Elegiac Sonnets, and Other Poems.

ELEGIAC SONNETS
AND
OTHER POEMS.

ELEGIAC SONNETS.

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SONNET I.

THE partial Muse, has from my earliest hours, Smil'd on the rugged path I'm doom'd to tread, And still with sportive hand has snatch'd wild flowers, To weave fantastic garlands for my head: But far, far happier is the lot of those Who never learn'd her dear delusive art; Which, while it decks the head with many a rose, Reserves the thorn, to fester in the heart. For still she bids soft Pity's melting eye Stream o'er the ills she knows not to remove, Points every pang, and deepens every sigh Of mourning friendship or unhappy love. Ah! then, how dear the Muse's favours cost, If those paint sorrow best­who feel it most!

SONNET II.

Written at the close of Spring.

THE garlands fade that Spring so lately wove, Each simple flower, which she had nursed in dew, Anemonies, that spangled every grove, The primrose wan, and hare‐bell mildly blue. No more shall violets linger in the dell, Or purple orchis variegate the plain, Till Spring again shall call forth every bell, And dress with humid hands her wreaths again.­ Ah! poor humanity! so frail, so fair, Are the fond visions of thy early day, Till tyrant passion and corrosive care Bid all thy fairy colours fade away! Another May new buds and flowers shall bring; Ah! why has happiness­no second spring?

SONNET III.

TO A NIGHTINGALE.

POOR, melancholy bird­that all night long Tell'st to the Moon thy tale of tender woe; From what sad cause can such sweet sorrow flow, And whence this mournful melody of song? Thy poet's musing fancy would translate What mean the sounds that swell thy little breast, When still at dewy eve thou leav'st thy nest, Thus to the listening night to sing thy fate? Pale Sorrow's victims wert thou once among, Though now released in woodlands wild to rove? Say­hast thou felt from friends some cruel wrong, Or died'st thou­martyr of disastrous love? Ah! songstress sad! that such my lot might be, To sigh and sing at Liberty­like thee!

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SONNET IV.

TO THE MOON.

QUEEN of the silver bow!­by thy pale beam, Alone and pensive, I delight to stray, And watch thy shadow trembling in the stream, Or mark the floating clouds that cross thy way. And while I gaze, thy mild and placid light Sheds a soft calm upon my troubled breast; And oft I think­fair planet of the night, That in thy orb, the wretched may have rest: The sufferers of the earth perhaps may go, Released by death­to thy benignant sphere, And the sad children of despair and woe Forget in thee, their cup of sorrow here. Oh! that I soon may reach thy world serene, Poor wearied pilgrim­in this toiling scene!

SONNET V.

TO THE SOUTH DOWNS.

AH! hills beloved!­where once, a happy child, Your beechen shades, 'your turf, your flowers among,' I wove your blue‐bells into garlands wild, And woke your echoes with my artless song. Ah! hills beloved!­your turf, your flowers remain; But can they peace to this sad breast restore, For one poor moment soothe the sense of pain, And teach a breaking heart to throb no more? And you, Aruna!­in the vale below, As to the sea your limpid waves you bear Can you one kind Lethean cup bestow, To drink a long oblivion to my care? Ah! no!­when all, e'en Hope's last ray is gone, There's no oblivion­but in death alone!

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SONNET VI.

TO HOPE.

OH, Hope! thou soother sweet of human woes. How shall I lure thee to my haunts forlorn? For me wilt thou renew the wither'd rose, And clear my painful path of pointed thorn? Ah, come sweet nymph! in smiles and softness drest, Like the young hours that lead the tender year, Enchantress, come! and charm my cares to rest:­ Alas! the flatterer flies, and will not hear! A prey to fear, anxiety, and pain, Must I a sad existence still deplore Lo!­the flowers fade, but all the thorns remain, 'For me the vernal garland blooms no more.' Come then, 'pale Misery's love!' be thou my cure, And I will bless thee, who though slow art sure.

SONNET VII.

ON THE
DEPARTURE OF THE NIGHTINGALE.

