. TO MELANCHOLY. SAY love-lorn, moody, frantic Maid, Where rests thy visionary form? Beneath the dark rock's yew-crown'd shade, Sad listening to the distant storm? Or dwells thy doleful spirit near The hapless grave of plighted love, Which claims the undissembled tear, While soft sighs murmur thro' the grove? Reign'st thou in some bewildered breast, Usurping reason's vacant throne, And where sweet Peace was wont to rest, Inspiring griefs before unknown? Ah wheresoe're thy wandering wing Expands o'er Sorrow's cypress bower, To thee my sighs must homage bring, My drooping hear confess thy power. TO DESPAIR. THERE is no treachery in thine hollow eye, And therefore do I woo thee, wan DESPAIR! Round thy pale lips no promised pleasures fly, No smiling dæmons, robed in witchery fair; But cold and comfortless, with haggard mien, Sincerely sad; with blanch'd unvarying cheek, How dost thou view the world with brow serene, And clasp the fettering woe thou wilt not break! Better this awful gloom, this mental death Befits the heart, where grief was wont to reign, Than fondly blown by Hope's deceitful breath O'er seas of promise into gulphs of pain, Feel thro' each nerve the varied torture pour, And curse the flattering fiend's too transient hour. TO WAR. RELENTLESS Power! whose iron grasp extends O'er every tie that gives creation charms, From fond Affection's bleeding bosom rends Each social comfort circled in her arms. Detested Fiend! to pour woe's bitter draught On sinking Age and drooping Worth, is thine; Blast the fine form with feeling beauty fraught, And bear e'en lisping Babes to Sorrow's shrine. For not alone is thy dread arm confest, Where legal murder stains the smoking ground, Thy baneful poignard strikes the distant breath, And from afar inflicts the secret wound; Chases fair Pleasure from the paths of life, To haunt its ways with misery, pain and strife. TO WEALTH. IDOL of fools! whose glittering crown entwines The wrinkled brow of life-consuming Care, The gaudy treasure of thy flaming mines, Why wilt thou yield to base AVARO'S prayer? Why give to haughty tyrants power to curse, Exalt vain Folly on his gilded car? Or bid Ambition's purple poignard pierce A sinking nation with destructive war? Cease, thus thy dreadful bounty to dispense, Nor swell of evil the terrific score: Let modest Want and meek Benevolence Taste the perverted blessings of thy store: Reward the noble, aid the generous mind, Be Heaven's own gift,—a blessing to mankind. TO FEAR. AH FEAR! thou ruthless messenger of woe, Avert thine haggard eye, nor pierce my heart, For the fell horrors thou canst make me know, Are worse than keen disease, or misery's dart; The pangs relieved by Hope's enchanting smile, Or borne by Patience with resigned tear, Subdue not half the soul, till thou beguile The sinking mind with sufferings more severe; 'Tis thine to arm e'en Pain with torture new, In dark suspence wrap Fate's malignant mien, Spread o'er Solicitude a murky hue, And blast with chilling doubt life's mildest scene: Oh far, far hence thy dreaded powers change, Nor sink any victim heart beneath thy threaten'd rage. COMPLAINT. ON every side the threatening tempest lowers, Distress and woe my weary steps surround, Stern Poverty her baleful torrent pours, And Slander's blasting breezes far resound: Malignant tempest! wilt thou never cease, Till life's last sigh hath trembled from my heart? Must my unhappy soul never taste of peace; Till the dread hour that dooms her to depart? Still to succeeding griefs an easy prey, Fated to feel those pangs I cannot cure; Corroding sorrow marks each passing day, And forms new ills for future life to' endure, And as youth's opening blossoms lift their heads, From deepening clouds contagious mildew sheds. ADDRESS TO MR. GRUNDALL, WHO WAS BLIND. "SEASONS return, but not to thee return" The vivid hues which make Creation bright, Doom'd the sad loss of radiant day to mourn, In the dark clouds of ever-during night. But ah! that brighter beam, that better day Of Reason's intellectual orb is thine, Thy shining soul reflects the purer ray, Which streams immediate from the Source Divine. Hail! happy Man! the paths of grosser sense Closed from thine hallow'd view by heavenly care, With visions bland ne'er wake those ills propense Which oft the Christian's yielding heart ensnare: Beneath a fairer sky serenely blest, Thou hast the promise of eternal rest. LINES, OCCASIONED BY HEARING THAT SOME MORAVIAN MISSIONARIES WERE SENT TO GREENLAND. COLD sterile Country! where no flowerets smile, No lovely foliage crowns the snow-clad mount, Whose frost-bound turf defies the plowman's toil, Whose icy fetters bind the gelid fount: Ungenial climate! comfortless and bare, Perpetual Winter's ever sad domain! Whose sons, the prey of poverty and care, Roam wildly savage o'er the desert plain: Oh hail the light, Germania's guides impart; Welcome the strangers to your frigid shore; Let their glad tidings warm the' enlighten'd heart, Exalt the mind with all their heavenly lore; From grovelling sense the sacred spark refine, And wake the torpid soul to life divine. LINES, Written at Huddersfield, when FREDERICK∗ was ill. ON my pale cheek, for ever fled, The rose of health no more shall bloom; Nor Hope her lovely lustres shed To gild my bosom's midnight gloom. By every trembling nerve confest, O'er all my souls declining powers, I feel the hand of Sorrow prest, And deep Despair malignly lowers. But one faint star, for many a day, Cheer'd my fond heart with infant light; Behold! it sinks,—dear dawning ray, It sinks—in shades of central night;— Torn from the quivering heart that bleeds to save, Sinks in young beauty to the ruthless grave!

The Author's only Child.

WRITTEN IN A GARDEN AT BATH. FAREWELL, dear russet seat! adieu, sweet bower! The pensive heart that tunes this humble lay, Far from thy much loved haunts must pass the hour, And wear life's fading remnant far away: For Hope no more shalt fill her silvery horn To gild the gloom of this benighted breast, Blythe Fortune's smile my luckless youth adorn, Maternal kindness hush my cares to rest, Nor Friendship's solace bless my cheerless heart, Nor roseate Love, with all his tender care, The gentle balm of tranquil Peace impart; By rigid Fate consigned to dark Despair, Torn from all earthly joy,—this mind alone Darts one bright glance into the "dread unknown." ADDRESS TO MISS M——. WHEN keen-eyed Sorrow round my languid head Wrapt her pale weeds, inwove with thorny care, And deep Regret her shadowing pinions spread O'er the sad dwelling of forlorn Despair, Thou camest, ELIZA! fair as pictured Love, When opening on the view of sanguine Youth; Obedient Graces round his footsteps move, And smiling Hope assumes the robe of Truth: Soul-soothing dreams she gave, now mine no more; But Friendship's meeker light the gloom pervades, Blest with thy cheering eye, and mind's rich store, Soft comfort faintly beams thro' sorrow's shades: Dearer than Hope, thy gentle form I view, Her charms were false! but thine sweet maid are true! THE GENIUS OF THE ROCKS ADDRESSING A GAY PARTY AT ROACH ABBEY. SAY who are ye that with unhallow'd feet O'er my recluse domains thus freely rove? Disturb the silence of my lone retreat, And with rude mirth pollute the affrighted grove? Know, STRANGERS! ere yon awful pile appear'd, Whose sacred ruins now instruct your eye, My voice in every listening dell was heard, "Live ye soft scenes alone for those who sigh!" If then amid your giddy train be found One throbbing heart, one eye that boasts a tear, Pleased may she hear the sweetly-soothing sound: "Pale child of sorrow! thou art welcome here; In these green paths again thy troubled breast Shall taste divine repose, and heaven-inspired rest!" COMPOSED NEAR HILLSBOROUGH. NOW sober Cynthia spreads her lucid beam, With quivering ray the silent glen pervades, Tints the brown the wood that crowns yon silvery stream, And darts fine lustres on the full cascades: Through drear autumnal scenes, her rays diffuse That gentle charm which soothes the pensive sigh, Now Spring no more presents her blushing hues, And Summer's gaudy pageants fading fly: 'Tis thus, sweet Hope! thro' Sorrow's blasting day, Thy meek-eyed light kind solace can impart, Give to departing joy a lingering ray, And cheer with promised good the drooping heart: With radiant hand life's sable clouds remove, And ere the future dawns its blessings prove. LINES, DEDICATED TO THE AVON AT BRISTOL. BY SHAKESPEARE'S AVON, many a Muse Hath bathed her feet in rosy dews, And mark'd the moon's pale beams diffuse Her silvery light; Caught with fine glance her shadowy hues With fairy visions bright. Then hath she told of "Nature's Child," His heaven-strung harp, his "woodnotes wild," His direful rage, his sorrows mild, Till round the lyre, A thousand listening Naiads smiled, And glow'd with kindred fire. But, ah! of Thee, lethean Stream! No Poet forms his tuneful theme, Or wooes the sweet ideal dream To spread thy fame; Yet dearer far Thy Votaries deem Thine unpretending name. Thy green wave, as it creeps along, Old VINCENT's blooming dells among, Still shall inspire the grateful song Of rising health; Or wake to harmony the tongue Of renovated health. Here Nature, on her rocky throne, Girt with a sky-bespangled zone, Claims the wide landscape for her own, As when of yore Her primal glories proudly shone Wide-strecht from shore to shore. Haply some glowing Bard of old Thy matchless praise in song hath told, Whose verse the mystic veils infold Of language rude; As the rough stone hides glittering gold, With Heaven's own beam endued. Ye Scenes, to every feeling dear, That wakes the smile, that claims the tear, Or bids the astonish'd mind revere Your glorious charms, Transports with joy, or awes with fear, And all the bosom warms; Still shall my soul, to Nature true, Admire her works on every view, That feasts my raptured eyes with you; And all my heart Shall long regret the sad adieu, That dooms me to depart. A TALE. TO gain yon Castle's towers sublime, Whose proud walls dare the frown of time, A hardy knight essay'd: The eve was dark, the moon o'ercast, And long and loud the sounding blast, Athwart the youthful warrior past, But nought his heart dismay'd. Now rolling thro' the dark profound, A thousand bellowing thunders sound, A thousand lightings glare; The forked death around his head Its fiery horrors fiercely shed, And o'er his dangerous pathway spread A bright bewildering snare. When hark! a low and muttering sound Rose near him from the' enlighten'd ground, That to his eye display'd A yawning cave, which opening wide, A shelter from the storm supplied; Thither the weary Wanderer hied, Awe-struck, but not afraid. But ne'er before did mortal Wight Behold so dread, so wild a sight As met his blasted view; Ten thousand sprites of forms more dire Than frenzied madness could inspire, Or people hell's eternal fire, Composed the horrid crew. There all the fiends that vex mankind, By passion and disease combined, Embodied shapes express'd: Ghaunt Murder flash'd his desperate blade, And slow cold Cruelty display'd The emblem of her dastard trade, An infant's bleeding breast. There Scorn and Malice, side by side, Pale Envy's haggard jaws supplied, With Beauty's tenderest tears, With drops from Honour's bosom wrung, With sighs from genuine Worth new-sprung, With anguish waked by Slander's tongue, And agonizing fears. There raging Anger gnash'd his teeth, And deep Revenge lay close beneath, Sharpening his hidden steel; And cunning Hatred leagued with Ire, And Lust and Jealousy conspire To stretch the rack, to feed the fire, And turn the' infernal wheel. There all the foul, the hideous train, That waste the form with ruthless pain, Appear in loathsome state; Wrapt in the rags of want they rise And blast with vile disgust the eyes, While through the air infectious sighs Invoke impending fate. High in the midst a throne uprose, Which skulls, and shrouds, and worms compose, And form a fearful sight; Stain'd with fresh streaks of gory red, Black palls across the top are spread, And eyes new-pluck'd from seamen dead Emit a ghastly light! There saw the Knight with horror, laid, Fair as the morn, a beauteous Maid, The prey of tortures dire, From whose blue eyes incessant flow The briny tears, whose lips of snow And cheeks that burn with hectic glow Bespeak internal fire. Close by her side, a wizard form, Dark as the Demon of the Storm, In awful silence stood: And from her breast of swan-like hue, Deep-pierced, a shining thread she drew, And while she wound the magic clue, Thus hail'd the impious brood. "Slaves of my potent word! attend "The mandates of your Queen and Friend, "And thence imbibe the art, "With new-found pangs to rack mankind, "With new-found fetters learn to bind "The fragile form, the conquer'd mind, "And wring the bleeding heart. "Vicegerents of the grisly king! "Your brightest powers must tribute bring "To his detested throne; "To me belongs the higher praise "To torture life ten thousand ways, "Yet still protract the thorny maze; "I reign a Queen alone. "Yet from small origin I came, "Mere "NERVOUS WEAKNESS" is my name, "A name to man how dire! "Lo! in my powerful grasp are found "Black Melancholy's cureless wound, "And fierce Despair that bites the ground, "And Madness, breathing fire. "I wave aloft my mystic wand, "And lo! ten thousand Demons stand "Obedient to my nod; "Amid the tempest-brooding night "I wake the visionary Sprite, "And seize, wide-flashing lurid light, "My ever-brandish'd rod. "Ye servile creatures of my will! "Your forms ideal but fulfil "My torture-pouring scheme; "Around my beauteous victim thrown, "She feels your sufferings all her own, "And bears with many a woeful groan, "A sadly-waking dream. "Long as this 'witching thread I hold "Ne'er shall the latent spell unfold "Her sorrows secret cause; "This wond'rous thread, compact and dense, "First spun by listless Indolence, "Then form'd by Feeling's finest sense, "And Hypocondria's laws!" Soon as the Hag her spell betray'd, The eager Youth unsheathed his blade, And swift as heaven's own light, The hellish charm at once he broke, It snapt asunder at his stroke; Then to the gazing Virgin spoke The rapt and ardent Knight;— "Dear SENSIBILITY, adored! "To life, to bliss, to love restored, "EXERTION sets thee free; "Lo! where the pageant Terrors fly, "The lowering storms now break on high, "And Peace and Innocence are nigh "To guide thy steps with me. "See Virtue's fane appears in view, "This shall thy timid steps pursue, "No more by fear deprest; "On me repose, dear trembling Fair! "Assured the breath of Woe and Care "To wound that heart shall never dare, "Lodged in EXERTION's breast. LINES, ON THE DEATH OF MR. TAYLOR, OF WHITWORTH. THO' on the flower, that strews thy modest bier, The sons of learning look contemptuous down, Tho' lofty science, with fastidious sneer, Scorn the meek hand that paints thy just renown:— True to her trust shall grateful Sorrow raise The simple note that chaunts thy well-earn'd fame; Secure that many a heart re-echoes praise; And many a fond tongue faulters at thy name. Tho' at thy tomb no 'scutcheon'd hearse attend, No proud memorials point the sacred earth, How many wretched o'er thy grave shall bend! How many bless the hour that gave thee birth! No need hast thou the sculptured urn to share, The LIVING praise thee, and from sire to son, Thy trophies gain'd in many a circling year, Shall mark the glories by thy knowledge won. Knowledge! yes start not Man of letter'd pride! Blest be thy studious path, thy nobler lore, But dare not NATIVE GENIUS to deride, Nor chain to earth what Heaven commands to fear. Who taught the SHEPHERD's BOY∗ in sand to trace The moon's fair orbit, and the starry sphere?

FERGUSON.

Who gave to BLOOMFIELD's song the finish'd grace? Or form'd to harmony the INFANT's ear?∗ Nor to the beauteous arts alone confined, Is Heaven's rare gift, TRUE GENIUS; rudely great, Its beams pervade the coarse, but powerful mind, And stamp the soul with characters of fate. Blest be the Man, who to this genial light, Adds piercing Science, Learning's polish'd ray! He too be blest, whose keen untutor'd sight, Instinctive, glances o'er the tedious way! Such, TAYLOR! was thy praise, and to the skill Which life's best boon to thousands did impart,

WESLEY.

Was join'd the generous aim, the anxious will, The rough firm action; but the yielding heart. Tho' with thy sons we gladly may rehearse, "Thy mantle is not with thy spirit fled," Still claims thy tomb the tributary verse, And the soft tear by grateful memory shed. LINES Written in November, 1796. YE Demons of the blustering gale, November's awful Offspring, hail! For as ye sweep along the vale In Horror's vest, Ye tell me many a woe-fraught tale, That suits my pensive breast. Ye tell the shipwreck'd Seaman's lore, The dangers of a craggy shore; The cells of Murder ye explore, The Lover's tomb; Your breezes chill, your winds that roar, Still speak increasing gloom. Too well ye please my drooping mind, To melancholy thoughts inclined, That sighing with the wintry wind, Repeats the tale, "Lorenzo's sick!—the good, the kind!" "LORENZO!" swells the gale. And shall this bosom taste repose, While his no transient respite knows From Pain's sad agonizing woes, While o'er his head Disease her sable mantle throws, With grief and anguish spread? Forbid it all the Powers of Love! Those Powers his goodness bade me prove; But sadly as the minutes move To his dear heart, From mine the sense shall ne'er remove That claims,—that takes a part. But Hope, a radiant form, appears, Like Spring to chase November's tears; And lo! the train of anxious fears That rend my soul, Fly from the cherub smile she wears, And bless her sweet controul. Blest be the morn; the evening blest, That bids his weary eyelids rest, Or soothes the throbbings of a breast To Virtue dear, Of friendship's tenderest joys possest, And love—O how sincere! WILLIAM AND HELEN. LIGHT flew the evening hours along, The dazzling tapers vied with day, And mirthful wit, and festive song Charm'd the fleet wings of Time away;— Where WILLIAM graced the glowing scene, Fortune's gay darling, Fashion's soul, And, pleasure sparkling in his mien, Grasp'd with firm hand the mantling bowl. "This to the death of Care!" he cried:— When slowly creak'd the' unfolding door, And soon the astonish'd group espied A wretched Hag, forlorn and poor. Adown her wan and ghastly cheek Slow roll'd deep misery's scanty tears, And all her visage seem'd to speak The weight and woes of fourscore years. She seized on WILLIAM'S lifted arm: He shudders at her palsied hand; But struck as with a wizard charm, Obedient follows her command. O'er the dark heath where waters glide, Through the thick wood and pathless glen, Far from the voice of prosperous pride, Far from the "busy haunts of men."— She led him to a mouldering cot, Where scarce one faggot's quivering light Shew'd the sad penury of her lot, And blasted WILLIAM'S awe-struck sight. There on the cold, cold bed of death, The beauteous orphan ELLEN lay, And from her last soft lingering breath These piteous accents forced their way. "Victim of sorrow and of truth, "Lo! in the dawn of life I sink: "Then hear me, WILLIAM! perjured youth! "I ask thee on the grave's chill brink;— "When torn from every tender tie, "A Parent's love, a Brother's care, "Blasted with sorrow's withering sigh, "Fortune and friends dissolved in air:— "How couldst thou plan such fairy schemes, "To win my unsuspecting breast? " Restore gay Hope's illusive dreams, "To cheat and vanish like the rest? "How couldst thou paint the joys of home, "A home from care and sorrow free? "Prepare the interesting dome, "And say,—"my ELLEN! 'tis for thee!" "Was it to point with keener smart "Misfortune's pang, and Penury's woe, "And rend the lacerated heart, "And lay the struggling spirit low? "Say, 'mid the gay and giddy train, "That sport around in thoughtless glee, "Could none be found to taste of pain, "None mark'd for misery but me? "Where was the honour, where the zest, "To strike a bruised victim lower? "Oh! 'twas a mean and piteous jest, "Unworthy even of falsehood's power! "Could not my Mother's sainted shade, "Protection to her child impart? "Nor pity for an helpless maid "Damp the cool treachery of thine art? "Ah! no, my bosom trembling, torn, "With melting love, with bickering rage, "In vain hath sought in fancied scorn "The deep keen misery to assuage. "Soon shall its throbbing anguish sleep "In the cold chambers of thr grave; "And o'er the eyes thou madest to weep "The high-grown grass shall slowly wave. "Then memory, faithful to my claim, "From thy cold breast shall wring a sigh, "Whisper my long-forgotten name, "And feel my spirit hovering nigh. "Yet be thy cruelty forgiven: "Tis my last prayer!"—no more she spoke: Oh! may that prayer be heard in heaven, Tho' ELLEN'S gentle heart was broke! Aghast and speechless WILLIAM stood, Entranced with agonizing pain, Congealing horror froze his blood, While madness fired his beating brain. Is this the Youth so late carest By Beauty's smile, by Flattery's tongue? Is this the Man that dared be blest, "When conscience whisper'd "thou art wrong?" In thunder now her flighted power Speaks to his heart, nor bears controul; 'Tis retribution's awful hour, 'Tis the first judgment to the soul. See now the frantic Maniac kiss His clay-cold ELLEN'S lifeless form; Now raving seek the dread abyss, Or howling court the midnight storm. Now on the hard, hard rock he lies While round his head the lightenings play; Now o'er the heath, the glen he flies, Nor bounds, nor force obstruct his way. Nor food he takes, nor friend he views Save with the Ideot's senseless stare, His lips all sounds of speech refuse, Save muttering ELLEN'S last fond prayer. The bed of straw, the massy chain, The madman's cell his days await, Prepared, but ah! prepared in vain, For closed is WILLIAM'S early fate. From the high mountain's shelving steep, Urged by remorse and black despair, Headlong he sought the watry deep,— He sought his murder'd ELLEN there. For beauteous ELLEN'S fatal love, Let Pity's tenderest tears be given; And WILLIAM'S dread repentance move Sweet Mercy's prayer, "forgive him, Heaven!" TO FREDERICK. THO' Friendship may soothe me with tenderness sweet, Benevolence open her arms And bless my poor heart with this tranquil retreat, Secure from life's cruel alarms: Still true to its object, an instinct divine Draws me near thee the farther we part, My being's best essence, my FREDERICK! is thine, Thou child of my soul, of my heart! Surrounded by many my bosom holds dear, Sweet prattlers that solace the day, Yet the vigils of night claim the bitterest tear, A Mother bereaved can pay. Sole source of exertion! sole object of hope! Who taught me when sunk in despair, With the anguish of blasted enjoyment to cope, And smile on the fetters of care: Say wilt thou when time shall have mellow'd thy brow And his down shades the rose on thy cheek, With the voice of maturity fondly, as now, The language of tenderness speak? In the hey-day of youth wilt thou stop to reflect What pangs through this bosom must press, Should it meet the cold glance of unfeeling neglect, From the child it has languish'd to bless? When tottering with age, or grief's early decay, Shall thy love my best comforter be? Wilt thou cherish the Parent so wrinkled and grey, Who knows no Protector but thee? Shall I view in my darling, thus blessing and blest, His FATHER'S dear image restored: Then sinking to death, on thy dutiful breast, Revisit my HUSBAND, my LORD? TO AUTUMN. DEAR are thy scenes, loved AUTUMN! to my soul, Thy soften'd tints that soothe my languid eye, As mild and shadowy on my view they roll, Like purple flitting clouds from evening's sigh. To crown the fields with waving wealth is thine, To spread unbounded proud POMONA'S store, Lead the glad Swain to Gratitude's bright shrine, And fill his soul with all her heaven-taught lore. But ah! 