SWEET poet of the woods­a long adieu! Farewell, soft minstrel of the early year! Ah! 'twill be long ere thou shalt sing anew, And pour thy music on 'the night's dull ear.' Whether on Spring thy wandering flights await, Or whether silent in our groves you dwell, The pensive muse shall own thee for her mate, And still protect the song she loves so well. With cautious step, the love‐lorn youth shall glide Thro' the lone brake that shades thy mossy nest; And shepherd girls, from eyes profane shall hide The gentle bird, who sings of pity best: For still thy voice shall soft affections move, And still be dear to sorrow, and to love!

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SONNET VIII.

TO SPRING.

AGAIN the wood and long‐withdrawing vale In many a tint of tender green are drest, Where the young leaves, unfolding, scarce conceal Beneath their early shade, the half‐form'd nest Of finch or woodlark; and the primrose pale, And lavish cowslip, wildly scatter'd round, Give their sweet spirits to the sighing gale. Ah! season of delight!­could aught be found To soothe awhile the tortured bosom's pain, Of sorrow's rankling shaft to cure the wound, And bring life's first delusions once again, 'Twere surely met in thee!­thy prospect fair, Thy sounds of harmony, thy balmy air, Have power to cure all sadness­but despair.

SONNET IX.

BLEST is yon shepherd, on the turf reclined, Who on the varied clouds which float above Lies idly gazing­while his vacant mind Pours out some tale antique of rural love! Ah! he has never felt the pangs that move Th' indignant spirit, when with selfish pride Friends, on whose faith the trusting heart relied, Unkindly shun th' imploring eye of woe! The ills they ought to soothe with taunts deride, And laugh at tears themselves have forced to flow. Nor his rude bosom those fine feelings melt, Children of Sentiment and Knowledge born, Through whom each shaft with cruel force is felt, Empoison'd by deceit­or barb'd with scorn.

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SONNET X.

TO MRS. G.

AH! why will Mem'ry with officious care The long lost visions of my days renew? Why paint the vernal landscape green and fair, When life's gay dawn was opening to my view? Ah! wherefore bring those moments of delight, When with my Anna, on the southern shore, I thought the future, as the present bright? Ye dear delusions!­ye return no more! Alas! how diff'rent does the truth appear, From the warm picture youth's rash hand portrays! How fades the scene, as we approach it near, And pain and sorrow strike­how many ways! Yet of that tender heart, ah! still retain A share for me­and I will not complain!

SONNET XI.

TO SLEEP.

COME, balmy Sleep! tired nature's soft resort! On these sad temples all thy poppies shed; And bid gay dreams, from Morpheus' airy court, Float in light vision round my aching head! Secure of all thy blessings, partial Power! On his hard bed the peasant throws him down; And the poor sea‐boy, in the rudest hour, Enjoys thee more than he who wears a crown. Clasp'd in her faithful shepherd's guardian arms, Well may the village girl sweet slumbers prove; And they, O gentle Sleep! still taste thy charms, Who wake to labour, liberty, and love. But still thy opiate aid dost thou deny To calm the anxious breast; to close the streaming eye.

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SONNET XII.

Written on the Sea Shore, Oct. 1784.

ON some rude fragment of the rocky shore, Where on the fractured cliff the billows break, Musing, my solitary seat I take, And listen to the deep and solemn roar.

O'er the dark waves the winds tempestuous howl; The screaming sea‐bird quits the troubled sea: But the wild gloomy scene has charms for me, And suits the mournful temper of my soul.

Already shipwreck'd by the storms of Fate, Like the poor mariner methinks I stand, Cast on a rock; who sees the distant land From whence no succour comes­or comes too late. Faint and more faint are heard his feeble cries, Till in the rising tide the exhausted sufferer dies.

SONNET XIII.

FROM PETRARCH.

OH! place me where the burning moon Forbids the wither'd flower to blow; Or place me in the frigid zone, On mountains of eternal snow: Let me pursue the steps of Fame, Or Poverty's more tranquil road; Let youth's warm tide my veins inflame, Or sixty winters chill my blood: Though my fond soul to Heaven were flown, Or though on earth 'tis doom'd to pine, Prisoner or free­obscure or known, My heart, oh Laura! still is thine. Whate'er my destiny may be, That faithful heart still burns for thee!