'tis not thy lustre-pouring bloom, Nor the bright beauties of thy glowing train, Delight me like that meeker hallow'd gloom Which shades and sanctifies thy closing reign. Oh yes! I love thee when, thy gay hues past, Thy fading verdure wears its saddest form; When the wind whistles, and the chilling blast, Winter's wild Herald, speaks his hastening storm. When thy rich greens assume a sickly change, And the brown mountain rears his cloudy head, Whose unclothed sides no more invite to range The herds and flocks his summer bounty fed. Life's Autumn too I prize, and dearly love, Far more than Youth's light folly-fluttering hour, And fain would now those sober pleasures prove That on its tranquil moments ever pour. When calm Reflection chastening Passion's heat, And wise Experience elegantly flow, Restrains the throbbing heart's too fervid beat, And tempers, but not chills, its generous glow. Then treasured Knowledge opes her golden stores, Illumed with Learning, meek as parting day, Informs, enlightens, but not overpowers The placid mind with Wisdom's dazzling ray. With purer lustre social Virtues shine, The noblest feelings then their powers impart, Their finest movements round the soul entwine, And shed pure pleasures on the soften'd heart. Oh! be it mine thy meekest charms to taste, Beaming soft comfort o'er each aching sense; Through bustling life's meridian hour to haste And rest on scenes her autumn can dispense. LINES ADDRESSED TO A MARRIED LADY. THOUGH in thy mildly blooming face Dwell softness, innocence and truth, And round thy lips with dimpling grace, Give promise of perennial youth; Though still thy gentle accents flow, Sweet as the whispering breath of spring, And peace adorns thy tranquil brow, Soft as the Cygnet's downy wing; Beyond e'en Beauty's dazzling zone Thy dearer powers to charm extend: I love thee;—for I long have known The Wife, the Mother, and the Friend. LINES SENT TO A LADY WITH AN INFANT'S CAP. PERHAPS this petty boon may shade A face where shining beauties move, And all a Mother's charms pervade The object of her tenderest love:— Haply may bind an artless head, Where the rich gems of Genius lie, Whose intellectual powers may shed The soul's bright lustres from the eye. From this unknown, but genial source, Truth may derive a fairer charm, And strike with energetic force, With heavenly emanation warm. Here may the flame heroic burn, And gild the future page of fame; Or milder arts may justly learn, On peaceful grounds the better claim;— O'er the wide ocean's pathless wave To views commercial lead the mind, Pour freedom's ray on Afric's slave, And harmonize all human kind. Such be the hope, and such the zest, That animates thy tender care, And gives to all the Mother's breast The finest sense heaven planted there. TO MIDNIGHT. PENSIVE I court thee, grief devoted hour! Sacred to sorrow, dear to tender woe, When the full heart its bleeding griefs may pour, And bid uncheck'd the gloomy torrent flow: What time pale Cynthia wanders near the wane, And glimmering stars contract their feeble light, Sad silence rules o'er all the sleeping plain, Sharing dull empire with her parent night. In this drear sympathetic scene I trace The inward gloom that wraps my drooping heart, See cruel fate hope's lingering beams efface, See friendship, peace and comfort all depart, While morbid melancholy's arms enroll With mantling misery all my woe-fraught soul. LINES Presented with an Ice Plant to a Young Lady. ACCEPT, dear maid! the tribute of a friend, Who, like her boon, is bathed with many a tear, Whom sorrow's icy dews have made to bend, And taught to mourn till misery's self be dear. Yet while upon this humble plant you gaze, And give to pity's claim a generous sigh, Mark in our kindred fate life's suffering maze, Till sympathy's soft drops suffuse your eye; Remember man's most melancholy scenes Amid a bright reverse, whose hopes arise Above the earth-born floweret's fairest greens, Thro' Death's dim cloister, to those radiant skies, Where ardent Faith still views the prospect fair, And leads to all we love and value there. TO DISEASE. THOU Queen of Terrors! from whose iron hand My groaning frame hath felt unwonted smart, Hath sunk and fainted at thy fierce command, And found thine arrows rankling in my heart: Yet, yet, stern minister of Vengeance! hear! I woo thy horrid form,—I call thee blest, I ask thee trembling—but I ask sincere, Oh leave me not, thou heaven directed guest! Still scourge thy victim, till thy chastening rod Hath truly taught my suppliant soul to bend, And humbly bless the mercies of that GOD, Who thus afflicting, shall refine, amend, And purify my soul from earth's dull clay, Then wing its mystic flight to everlasting day. TO DISAPPOINTMENT. AH yes! I feel this is thy conquering hour, It tears me weeping from expected joy, Yet know, Tormentor! that I scorn thy power, I hold a bliss thou never canst destroy. For tho' no more his converse I attend, His darling form my tearful eyes resign, Nor longer view the lover and the friend In one kind heart their dearest charms combine; Yet well I know that generous heart will beat In tenderest sympathy with mine alone, Thro' distant space our kindred spirits meet, Exchange the sigh, and heave the gentle moan, In fondest unison our souls entwined Know but one spring, and act but from one mind. ODE, ON THE DEATH OF DR. DARWIN. ON DARWIN'S tomb, with sweet funereal strains, Shall high-born Poets plant immortal bays, Yet while imperial Ocean not distains The humblest rill that from the mountain strays, A Muse, unknown to Fame's remotest bound, May skim with trembling foot the consecrated ground. Around that tomb what varied woes appear! There pale HYGEIA breathes a pensive sigh; And Forms æerial crowd the hallow'd sphere, Born in the beams of Fancy's vivid eye; Etherial Sprites, that from his pencil thrown, A being in the world of genius claim; Blest race! that in their Poet's vision own A "local habitation and a name." His was the Mind's stupendous flight, To blend in grand concenter'd blaze Mild Poesy's benignant light, Philosophy's majestic rays, And crown sage Wisdom's soul-commanding mien With every roseate smile of Beauty's matchless Queen. BOTANIC GODDESS! if thy glowing train Feel the soft woe their DARWIN sung so well, Bend to the touch of finely subtle pain, And shed pure chrystal from the filmy bell: Oh! seize thy Poet's cold, dejected lyre (If to such glorious theft e'en thou aspire,) And with some wild Eolian strain Wake the sweet tenants of the plain; Thro' every garden, grove and dell, Let the dulcet murmur swell Till all the beauteous tribes their loss deplore; And with a soft ambrosial tear, Staining the fine Corolla's bloom, With sighs dissolved in odorous air, They mourn the irrevocable doom; Then be the lyre unstrung to sound no more. SPIRITS OF FIRE! that from the lucid beam Of young-eyed Morning spread unfolding day, Round the red Meteor's lambent glories stream, Or on the Moon's bright margin quivering play, Select your finely undulating rays, To point the Halo's pure diverging blaze, And on his brow the lustrous chaplet bind, Who from the central cells of ebon night Pursued the splendid forms of light, Or keenly darting o'er the starry zone Scann'd the wide glories of the "blest unknown," Borne on the piercing wing of all exploring mind. Ye NAIADS! from each gelid spring, That hoards the tears of early dawn, From pearly founts the tribute bring, That feed the floriated lawn; Exhale a tear from every breeze, That sweeps the glen with humid sigh, From rosy germs the dew drops seize And pour them from an azure eye. Ye SYLPHS! each fragrant bud explore, That glows in Spring's celestial store; With balmy lips extract the gale, That fans Arabia's richest vale, The perfumed thorn, the violet wild, The breath of Beauty whispering mild; And bid the Elysian Zephir wave Eternal o'er your DARWIN'S grave. Ye GNOMES! your softest bed prepare, With mossy down inlay the cell, And place your tiny legions there To guard, with many a holy spell, His sacred dust, whose strong creative vein Call'd to ideal life your brightly imaged train. Around his tomb shall Science strew The living myrtle's fadeless wreathe, And Taste, with bands of brilliant hue, Shall, weeping o'er the clay beneath, Place many a beauteous picture there,∗ Of force to charm the spoiler Time, And prove for many a circling year The heart-entrancing powers of Rhyme; Prove that while Taste, while Science reigns, Aloft their DARWIN'S name shall soar, And Genius proudly own his strains, And Knowledge bless his various lore.

DR. DARWIN compares his beautiful Poem, "The Botanic Garden," to a succession of Pictures connected by ribbands with each other.

TO A FRIEND. WHY on thy brow, benignant Friend! appears The gloom of woe? Why heaves thine anxious sigh? Why wake those sad anticipating fears, That tell of stern misfortunes lurking nigh? Not for thyself thus lowers thy pensive brow, Not for thyself thus heaves thy manly breast, 'Tis friendship's claim that bids thy spirit bow, 'Tis sympathy that scorns to be represt. Ah! valued Man! how few in life's dull round Like thee the sacred charm are form'd to feel! How few participate the holy wound, How few will bleed, another's wound to heal! If in some higher orb a happier fate Attend the good; that happier fate be thine, Heaven's brightest glories on thy spirit wait, And new-born raptures thro' thy bosom shine. LETTER TO MISS MEE. (Dec.1800.) ATTEND, gentle Maiden! in whose placid breast, The loves and the graces delighted repose, And give, while they taste, the delectable rest Which dignified innocence ever bestows. Ah! listen if yet, from a half-broken heart, One strain can be worthy thine ear, To the maxims which Friendship is led to impart Though she blend the soft truths with a tear. The heart that like thine, lovely Maid! is still true To the first touch of pleasure or pain, Sensibility's votary, bathed with her dew, And wearing her lilly-link'd chain; Too often alas! o'er the downhills of life, Barefooted and robeless, may stray, May pass through the vallies of sorrow and strife, And be torn by so thorny a way. Soft Spirits, like down, are most easily prest, And the tenderest bosoms retain A deep sense of woe though no longer distress'd, And will sigh, though they seldom complain. And Fortitude, though her wise lessons be found Most read by the heart that can feel, With noble submission but covers the wound Of misfortune, she knows not to heal. If thus then, by graces and virtues betray'd, Thy heart still must tremble or sigh, And languish and mourn in the sunshine and shade, Which mortals less perfect enjoy; Ah! where shall be found the blest antidote? where The charm that will sorrow remove? 'Tis found where affection grows ardent and fair, And feeling awakens to love. Yes! love, built on reason, with tenderness join'd, While it softens, gives strength to the heart, Exalts all the energies springing from mind, And confirms ev'ry joy they impart. Be the Man of thy choice one who values thy worth, And with wisdom attempers the dart; In thy face views gay Cupid arise at his birth, His maturity form'd in thy heart:— Who, when the first dream of felicity's o'er, Feels the Wife than the Lover more dear, And culls every sweet of thy mind's lovely store, And blesses the soft rolling year:— When the timid complaints of the woman arise With harsh voice never bids thee to cease; With tender attention will wipe the full eyes And soothe his loved Angel to peace:— Should sickness or sorrow those beauties efface, Which first taught his bosom to glow, Who will warm in affection and bless the lost grace Which led him true fondness to shew. That such Men there are, my ELIZA must know, Whose virtues now claim her esteem, Whose talents and genius unfolding will glow More brightly when love bids them beam. How dear is the joy, when the Man of your choice, Still courted, beloved and admired, Ever hangs on your eye, ever listens your voice, And appears in your presence inspired. Should Time, as he rolls, bring on sickness or care, Resign'd to his heaviest blow, A thousand affections will claim a kind share And soften the pillow of woe. Thus the feeling which wakens your bosom to pain May prove the true fountain of bliss; The union of souls is in Hymen's sweet chain, And Virtue's first blessing is this. STANZAS, Occasioned by the death of MR. S. RADFORD, Lieutenant in the Royal Engineers, by the yellow fever, in the West Indies, in 1802. NE'ER shone the morning with a fairer beam, Ne'er gave the promise of a brighter day, Than gilt, dear Youth! the sublunary dream, The short lived glories of thy vanish'd ray. Yet didst thou live to prove whate'er could charm The soul of Virtue, and evince her power, Thine was the generous heart, the good, the warm, The kind Consoler of a sorrowing hour. Yet wast thou brave as HONOUR's darling child, Fearless as VALOUR, and as MERCY kind, Blending the spirit strong, the temper mild, With the firm courage of a noble mind. True wit was thine, that jewel whose rare worth, Oft sought in vain, or dreaded when 'tis found, In thee the playful harbinger of mirth, Show'd the keen point, without the will to wound. Thine was the clear investigating eye, That scann'd each humour and each passion caught, That smiled at Folly's whim, while Pity's sigh Temper'd the glance satiric prowess taught. Closed is that eye, that glance for ever fled, The jaundiced DÆMON wings his baneful way, He touch'd! he struck! and number'd with the dead E'en RADFORD falls among the general prey. It was not thine to shed the bitter tear On thy Friend's∗ grave, that now bedews thine own, Or bid his bosom feel the pangs severe Of braving life and all its ills unknown. Snatch'd from a world of cares, yet scarcely tried, With all thy 'blushing honours' thickly strewn, Weep we for thee? ah no! affection's pride Yields her loved favourite to a brighter throne.

CAPTAIN BARTLETT, the commanding Royal Engineer, a most amiable and excellent man, and of the highest professional estimation in that distinguished Corps, died Sept. 28, 1802.—LIEUTENANT RADFORD died the 7th of October following; and LIEUTENANT LE BRITON, who had distinguished himself greatly in Holland, (Son to the late Dean of Jersey,) the following day. These Officers went out together, and were all victims to the yellow fever, after about four months' residence on the Island. About the same time also the civil Engineer to the Island died.