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SONNET XIV.

FROM PETRARCH.

LOOSE to the wind her golden tresses stream'd, Forming bright waves with amorous Zephyr's sighs; And though averted now, her charming eyes Then with warm love, and melting pity beam'd, Was I deceived?­Ah! surely, nymph divine! That fine suffusion on thy cheek was love; What wonder then those beauteous tints should move, Should fire this heart, this tender heart of mine! Thy soft melodious voice, thy air, thy shape, Were of a goddess­not a mortal maid; Yet though thy charms, thy heavenly charms should fade, My heart, my tender heart could not escape; Nor cure for me in time or change be found: The shaft extracted does not cure the wound!

SONNET XV.

FROM PETRARCH.

WHERE the green leaves exclude the summer beam, And softly bend as balmy breezes blow, And where, with liquid lapse, the lucid stream Across the fretted rock is heard to flow, Pensive I lay: when she whom Earth conceals, As if still living, to my eyes appears, And pitying Heaven her angel form reveals, To say­'Unhappy Petrarch, dry your tears: 'Ah! why, sad lover! thus before your time, In grief and sadness should your life decay, And like a blighted flower, your manly prime In vain and hopeless sorrow fade away? Ah! yield not thus to culpable despair, But raise thine eyes to Heaven­and think I wait thee there.'

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SONNET XVI.

FROM PETRARCH.

YE vales and woods! fair scenes of happier hours! Ye feather'd people, tenants of the grove! And you, bright stream! befringed with shrubs and flowers, Behold my grief, ye witnesses of love!

For ye beheld my infant passion rise, And saw through years unchanged my faithful flame; Now cold, in dust, the beauteous object lies, And you, ye conscious scenes, are still the same!

While busy Memory still delights to dwell On all the charms these bitter tears deplore, And with a trembling hand describes too well The angel form I shall behold no more! To Heaven she's fled! and nought to me remains But the pale ashes which her urn contains.

SONNET XVII.

FROM THE THIRTEENTH CANTATA OF METASTASIO.

ON thy grey bark, in witness of my flame, I carve Miranda's cypher­Beauteous tree! Graced with the lovely letters of her name, Henceforth be sacred to my love and me! Though the tall elm, the oak, and darker pine, With broader arms, may noon's fierce ardours break, To shelter me, and her I love, be thine; And thine to see her smile and hear her speak. No bird, ill‐omen'd, round thy graceful head Shall clamour harsh, or wave his heavy wing, But fern and flowers arise beneath thy shade. Where the wild bees their lullabies shall sing. And in thy boughs the murmuring Ring‐dove rest; And there the Nightingale shall build her nest.

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SONNET XVIII.

TO THE EARL OF EGREMONT.

WYNDHAM! 'tis not thy blood, though pure it runs Through a long line of glorious ancestry, Percys and Seymours, Britain's boasted sons, Who trust the honours of their race to thee:

'Tis not thy splendid domes, where science loves To touch the canvass, and the bust to raise; Thy rich domains, fair fields, and spreading groves; 'Tis not all these the Muse delights to praise:

In birth, and wealth, and honours, great thou art! But nobler in thy independent mind; And in that liberal hand and feeling heart Given thee by Heaven­a blessing to mankind! Unworthy oft may titled fortune be; A soul like thine­is true Nobility!

SONNET XIX.

TO MR. HAYLEY,

On receiving some elegant lines from him.

FOR me the Muse a simple band design'd Of 'idle' flowers that bloom the woods among, Which, with the cypress and the willow join'd, A garland form'd as artless as my song. And little dared I hope its transient hours So long would last; composed of buds so brief; Till Hayley's hand among the vagrant flowers, Threw from his verdant crown a deathless leaf. For high in Fame's bright fane has Judgment placed The laurel wreath Serena's poet won, Which, woven with myrtles by the hands of Taste, The Muse decreed for this her favourite son. And those immortal leaves his temples shade, Whose fair, eternal verdure­shall not fade!