And yet the sympathetic tear will flow, We mourn thy FATHER'S grief, his blasted joy, Thy MOTHER'S deep unutterable woe, Her silent musings on her long-loved Boy. O THOU! whose hand the mighty tempest hurl'd, That shook their blasted hopes, that crush'd their peace, Give them re-union in a brighter world, And with that promise bid these sorrows cease. LINES Addressed to a Young Gentleman of Lincoln College, Oxford in1800. LONG on the willows hung, my drooping lyre, In torpid silence chain'd by ruthless woe, Trembling admits the slow returning fire Thy virtues and thy talents teach to glow. Charm'd I behold advancing Time display The generous promise of thine opening youth, See classic Science lend her finish'd ray, To grace the Son of honour, worth and truth. Oh! still be thine the bosom's dearest wealth, Unstain'd integrity that spurns controul, Thine independence,—germ of mental health, Whence springing Genius fires the' illumined soul. And still be thine the dearest charm of life, The sympathetic friend sincere and kind, Skill'd to assuage the intellectual strife And open all the stores of polish'd mind:— The gentle harmonies of Taste explore, In Nature's ample field sublimely spread; Or lift Philosophy's majestic lore, Or hold "high converse with the mighty dead." May Fortune's gentle boon, devoid of guile, Insure thee all the feeling heart holds dear; The good man's blessing, and the wise man's smile, Father's joy, a Mother's rapturous tear. Oh! may approving Heaven thro' every scene, Blest with thy generous toil or sacred aim, Gild thy soft hours with many a ray serene, And shed eternal and unsullied fame. INSCRIPTION For a rustic Tablet, on the door of G. D's. Hut. HAST thou a heart whose vivid sense, To every feeling true, Now glows with bland benevolence, Now melts with pity's dew:— Hast thou a frame, whose fragile nerve, Alive to every touch, From Nature's common laws will swerve And joy or grieve too much:— Hast thou an eye, whose glances move, Mild, penetrative, kind, And beam with universal love, And universal mind:— Oh! welcome to this humble cot, Its plain and artless cheer! And welcome to the better lot That finds a Brother here! TO A YOUNG LADY. LOVELY Maiden! can it be, Thou shouldst waste a thought on me; Give a Stranger's distant claim Friendship's full and hallow'd name, And, while rich in every blessing, Seek a heart not worth possessing? Sweet Enthusiast! dost thou know, That contagion dwells with woe; That the cherub Pity's sigh Wakes the tear in Beauty's eye, And in soft Affection's breast Sorrow loves to build her nest. Gentle Being! softly gay, I should weep thy smiles away; And with many a woe-fraught tale, Make thy ruby lip look pale; Or, while sage advice I'm giving, Damp the dearest charm of living. Sure 'twould not be Friendship's token, Weary, languishing, half broken, To present a wounded heart, That thou mightst partake its smart, Chill thy warm ingenuous breast With so comfortless a guest. Dear romantic Girl! believe me Though I lose, I wont deceive thee; If on these benighted eyes Springing youth again could rise, And the beams of Fancy play On my renovated day; Hope the brilliant scene adorning, Sweet companion of life's morning, Warm affection, tender feeling, O'er the pliant bosom stealing, While the soul without disguise, Glistens in the artless eyes; Ah! then, dear one! thou shouldst see A Friend! how fond a Friend, in me! A Friend perhaps too seldom view'd In the world's wide solitude; But now I only can deplore 'Tis mine to be that Friend no more. LINES, Addressed to a beautiful little Boy. WILLIAM! beauteous Boy! in thee, Infant Love's epitome, We can every charm discover, Where a classic taste might hover, Tracing in each swelling feature The beneficence of Nature. Balmy lips, where still reposes Beauty on a bed of roses; Blooming cheeks, whose hues eclipse E'en the roses of those lips, Mingling with the pearly white, Colours exquisitely bright:— Flaxen locks, that waving flow On thy forehead's living snow, Silken ringlets gently curling, With the wanton breeze unfurling, Playing round thy dimpled face With inimitable grace. From the azure tinted skies, Fell the sapphire of thine eyes, Eyes, within whose melting lustre, Nestling loves delight to cluster, Loves that, innocently wild, Sport the archness of a child. Lovely, interesting Boy! Source of many an anxious joy, To the boon so freely given May the smiles of partial heaven Add the heart's transcendant beauty— Manly feeling,—pious duty! LINES OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF MR. T. BURTON,SURGEON, At Cape Coast Castle, in Africa, 1791. AH hapless Youth! whom keen misfortune drove Far from this friendly clime,—thy native Isle, The burning beams of Afric's wilds to prove, And mingle sorrows with her blood-stain'd soil. Condemn'd on that inhospitable shore, Life's wretched remnant trembling to resign, With gasping lip from savage hands implore The generous aid they late received from thine. To soothe the terrors of thy death-struck bed, No gentle voice, no comforter was nigh; Thy righted love, thine injured friendship spread The gloom of anguish on thy closing eye. Unhappy Sufferer! the regardless deep Tells not thy sorrows in its wintry blast; The few that love thee now unconscious sleep, Nor dream thy passing spirit groans its last. But thou ELIZA! thou shalt feel too late That pity bleed which once thou didst deny, With tearful eyes lament thy BURTON's fate, And give to fond remembrance many a sigh. Oft will his tender care, his ardent love, His constant truth,—awake unwelcome woes; And distant far that tranquil hour must prove Which gives thy wounded bosom true repose. LINES WRITTEN AT KEYE HILL, JULY 6, 1803. 'TIS not thy beauteous landscape, tho' it glows With all the vivid tints gay Spring supplied, And every varied charm its scenes compose, Of wealth commercial, or of Nature's pride;— 'Tis not because athwart thy favour'd land, Mechanic Genius spreads his fostering wing, And BOLTON'S polish'd taste the garden plann'd, Where DARWIN'S pensive Muse was wont to sing;— 'Tis not from these, tho' streams of pure delight, My fond heart trembles with unusual joy, Grasps the wide prospect with a keener sight, The warm tear gushing from the grateful eye; But lo! to FRIENDSHIP'S anxious prayer restored, The faithful Husband, and the tender Wife, Here claim their home, here grace their genial board, Inhale the breeze, and taste rekindling life. TO THE WALL FLOWER. DEAR odorous Plant! whose yellow flowrets bloom, Tho' sterile Winter chills thy sister train, Blasts the gay foliage, wastes the soft perfume And, reckless, sucks the vegetable vein. The hoar-frost spreads around his mantling white, Beset with transient gems of icy dew, Autumn's last shadows cloud the gloomy light, And Nature feels a death in all but you. 'Tis thus unshaken Virtue bravely stands, Humble yet firm, she bears the bitter blast, Tho' keen misfortune seize her shaking hands, And Poverty's cold dews her path o'ercast; With brighter beams the lovely Sufferer glows, Gathering fresh lustre from surrounding woes. LINES, ADDRESSED TO MISS SMITH ON HER BIRTH DAY, JUNE 4, 1804, SWEET was the morning of thy natal day, Gay sung the birds with untaught rapture wild, And bursting from the arms of rosy May The blushing flowrets with new beauties smiled. So smiled Maternal Love in brighter charms, When first her eye the darling stranger blest, And stretch'd with trembling joy her eager arms, And felt the Mother kindling in her breast. With grateful transport glowing at the sight, Thy Father proved unutterable bliss; Bending o'er both with exquisite delight, Gave—to his first-born gave! a Parent's kiss. Benignant omen of revolving years, Shone the dear honours of that happy morn; Thy flowery path its infant verdure wears, Thy tranquil childhood knows no secret thorn. But blithe as Youth, and soft as Spring, advance The cloudless moments of thy opening sky, In Pleasure's maze their airy footsteps dance, Nor give, nor dread a transitory sigh. Oh! still, as now, may Peace with brow serene, And all "Life's Charities" around thee wait, Unknown be Pain, and Sorrow's sickly mien, The stern severities of untried fate, But if so wills high Heaven thine heart to try, Or stamp the lessons of eternal truth, E'en thou must breathe affliction's poignant sigh, The sacred offering of thy tender youth! Oh! then be thine the Christian's stedfast hope; Religion's voice shall all thy griefs controul, Teach thee with life's severest woes to cope, And brace with nobler powers thy plastic soul! And when the shades of Death around thee close, With scenes more bright than graced thy natal morn, Her beaming eye shall gild thy last repose, Thence to new bliss and joys eternal borne. TO THE MEMORY OF SMOLLET, As the Author of " Independence." "By Thee my lips chastised to truth "Ne'er paid the homage which my heart denied" (ODE TO INDEPENDENCE.) SMOLLET! to thee, my artless verse shall raise One grateful strain of tributary praise, True to the feeling first by thee imprest; When reason dawn'd upon my infant breast, Thy "INDEPENDENCE" charm'd my opening heart, Expanded Fancy's vivid wing, And ope'd the passion's finest spring; Thence woke with energetic power That principle no future hour Of time or woe could from my soul dispart. Ennobled Spirit! in whatever clime Of purest ether thou mayst soar sublime, Whether light darting from some starry ray, Thou givest benighted Worlds rekindling day, Or bind'st the storm that vex'd the warring sky, To thee from many a gen'rous soul That spurns the Tyrant's vile controul In virtuous freedom bravely great, Though struggling thro' the storms of fate, Shall many a choral song ascend on high. And many a gentle heart that knows no rest, Harrass'd by want, by cureless woe depress'd, On whom the Imps of Pride look scowling down, And Folly's brow affects the languid frown, Shall inly feel the generous spark divine, By thee described in lofty strain Their sadly sinking minds sustain, Uphold pale Virtue's tottering power, And through affliction's darkling hour With strong and undiminish'd lustre shine. Blest INDEPENDENCE! let thy potent aid Support me still through Fortune's gloomiest shade, While "blasting breezes" far around me roll, Be thou the Guide, the Guardian of my soul; And though I haply suffer at thy shrine, Still be imprest thy SMOLLET'S lays, And His∗ who taught my later days: Ah! at that dear remember'd name, Regret, love, woe, resume their claim, And scarce my tortured spirit dares be thine.

The Author's late Husband.

TO INDUSTRY. PARENT OF INDEPENDENCE! if 'tis thine To crown with his firm meed thy votary's brow, Oh! let thy chaplet round my temples twine, By labour pluck'd, but graced with health's gay glow. What though in russet clad thou scour'st the brake, Nor heed'st the wintry tempest's fierce controul, Thy touch each mental energy can wake, And rouse to action all the dormant soul. Bereft of thee the brightest talents fade, And Genius, heaven-born Genius, wrapt in gloom, Sighs out his pæans in oblivion's shade, Sad sharer of an undistinguish'd tomb. Far rather would my firm fix'd spirit owe The means of life to thy most menial toil, Than e'er to Fortune's gaudy Pageants bow, Or woo the dimples of her slippery smile. When Poverty, whose name appals the mind, First to the world reveal'd her hideous form, Thou camest, in humble garb, by heaven design'd, To soothe the howlings of her ruthless storm. Transform'd by thy blest touch the Demon bore A fairer semblance, and a soften'd mien, Clean were her hands, and white the rags she wore, And laughing Labour own'd her for his Queen. Full oft amid thy thorny paths, are spread, The dewy rose that cheers the vigorous sense, The generous tear by melting Pity shed, The glowing gift of warm Benevolence. And bright rewards thy noble toils await, And Fame's immortal garland waves on high, For those who, struggling with a wayward fate, Gain and diffuse the bliss they could not buy. Then INDUSTRY! be thou my bosom's choice, Thy animation, arduous Power! bestow, And though I haply tremble at thy voice, Accept, confirm, the will which binds my vow. LINES ADDRESSED TO MR. ERSKINE. JANUARY 6, 1795. FRIEND of Mankind! to whom the virtuous heart Pays the pure tribute Vice can ne'er impart, Forgive the aspiring Muse her glorious aim, Who tunes the trembling lyre to sing thy fame, Courts the kind ear to lift thy matchless praise And twines her green wreath round thy towering bays. Oh! still be thine the generous wish to bless, And wipe the streaming tear from pale distress Pour on desponding grief the cheering ray, And lead the dungeon'd captive forth to day; Make keen-eyed Malice hide her guilty head, O'er the dim mind bright Truth her lustre shed, Celestial Freedom every charm unfold And firm Integrity her steps uphold; The' unblushing cheek of lawless Vice controul, And melt with magic voice the harden'd soul, With lenient hand the bleeding wound assuage Of suffering Merit torn by party rage, While soft Compassion shall each pang deplore, And rigid Justice bid them "be no more!" Oh! still be thine the Patriot's genial flame, Mercy's sweet power, and Freedom's legal claim, Thine the broad palms of Learning's hallow'd store, The flowery wreaths of Wit's enchanting lore, The "honey'd tongue" of NESTOR'S ripen'd age, The lambent flame which waked Athenian rage, In Rome's great Senate spread its beams afar, And now illumes the world from Britain's bar! So shall the Muse that pens the' historic line Thy powerful talents with thy virtues join, As England's CICERO, speak an ERSKINE'S fame, And give to Time's dread bounds thy deathless name. THE SORROWS OF HOPE. Occasioned by reading a beautiful Poem entitled "The PLEASURES OF HOPE." BRIGHT are the visions buoyant HOPE inspires, And light the flames of her resplendent fires; Soft the gay breeze that waves her verdant grove, And wakes to promised joy the soul of LOVE; Sweet is her lute which GENIUS burns to hear Speak his glad triumphs, thro' each future year; Powerful her martial notes, when heard afar She calls proud GLORY to the fields of war. Yet on the Hero's martial toils await, The stern adversities of wayward fate; And the wild lute young GENIUS loved to swell, Lingers unstrung in cold Oblivion's cell; And mingling in the breeze, full many a sigh Wafts the soft promise from the Lover's eye; Too oft alas! HOPE'S visions sink in night When TRUTH, all radiant, bursts upon the sight When o'er the vernal foliage of her bower, The blackening storms of fierce MISFORTUNE lower, And the bright landscapes of her fairy land All vanish, at the touch of SORROW'S wand! Say can the mind, attuned alone by HOPE, With the changed scene of such a moment cope? Can the bright plumage of her downy wing, In deep distress, the balm of comfort bring? Can she the hand of present Woe arrest, Or blunt his arrows on the yielding breast? Can the the robe of Fortitude impart, Or bind the bleeding of a broken heart? Victim of blasted HOPE! 'tis thine to scan Her proper influence on the mind of man; 'Tis thine to tell—how far her scorn of care, Her dulcet voice, that whisper'd all things fair, Her sanguine promise, when on future days She fix'd the flowery meed of blooming praise,— Enabled thee the tempest dire to wage. Of Fortune's wrath, or Death's resistless rage, To bear the pang of Calumny's cold sneer, Where HOPE had pictured Friendship's glowing tear! Too well, I ween, her dear enchantments pour A deeper anguish on the darken'd hour, And the sweet smile that beaming from her face Gives unborn evil pleasure's dimpling grace, But arms with deadlier sting the' impassion'd woe, As brightest lightnings strike the surest blow. That Youth, whose faded form and pallid cheek The woes of love too eloquently speak, Whose generous nature, whose exalted mind Contend with pangs he ne'er deserved to find, Yet sinks appall'd:—for rankling in his heart, Hath DISAPPOINTMENT fix'd her barbed dart: 'Twas his the' extremes of either IND to prove, The child of honour, but the slave of love; In Russian wilds HOPE taught his heart to glow, And warm'd with her wild dreams SIBERIA'S snow; She soothed the Afric sands with breezes mild, His dangers conquer'd, and his cares beguiled. With lulling sounds she sang: "This varied toil, "These transient ills, this pestilential soil, "Are borne for ANNA;—lo! thy cares repaid; "Fortune is thine, be thine the lovely Maid!" Now swift the willing winds the vessel bear To ALBION coast,—for all his soul was there: Fancy's bold tints HOPE'S shining hands employ, Unfolding scenes of never-ending joy; All that the Poet's song, thro' many an age, Hath loved to picture on his glowing page, Of love connubial, every tender tie Which life's dear charities at home supply: What then the shock,—when on the hated shore He found that love and ANNA were no more! Another's hand the faithless Fair received, Another's heart her perjured vows believed: Spring of his virtuous darings now no more, 'Tis sin to love where it was grace before! HOPE, maddening HOPE! why from thy victim fly? Shall he, bereft of thee, "despair and die?" Or leagued with guilt, wilt thou again return And feed the unhallow'd flame, and bid it burn? Dash the pure bosom with so foul a stain;— Virtue forbids!—shall her rebuke be vain? But ere thine heart becomes her placid shrine, What struggling pangs, Unfortunate! are thine! Had Wisdom's voice attemper'd HOPE'S wild reign, When first her fond dreams fired thy giddy brain, What griefs had been escaped, what ruin saved The injured Wretch to love, by HOPE enslaved! In yon lone cottage, where the rugged thorn Usurps the place where rosy buds were born; Where shrieking infants in the mouldering shed Lift their pale hands and cry aloud for bread, While their sad Sire his bursting heart restrains To soothe the sinking Partner of his pains; Where Poverty now holds her haggard court, And Want, Disease, and all their train resort, Time was, that playful joy, and humble cheer, And all the charms of social life were here; Clean was the sanded floor, and neat the hearth, And sweet the modest fare of rustic worth. The rigid muscles of continued toil Here kindly mellowing, beam'd a tender smile: Serene the morn, and still the night was found, Till HOPE, disguised as friendship, struck the wound; A Brother tempted EDWARD to be great, And told what wond'rous gains on trade await, How soon the little store he toil'd to gain Would rise to riches o'er the smiling main; So should the babes be blest he toil'd to bless, So should declining days defy distress; So tenfold joys in MARY'S bosom rise, And tenfold transports sparkle in her eyes! Enchantress HOPE! thy syren voice awoke Ambition's fires, that kindled while he spoke. Soon was the hard-earn'd pittance all consign'd, Cast to the mercy of the waves and wind; And ah! too soon, by faithless waves and wind, Or Man more faithless, lawless and unkind, The little all that EDWARD yearn'd to save Found, like his flattering hopes, a watry grave! With sorrow sickness came, and, hovering near, Despondency's dark wing, and trembling Fear: One stay alone remains! one beam divine! One hand to check despair!—RELIGION thine!! Angel of Mercy! haste ere grief's fell power O'erwhelm the victims of delusion's hour. Seest thou that Female-form, that o'er the deep Spreads her pale arms, and ceaseless seems to weep? What heart-felt anguish dims her youthful eye! What more than sorrow loads her frequent sigh! "Was it for this," she cries, "to LISBON'S shore, "By HOPE allured, thy fragile form I bore? "Was it for this thy blooming cheek I prest "And clasp'd infection to my aching breast? "Was it for this thine eye resplendent beam'd, "And new-born comfort on my bosom gleam'd? "Ah, dread reverse!—Is HOPE for ever fled? "Art thou too gone?—my HENRY! art thou dead? "Accursed HOPE! through many an anxious year, "Thy soothing song seduced my yielding ear; "It promised health his manly form should brace, "And sprightly love relume his languid face. "Ah me! that intellectual mien is fled, "That angel face!—yes, HENRY! thou art dead! "For thee from all a Mother's claims I tore "Our only pledge of love,—'tis mine no more! "Break, break too stubborn heart! ah why retain "A sense of being with unending pain!" Oh cease, poor wretch! for tho' thy flattering friend, Seductive HOPE, no more thy footsteps tend; Though black and dreadful all the welkin lower, And blasting dews descend in every shower; Though in thy HENRY'S solitary urn, Friend, husband, Brother, Parent thou must mourn, Nor e'en to thee the last sad hope remain Of calm oblivion to protracted pain, —For tho' sharp sorrow's agonizing storm Tear the fine fibres of thy tender form, Contending youth thy breaking heart shall save And slowly shield thee from a wish'd-for grave;— What then for thee remains? the holy power Of Resignation,—Heaven's most awful dower, She, with firm mildness, in whose solemn eye CELESTIAL HOPES with deep submission vie, With gentle hand thy trembling steps shall lead, Where Consolation grants her hallow'd meed, Where earth-born joys and earth-born sorrows cease, And Mourners rest in paradise and peace. HOPE, as the fable tells, was given to bless, Evil alone when cherish'd to excess; If to firm Fortitude and Patience join'd She wakes to deeds of praise the arduous mind; Or when on Heaven she lays a Christian's claim, Then spring her noblest fruit, her highest aim; But blending oft with many a sickly sense, The soul sustains her at too great expence, By Folly pamper'd, and the endless train Of sensibilities, that shrink at pain, Her idle mockeries scorn all just controul, And banish reason from the spell-bound soul. Romantic dreams the sober mind destroy, With airy castles of unreal joy; But when the mask is dropt, and thro' the heart Misfortune's train of poignant lightnings dart, Then fly her rosy clouds, the tempest lowers And whelms in woe the mind's enervate powers; Her sky-built turrets vanish all to air, While thro' the void loud shrieks the fiend Despair. Then far from me, may HOPE'S soft visions stray, Save when attempting Wisdom leads their way, Her modest claims are just; her smiles serene Pour the sweet ray that soothes life's gloomy scene: Mine be her gentlest beam, her meekest power, That shuns the fervour of the noontide hour; Content to hope as Heaven admits it right, Till HOPE herself be lost in perfect light. TO TIME. FULL oft, grey TIME! hath mine unweeting tongue Urged thee to check thy never-ceasing flight, And spare the passing moment, while I sung Of Hope's gay charms, and friendship's dear delight. Far different now, I blame thy tardy stay, Which now no more shall Heaven's best blessings bring, And chide with many a sigh thy slow delay, And bathe with many a tear thy humid wing. Friend of the Mourner! say, soul-soothing power! Must I thus joyless evermore remain? Hast thou not still reserved some gentle hour To cheer my heart, amid thy sorrowing train? Oh! let me haste to pluck the generous flower, And taste soft joy, and smiling peace again. FRIENDLY EPISTLETO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN, ON HIS ENTRANCE INTO LIFE. SINCE active duty, and the various claims Of social life combine to call thee hence, Accept, dear, valued YOUTH! the kind farewell Of one, who joy'd to see thine opening soul Expanding into Man;—who loved to watch The' unfolding graces of thy glowing mind, The better blossoms of thy virtuous heart; Who loved to contemplate with silent pleasure The ripening harvest of maturer years. Oh! then permit her as an honest friend, That scorns to flatter tho' she dares to praise, And hopes through life to feel the same esteem, To warn, instruct, implore thee,—thro' each scene Of busy bustling life, of anxious care, Or that more trying moment, when the cup Of soft lipp'd Pleasure mantles to thy view, Still to RESPECT THYSELF:—and guard unstain'd The precious gem, whose lustre gilds thy breast With rays more brilliant than the proudest boon, That fortune, birth, or talent can bestow,— The tender conscience of ingenuous youth! That finer sensibility of sin, Quick to discern and ardent to despise The very shade of baseness and of guilt, Is the soul's glory,—is the life of life! Next to RELIGION'S ever hallow'd lore, Whose hand alone can point frail erring man The path to certain bliss through Christian hope; Believe me, FRIEND! a pure unsullied taste, That courts amusement still from Wisdom's hand, At once secures the sweetest charm of life, And keeps that holy calm of conscience most Unclouded, undisturb'd.—Then still preserve, E'en in commercial life's tumultuous scenes, The blest refinement of thy present taste, The classic learning of thine early years; Retain the warm enthusiastic glow, The patriot soul, that makes the pulse beat strong, When virtuous deeds and high heroic acts Blaze on old history's resplendent page. Nor be the Muse forgot—for she hath given To Thee a portion of that sacred fire Which, wheresoe'er it burns, refines, exalts And sanctifies the elevated mind. Nor deem her noble claims unfit to blend With the new duties of thy changing scene; Goodness and Wisdom snatch the' appropriate hour And harmonize the calls of fleeting time. See ROSCOE'S Genius, from the darkest gloom Of letter'd knowledge, from the rayless cell Where Learning lies entombed in gothic state, Wide spread his dazzling plumes, and spring aloft To worlds of new renown, and endless fame. Of late confined to GALLIA'S florid style Or the wild fictions of the GERMAN school, To thee remains a treasure unexplored In BRITAIN'S nobler Bards, whose purer lays, Whose meek sublimity, and simple grace Shall charm thee with a spell unfelt before. Thou,—Man beloved! by every chord that binds The human bosom,—Poet, most admired, Revered and hallow'd by the raptured mind, COWPER! be thou the first;—for in thy page The best foundation of the opening mind, The surest refuge of the heart is found: Unhappy Man! he shew'd the heavenly spring To every lip, yet trembling on the brink Dared not to taste,—self exiled!—self condemn'd! Thy veil is now removed—the fountain flows And slakes thy spirit in eternal bliss! HE too be thine, who made this COWPER ours, Accomplish'd HAYLEY!—whose poetic page Recalls the memory of AUGUSTAN days, Patron and Minstrel of the sister Arts, And dearer still the Father and the Friend. Mild, energetic, simple and sublime, Lofty, yet sweet, the SPENCER of our times, Let BEATTIE'S moral lays attune thy soul, And HE,∗ who sang Imagination's power In lines more gentle than her softest touch, And strong and piercing as her boldest flight. HE too, the Bard who won perennial wreaths, Immortal THOMPSON! whose enchanting verse, For ever new, shall seize the awaken'd mind, Long as the seasons roll, he sang so well. When rapt by Fancy, touch'd with Seraph fire Catch thou the moon-struck Bard's † bewitching shell And plunge with him into the dread profound Of maddening horror:—till the softer woe That dwells on Melancholy's tender notes Attune thy yielding soul to swelling hope, Rising more full, more sweet, till new-born joy

AKENSIDE.