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SONNET XX.

TO THE COUNTESS OF A­­

Written on the anniversary of her marriage.

ON this blest day may no dark cloud, or shower, With envious shade the Sun's bright influence hide! But all his rays illume the favour'd hour, That saw thee, Mary!­Henry's lovely bride! With years revolving may it still arise, Blest with each good approving Heaven can send! And still, with ray serene, shall those blue eyes Enchant the husband, and attach the friend! For you fair Friendship's amaranth shall blow, And love's own thornless roses bind your brow; And when­long hence­to happier worlds you go, Your beauteous race shall be what you are now! And future Nevills through long ages shine, With hearts as good, and forms as fair as thine!

SONNET XXI.

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY WERTER.

GO! cruel tyrant of the human breast! To other hearts thy burning arrows bear; Go, where fond hope, and fair illusion rest; Ah! why should love inhabit with despair! Like the poor maniac I linger here, Still haunt the scene where all my treasure lies; Still seek for flowers where only thorns appear, 'And drink delicious poison from her eyes!' Tow'rds the deep gulf that opens on my sight I hurry forward, Passion's helpless slave! And scorning Reason's mild and sober light, Pursue the path that leads me to the grave! So round the flame the giddy insect flies, And courts the fatal fire by which it dies!

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SONNET XXII.

BY THE SAME.

TO SOLITUDE.

OH, Solitude! to thy sequester'd vale I come to hide my sorrow and my tears, And to thy echoes tell the mournful tale Which scarce I trust to pitying Friendship's ears. Amidst thy wild‐woods, and untrodden glades, No sounds but those of melancholy move; And the low winds that die among thy shades, Seem like soft Pity's sighs for hopeless love. And sure some story of despair and pain, In yon deep copse, thy murm'ring doves relate; And, Hark! methinks in that long plaintive strain, Thine own sweet songstress weeps my wayward fate; Ah, Nymph! that fate assist me to endure, And bear awhile­what death alone can cure!

SONNET XXIII.

BY THE SAME.

TO THE NORTH STAR.

TO thy bright beams I turn my swimming eyes, Fair, favourite planet, which in happier days Saw my young hopes, ah, faithless hopes!­arise, And on my passion shed propitious rays. Now nightly wandering 'mid the tempests drear That howl the woods and rocky steeps among, I love to see thy sudden light appear Through the swift clouds­driven by the wind along: Or in the turbid water, rude and dark, O'er whose wild stream the gust of Winter raves, Thy trembling light with pleasure still I mark, Gleam in faint radiance on the foaming waves! So o'er my soul short rays of reason fly, Then fade:­and leave me to despair and die.

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SONNET XXIV.

BY THE SAME.

MAKE there my tomb, beneath the lime‐tree's shade, Where grass and flowers in wild luxuriance wave; Let no memorial mark where I am laid, Or point to common eyes the lover's grave! But oft at twilight morn, or closing day, The faithful friend with fault'ring step shall glide, Tributes of fond regret by stealth to pay, And sigh o'er the unhappy suicide. And sometimes, when the sun with parting rays Gilds the long grass that hides my silent bed, The tear shall tremble in my Charlotte's eyes; Dear, precious drops!­they shall embalm the dead! Yes­Charlotte o'er the mournful spot shall weep, Where her poor Werter­and his sorrows sleep.

SONNET XXV.

BY THE SAME.

Just before his Death.

WHY should I wish to hold in this low sphere 'A frail and feverish being?' wherefore try Poorly from day to day to linger here, Against the powerful hand of Destiny? By those who know the force of hopeless care On the worn heart­I sure shall be forgiven, If to elude dark guilt, and dire despair, I go uncall'd­to mercy and to heaven! O thou! to save whose peace I now depart, Will thy soft mind thy poor lost friend deplore, When worms shall feed on this devoted heart, Where even thy image shall be found no more? Yet may thy pity mingle not with pain, For then thy hapless lover­dies in vain!