COLLINS.

Wave o'er the breast her sun-illumined wings. Be SOUTHEY thine, whose Genius sits at ease, Scattering unpruned his wildly-beauteous flowers O'er every scene; but chief upon Her∗ tomb Whom female pride and feeling fondly view With honest reverence,—and bless the hand That drew their Heroine forth, and robed her thus. The young eyed Poet,† who in glowing strains, Strung his fine lyre to Hope's enchanting praise, In numbers worthy the celestial theme: And BURNS, who o'er the path of genuine taste Strews the rich diamond, struggling with the ore And beaming through the mass with living light, Shall charm thy ardent gaze:—Nor BLOOMFIELD less,

Joan d'Arc.

CAMPBELL.

Whom Nature's self inspired to sing her loves, With every grace that elegance bestows, And every chord that moves the feeling heart. HE too, who in the prison's cheerless gloom Caught from the willing Muse a brilliant beam, Splendid as morn, and soft as Cynthia's ray;— With many a name to Fame and Virtue dear, Shall soothe thy leisure hours, and brace thy mind And keep thee what thou art, and make thee more. And still be thine dear FRIENDSHIP'S hallow'd tie, Generous and warm, as in these genial days, For well the soul of him thou lovest admits That boundless confidence; that sacred bond Which strengthens virtue, while it sweetens life. Friendship and Books are joys which never fail, Are safe companions in a world of guile, On which the heart may lean devoid of fear. Possess of these, go forth, exalted Youth! And may the blessing of approving Heaven Attend thee still to life's remotest hour, And smooth thy passage to eternal day! ODE TO APATHY. OH! in this fond susceptive breast, Dread APATHY! thou awful Guest! Erect thine ebon throne; Touch'd by thy wand of chilling steel, This throbbing heart shall cease to feel, This tongue forget to moan. Oh! snatch me from the rosy plain, Where Sensibility's soft train Present delusive joys; Where Love the yielding heart betrays In hopeless passion's mystic maze, And fetters and destroys:— To where Indifference casts around A dull cold mist, that veils the ground In melancholy hue; Where drooping poppies nod the head, And o'er the sluggish grotto shed Their soporific dew:— Where mopes the owl in sullen night, Where the bat wheels his fluttering flight, And hums the stupid drone! There in thy marble arms reclined In dreamless slumbers quench my mind, And lull me into stone. Wrapt in thy garb of Lapland snow, No more the quivering nerve shall glow, The pulse of pity beat; Blithe Joy and generous Feeling dead, And Love,—e'en lingering Love be fled And Friendship's genial heat! There sunk in one eternal gloom, Tho through my mind's unopening tomb Ne'er darts the transient ray; No more shall Disappointment's hour, Or flattering Hope's seducing power My trusting heart betray. Adieu to all the racking fears, The family of smiles and tears, That wound the trembling mind; Oh APATHY! by thee possess'd, Emotion's struggling pangs repress'd Shall leave me all resign'd. INSCRIPTION FOR THE SOD SEAT IN G. D'S. GARDEN. ON this rude sequester'd seat, Gentle Stranger! rest awhile, Scorn not this serene retreat, Blest by FRIENDSHIP void of guile. Here Beauty's self hath deign'd to move, And artless Wit which gave no wound; And lightly skimming through yon grove The Muse hath touch'd the hallow'd ground: Then, Stranger! stay thy wandering feet, And learn that from life's rudest thorn, The wise may pluck a rose more sweet Than blooms in Plenty's splendid horn. LINES Composed during a walk in the Leasowes. YE lovely scenes! bewitching groves! By many a fragrant Zephyr fann'd, Where still your SHENSTONE'S spirit roves, And waves the "tutelary wand;"— Where still the murmuring rivulets swell, That once inspired his gentle Muse, And wandering through the lonely dell In soften'd streamlets wide diffuse:— Here to a VIRGIL'S tuneful lyre, The sacred bower bespeaks thy praise; Here THOMSON! to thy magic lyre, Her blest memorial Friendship pays:— Still softer charms adorn the grove, Which veils OPHELIA'S lovely urn, Where Sorrow 'wails the fate of love, And Pity bids the Stranger mourn. Sweet, pensive, soul-subduing thought Here every feeling breast pervades; And peace divine, oft vainly sought, Beams sweetly through these gentle shades. Still may these hallow'd haunts be dear, To Virtue pure, and Genius bright; Efface pale suffering Merit's tear And cheer her bosom with delight. IMPROMPTU, Occasioned by the Question "What do you think of Marriage?" O WHAT is Marriage! but to bind The form where Heaven has fix'd the mind, With stronger chains confine the heart, And mingle souls no more to part? Oh!—'tis to charm the voice of Care, Or stamp the fetters of Despair; To bid the heart exulting glow Or rend it with severer woe; A thousand new-born joys to give, To bid new hopes, new raptures live, Or plunge the victim of delight In sorrow's shades of tenfold night. Oh! 'tis the source of deep distress; Yet who shall speak its power to bless? Who deprecate a boon so dear, Or fly the charm he dares not fear? Who will the soul's best bliss forego, Though haply tinged with tender woe? Refuse the interesting plan, Which Heaven in mercy form'd for man; Which wakes through all the' expanding mind The great, the good, the fair, the kind, The energetic power that warms, The soothing sympathy that charms, The friendship pure that hallows life, The cordial love, the' endearing strife? Let coward souls alone retreat, The great, the wise exulting meet; And though they bleed from many a dart, That slightly wounds the trembling heart, Experience many a joy divine, And grateful bless the marriage shrine. TO HARMONY. SWEET magic Power! whose dulcet movements bind The varied charms of Nature's copious store, Whose beauties, by thy graceful links combined, On the pleased sense with double transport pour; Still be it mine thy mighty hand to trace, Whether among the starry orbs of night Guiding the Moon in her resplendent race, Or darting on the beam of morning's light;— Or on the Landscape's broad expansive view, While o'er its groves the quivering Zephyr floats; Or listening, thrill'd with extacy, pursue The breath of Melody's enchanting notes; Or charm'd sublimely with thine heavenly art Mark its soft influence form the feeling heart. TO SOLITUDE. IN the deep glen o'ergrown with mossy wood, Whose rocky cavern, hid by wild-briars rude, Emerges gently o'er the murmuring flood, I view thee seated, awful Solitude! Thy matron form enveil'd in snowy white, Majestic sorrow on thy solemn brow, Yet beams thine eye sublime with pure delight Pleasures seraphic, such as Angels know; Nurse of the gentler Virtues! round thy bower Stray gentle Pity, Meekness, Peace, and Love; Fair Truth and Science grace with many a flower The sweet meanderings of thy fruitful grove; Oh that on thy calm breast my head reclined Might leave life's threatening tempests far behind! TO SEPTEMBER. HAIL sweet delightful Month! whose scenes unfold, With placid lustre to the gladden'd view, Whate'er the Muse of blushing Spring has told, Robed in the glowing tints of Summer's hue. Thy ripen'd fields and purpled fruits display The wealthy honors of autumnal pride; Thy breezes mild as love-inspiring May, Yet delicately sad to fear allied! When hallow'd Cynthia sheds her lucid beams, Or Night unfolds his star-bespangled vest, Tranquil as heaven thy halcyon season seems, Serene thine evening as the good man's breast. But ah! thy transient joy too soon depart, And leave to wintry woe my cheerless heart! OCCASIONAL LINES TO POVERTY. THOUGH round my unprotected head Thy shafts, O POVERTY! be thrown. I feel no heart-appalling dread, Nor shudder at thy fiercest frown. But there's a smile, a sickly smile, That gilds too oft pale Misery's cheek, The offspring of dependant guile, Of Flattery, in her falsehood meek; Can thus my humbled spirit bow? Can I be made this abject thing? Ah POVERTY! I know thee now, This is thy victory!—this thy sting! From this degrading anguish save My heart that owns thy conquering hand. Nor yield thy victim as the slave, Whom Vice can lead, or Pride command. INVOCATION TO POETRY. WHEN morbid Melancholy oft oppress'd, Or keen-eyed Sorrow pierced my bleeding breast, Thou, POESY! wert wont to soothe my hours, And strew the way-ward path with smiling flowers, Oh! haste thee now, dear Maid! with power endued, The weak to strengthen, and to quell the rude, Breathe from thy balmy lip the melting sound, That heals with holy art the bosom's wound, Wakes in the torpid soul her genial fire, And calls the passions round thy breathing lyre; Bids each fine string the finer senses move, Leads hope to joy, and tenderness to love. From soften'd grief extracts a gentle charm To soothe the heart, the social feelings warm; Strike tyrant Rage or black Despondence mute, Awed by thy voice, or mellow'd by thy lute! Ah! POSEY! dear Maid! with chaste delight, Oft have I woo'd thee through the darkling night, Caught thy sweet spirit from the lunar beam, Or traced thy mazes down the mountain stream; Hied me to seek thee near the mossy dell, Where Fancy's legions bind their mystic spell, Or deep in beechen groves where glow-worms glance, Gay living gems, to light the Fairies' dance, Among their tiny steps have found thee stray, Or mark'd thee glittering from the dew-dropt spray; Or haply touch'd by sympathy divine Have found humanity thy dearest shrine, Yes!—I have felt thee in a trembling sigh, And caught thee glistening from a humid eye; "Nature's soft Nurse unlike" thou dost not fear The throb of anguish, or the trickling tear; Nor shun'st the heart to many a sorrow prone, But sharest with Pity all her willowy throne. Oft will thine art the woe-fraught hours beguile, And wake to fictious good the transient smile; With imaged white the glooms of fate invest, And soothe with melody the soul to rest; Oh! be it mine from tender woes to gain Rapt Fancy's thought and Love's impassion'd strain, Lull every pang in flowing lines, and raise The bower of hope with sorrow's sacred lays; Erect with Fancy's train, and Fiction's aid, Ideal joys more vivid from life's shade, And wrap in visionary bliss the heart (Ah! can it be?) that feels a rankling dart: If such thy power,—and such, O Nymph divine! My grateful bosom only hopes from thine,— Henceforth through life's dark day thy Votary's vow, Shall bless the boon she dares solicit now. VERSES Written on reading Holcroft's "Gaffer Gray." AH! yes, gentle Poet! too true is thy song, And oft have I proved it with pain, That sadness to sympathy still will belong, The complaining will hear us complain. The heart by prosperity pamper'd and fed, Of the contrast no sense can supply; And the tear of compassion will seldom be shed Where fortune illumines the eye. The misery of want, and the pang of distress, Awaken the wish to relieve, We ardently hasten that woe to repress, When we know what it is so to grieve. The proud glare of wealth, and the gay smile of mirth, Their pleasures are loth to resign, But the care-stricken bosom of suffering worth Its kindred in suffering will join. To its dictates humane may I ever attend, And feel their kind maxims impart A soft voice to whisper "the poor Man's thy friend, "Oh! give him thy hand and thy heart." LINES Composed near the SHEFFIELD INFIRMARY, in 1797. BENIGNANT Vision! beaming o'er the plain, With all the rays that gem Compassion's train; While bland Benevolence surveys around Each verdant beauty grace the fruitful ground, Each undulating spring salubrious flow, Each grateful gale appease the sense of woe, He feels the scene reflected on the mind, And thanks the Power who bade him love mankind. The Muse, thro' times unborn, prolongs the view, And marks each present blessing rise anew, Sees the long train of penury and grief Which sicken life here find their blest relief; The Sons of Physic here, with skilful hand, Aloft shall wave HYGEIA'S mystic wand; At the kind touch behold Disorder fly, And new born lustres kindle in the eye; Raised by their aid, the wretch to Death devote Attunes to praise the renovated note, Clasp'd to his throbbing heart, his wife, his child Utter in sounds of joy their transports wild,— Sounds sacred to the ear of those who know The bliss to heal, the heart to melt for woe! In future times, still rising in success, Thine hallow'd walls shall prove the power to bless, Succeeding ages catch the living fire, And hear thy noble FOUNDER'S fame aspire; Pleased to repeat each name to Pity dear The lisping infant still shall wander near; While lingering age shall o'er his crutch relate Each loved memorial of thy valued date. Then BROWNE shall view, while bending from the skies, The lovely visions mellowing as they rise, Watch his own Genius tower to endless fame, And hear applausive whispers bless his name. And thou, O WILKINSON! whose sacred vest Well suits the graces of thy heaven-form'd breast, Shall view each answer of thine heartfelt prayer, And own the GOD OF MERCY present there; While FELL'S sweet voice symphonious joins the lay, And wakes new praises thro' the realms of day. Angel of Comfort to HIBERNIA'S shore! Her hope, her glory—hers alas no more; Whose heart on earth, with bright but steady flame, Illumed the claims of blood with virtue's claim, Thou 'mongst the spirits of the just shalt raise Thy votive song of tributary praise: For oft thine heart hath felt, thine hand hath shewn That generous feeling mark'd thee all her own. O! still be blest, resplendent Fabric! still Wide flow the bounties of thy heaven-swell'd rill, Firm as thy basis, as thy prospect fair, Remain the honours of thy generous care, While distant ages round thy mansion raise The beauteous halo of a people's praise. LINES, Written in the beginning of March, 1805. TEMPESTUOUS Month! by nature wild, Terrific, comfortless, forlorn; What mean these breezes, soft and mild, That usher in thy morn? Is it in thine hard-featured face, The wondering eye shall learn to trace The unfetter'd current sweetly clear Pursue its chrystal way, Daisies and snow drops starting near To woo the stranger's stay? While the snowy mantled lamb, Tottering near its tender dam, Eyes the new world's mellowing green, With infant pleasure's timid mien; Nor dreams that o'er his fairy ground The rimy frost shall fall, the rattling hail rebound. Insidious Month! thy transient smile, Tho' graced by Spring's auspicious store, My stedfast heart shall ne'er beguile To own a jocund hour: For were the Seasons, as they roll Rich from the hand of Heaven, Consign'd to thee alone, Thou never couldst atone The sorrows thou hast given; The fierce, the deadly blight, That quench'd my fondest hopes in night, The endless night of winter to my soul! Better I bear thy fearful form, When wrapt in clouds of darkest gloom, Thou howlest in the midnight storm, With whirlwind terrors round thee cast, Borne on the desolating blast, Threatening wide Nature with one ample tomb;— Or when with hush'd but keener breath, Thou whisperest forth the gale of death, More fatal to the weaken'd frame Than INDIA'S beams of scorching flame; For then I know thee, Minister of Woe! And feel in thy consuming air The icy breeze that fed despair, When all her pangs were wont to dart Through every vein that warm'd my heart; Yet to that heart most justly dear Is faithful memory's bitterest tear; Nor for the brightest gleams that glow On smiling Fortune's flaunting brow, Would my sad heart its sacred grief forego. Tempestuous Month!—'twas thine To rend the tenderest tie, And bid my tortured soul resign The very hope of joy! Here let thy fury rest, Contented to destroy The Partner of my bleeding breast, And spare—Oh spare my Boy! So when the Mother's task's fulfill'd, If by ordaining Heaven 'tis will'd, My patient spirit shall await From thee the closing scene of fate; Then be one beam of comfort shed By Mercy on my sinking head, While borne from Life's sad Winter-night, I rise on Faith's exalted wing, To Summer-realms of fadeless light, And everlasting Spring. LINES, Occasioned by the Death of a little Relative. WHEN November's chilling blast Withering death around him cast, Braving his relentless storm, First appear'd thy beauteous form, Blossom, delicate as fair, Shrinking from the frosty air:— But with Summer's radiant hour, Brighter bloom'd the fragile flower, Bloom'd alas too soon to fade With returning Winter's shade, Hastening from his frown away To bask in everlasting day. Once a Being, sweet as thee, Sojourn'd thus one year with me, Whose blue eyes like thine could dart Dearest rapture to my heart, Rapture transient as the beam Moonlight gives the wandering stream. Like thy Mother then I wept O'er the grave, where MARY slept, Thought all earthly comfort fled, When my first-born babe was dead, Like EGYPTIA'S Daughters grieving For the loss beyond retrieving. Taught by years of heartfelt pain, Now to estimate her gain, Now to value her repose, Saved from all her Mother's woes, Now my humbled feelings own GOD is wise, and GOD alone! May thy wounded Parents find Balm more soothing to the mind, Taught, by future blessings given, To revere the will of Heaven, Nor think that e'en its dearest boon Was snatch'd to bliss one hour too soon. EVENING MEDITATION ON THE WATER. (AUGUST 16, 1801) HOW mild, and sweet, and beautiful this scene! Mark how the moon-beams on the water fall; Clear, tremulous, they undulate along, Soft as the sign that fans the good man's grave, Bright as the rays which gild his future hope. What stillness spreads around!—disturb'd alone By the soft dashing of the constant oar; The very breeze that steals along the wave, With trembling pinion wings his placid flight, Afraid to break by rude or whispering note The dulcet sadness of this sober scene. Spangling the wide expanse ten thousand stars, Beaming their lucid fires of varied light, Call the rapt soul to fly from orb to orb, And drink new glories in each quivering glance. How smoothly glide we on from wave to wave! Not such the breeze that fann'd my luckless youth, Not such the path that led maturer life: Scarce in the lapse of many a sorrowing year, Hath one soft vision, like this moment's, cheer'd My aching heart.—What sound is that which now First breaks the' enchantment with a charm more dear? Oh! it is music sweeter to the soul Than all the strains of artful harmony;— 'Tis Beauty's voice attunes the choral lay; 'Tis the heart's music,—it is Friendship's song! Dear simple scene! thou soother of the mind, Whose stillness lulls the weary throb of care; And heals the anguish recollection pours; Dear lucid moments! that from your white wings Shed balmy influence on my fever'd brain, And pour delicious slumbers o'er my heart, Oh! on that heart impress your tranquil forms, That through each future change of suffering time The unborn minute, big with wayward fate, May view, while springing into angry life, Your smiling mien and soften into bliss! O sacred hour! to thee shall still belong Sad Memory's sweetest sigh,—that lingering oft On every vestige of thy transient reign, Shall rouse my languid sense and through the day To woe or pain devoted, through the night Whose sleepless pillow, wet with many a tear, Tells the sad tale which day-light strove to hide, Soft shall the whisper, "Thus thou once wert bless'd, "Thence gather hope,—the future may be kind. LINES, On the death of MRS. GARDENER, late of Hereford. THOU too art gone!—the all destroying-scythe Year after year sweeps some dear friend away, And leaves new chasms in my bereaved heart Which Time can never fill.—Among the few Whom memory treasures in her choicest cell, Scarce one so full of years, so rich in grace, So high, so hallow'd, so exalted, claims The fond remembrance and the duteous tear Friend to my youth! example to my soul! That first impress'd upon my yielding mind The strongest image, and the brightest traits Of Christian character;—whose holy faith And sacred love illumed her glowing breast, And shone in every action, every word, With such a sweet and striking harmony As seldom gilds the path of virtuous life. Hers was the wide beneficence that asks No passport to the heart, save sorrow's sigh; From her own lip she snatch'd the untasted cup To pour its balmy blessing on the tongue Of fainting Misery, sought with anxious care In many a secret cell and roofless shed. So tender was she of another's pain Her heart dissolved at Pity's gentlest touch, Yet when around her own defenceless head, The chilling tempest of misfortune raged, Or poignant sickness through her fragile form Shot the keen darts of agonizing pain, And rack'd each nerve with exquisite distress, She shed no tear she breathed no murmuring groan; (The cross was not her burden but delight,) Sublimely calm, in unaffected peace, She smiled submission to the ETERNAL GOD, Whom as a tender Father still she view'd, Whether his chastening hand the Saint refined, Or bless'd the Mourner with reviving joy. Yes I have seen her in those trying times, Those awful moments, when severest pangs Gave signal of the soul's approaching flight, Encompass'd even with the "pains of hell," Firm on the Rock of boundless ages stand, New plumed for heaven, and soaring to the blest With holy rapture beaming in her eye, And praises trembling on her pallid lip. And I have seen her, as the pang retired, And ebbing life return'd with languid pulse, Cast such a sickly smile on all around As spoke the disappointment of her soul, Mix'd with the tender joy a Mother feels In blessing those far dearer than herself. Nor be forgot amid this higher praise, How sweetly mild, how innocently gay, How full, how varied, would her active mind Unbend in conversation's social hour, Making dull Winter's lingering evening fly Swift as the dawn of Spring's illusive hour. Farewell, dear Saint! departed worth, farewell! Amid the toilsome path of wayward life, The hour of anguish and the night of care, The blest remembrance of thy goodness here, The glorious state that faith assigns thee now, Shall tranquilize and heal my wounded soul, As the parch'd herb, that drinks the evening dew, Lifts its pale head and once more looks to heaven. FINIS. J. MONTGOMERY, PRINTER, SHEFFIELD.