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SONNET XXVI.

TO THE RIVER ARUN.

ON thy wild banks, by frequent torrents worn, No glittering fanes, or marble domes appear, Yet shall the mournful muse thy course adorn, And still to her thy rustic waves be dear. For with the infant Otway, lingering here, Of early woes she bade her votary dream, While thy low murmurs sooth'd his pensive ear And still the poet­consecrates the stream. Beneath the oak and birch that fringe thy side, The first‐born violets of the year shall spring; And in thy hazles, bending o'er the tide, The earliest nightingale delight to sing: While kindred spirits, pitying, shall relate Thy Otway's sorrows, and lament his fate.

SONNET XXVII.

SIGHING I see yon little troop at play, By sorrow yet untouch'd; unhurt by care; While free and sportive they enjoy to‐day, 'Content and careless of to‐morrow's fare!' O happy age! when hope's unclouded ray Lights their green path, and prompts their simple mirth, Ere yet they feel the thorns that lurking lay To wound the wretched pilgrims of the earth, Making them rue the hour that gave them birth, And threw them on a world so full of pain, Where prosperous folly treads on patient worth, And, to deaf pride, misfortune pleads in vain! Ah!­for their future fate how many fears Oppress my heart­and fill mine eyes with tears!

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SONNET XXVIII.

TO FRIENDSHIP.

O THOU! whose name too often is profaned; Whose charms celestial, few have hearts to feel; Unknown to Folly­and by Pride disdain'd! ­To thy soft solace may my sorrows steal! Like the fair moon, thy mild and genuine ray Through life's long evening shall unclouded last; While pleasure's frail attachments fleet away, As fades the rainbow from the northern blast! 'Tis thine, O Nymph! with 'balmy hands to bind' The wounds inflicted in misfortune's storm, And blunt severe affliction's sharpest dart! ­'Tis thy pure spirit warms my Anna's mind, Beams through the pensive softness of her form, And holds its altar­on her spotless heart!

SONNET XXIX.

TO MISS C­­.

On being desired to attempt writing a Comedy.

WOULD'ST thou then have me tempt the comic scene Of gay Thalia? used so long to tread The gloomy paths of sorrow's cypress shade; And the lorn lay with sighs and tears to stain? Alas! how much unfit her sprightly vein, Arduous to try!­and seek the sunny mead, And bowers of roses, where she loves to lead The sportive subjects of her golden reign! Enough for me, if still, to sooth my days, Her fair and pensive sister condescend, With tearful smile to bless my simple lays; Enough, if her soft notes she sometimes lend, To gain for me of feeling hearts the praise, And chiefly thine, my ever partial friend!

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SONNET XXX.

TO THE RIVER ARUN.

BE the proud Thames of trade the busy mart! Arun! to thee will other praise belong; Dear to the lover's and the mourner's heart, And ever sacred to the sons of song! Thy banks romantic hopeless Love shall seek, Where o'er the rocks the mantling bindwith flaunts; And Sorrow's drooping form and faded cheek Choose on thy willow'd shore her lonely haunts. Banks, which inspired thy Otway's plaintive strain! Wilds,­whose lorn echoes learned the deeper tone Of Collins' powerful shell! yet once again Another poet­Hayley is thine own! Thy classic stream anew shall hear a lay, Bright as its waves, and various as its way.

SONNET XXXI.

Written on Farm Wood, South Downs, May 1784.

SPRING'S dewy hand on this fair summit weaves The downy grass, with tufts of Alpine flowers, And shades the beechen slopes with tender leaves, And leads the shepherd to his upland bowers, Strewn with wild thyme; while slow‐descending showers Feed the green ear, and nurse the future sheaves. ­Ah, blest the hind­whom no sad thought bereaves Of the gay Season's pleasures!­All his hours To wholesome labour given, or thoughtless mirth; No pangs of sorrow past, or coming dread, Bend his unconscious spirit down to earth, Or chase calm slumbers from his careless head! Ah, what to me can those dear days restore, When scenes could charm that now I taste no more!

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SONNET XXXII.

TO MELANCHOLY.

Written on the banks of the Arun, Oct. 1785.

WHEN latest Autumn spreads her evening veil, And the grey mists from these dim waves arise, I love to listen to the hollow sighs, Through the half‐leafless wood that breathes the gale: For at such hours the shadowy phantom, pale, Oft seems to fleet before the poet's eyes; Strange sounds are heard, and mournful melodies, As of night wanderers, who their woes bewail Here, by his native stream, at such an hour, Pity's own Otway I methinks could meet, And hear his deep sighs swell the sadden'd wind! O Melancholy!­such thy magic power, That to the soul these dreams are often sweet, And sooth the pensive visionary mind!

SONNET XXXIII.

TO THE NAIAD OF THE ARUN.

GO, rural Naiad! wind thy stream along Through woods and wilds: then seek the ocean caves Where sea‐nymphs meet their coral rocks among, To boast the various honours of their waves! 'Tis but a little, o'er thy shallow tide, That toiling trade her burden'd vessel leads; But laurels grow luxuriant on thy side, And letters live along thy classic meads. Lo! where 'mid British bards thy natives shine! And now another poet helps to raise Thy glory high­the poet of the MINE, Whose brilliant talents are his smallest praise: And who, to all that genius can impart, Adds the cool head, and the unblemish'd heart.

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SONNET XXXIV.

TO A FRIEND.

CHARM'D by thy suffrage, shall I yet aspire (All inauspicious as my fate appears, By troubles darken'd, that increase with years,) To guide the crayon, or to touch the lyre? Ah me!­the sister Muses still require A spirit free from all intrusive fears, Nor will they deign to wipe away the tears Of vain regret, that dim their sacred fire. But when thy envied sanction crowns my lays, A ray of pleasure lights my languid mind, For well I know the value of thy praise; And to how few the flattering meed confined, That thou,­their highly favour'd brows to bind; Wilt weave green myrtle and unfading bays.

SONNET XXXV.

TO FORTITUDE.

NYMPH of the rock! whose dauntless spirit braves The beating storm, and bitter winds that howl Round thy cold breast; and hear'st the bursting waves And the deep thunder with unshaken soul; Oh come!­and show how vain the cares that press On my weak bosom­and how little worth Is the false fleeting meteor, Happiness, That still misleads the wanderers of the earth! Strengthen'd by thee, this heart shall cease to melt O'er ills that poor humanity must bear; Nor friends estranged, or ties dissolved be felt To leave regret, and fruitless anguish there: And when at length it heaves its latest sigh, Thou and mild Hope shall teach me how to die.

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SONNET XXXVI.

SHOULD the lone wanderer, fainting on his way, Rest for a moment of the sultry hours, And though his path through thorns and roughness lay, Pluck the wild rose, or woodbine's gadding flowers, Weaving gay wreaths beneath some sheltering tree, The sense of sorrow he awhile may lose; So have I sought thy flowers, fair Poesy! So charm'd my way with Friendship and the Muse. But darker now grows life's unhappy day, Dark with new clouds of evil yet to come, Her pencil sickening Fancy throws away, And weary Hope reclines upon the tomb; And points my wishes to that tranquil shore, Where the pale spectre Care pursues no more.

SONNET XXXVII.

SENT TO THE HON. MRS. O'NEILL, WITH
PAINTED FLOWERS.

The poet's fancy takes from Flora's realm Her buds and leaves to dress fictitious powers, With the green olive shades Minerva's helm, And give to Beauty's queen, the queen of flowers. But what gay blossoms of luxuriant spring, With rose, mimosa, amaranth entwined, Shall fabled Sylphs and fairy people bring, As a just emblem of the lovely mind? In vain the mimic pencil tries to blend The glowing dyes that dress the flowery race, Scented and colour'd by a hand divine! Ah! not less vainly would the Muse pretend, On her weak lyre, to sing the native grace And native goodness of a soul like thine!

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SONNET XXXVIII.

FROM THE NOVEL OF EMMELINE.

WHEN welcome slumber sets my spirit free, Forth to fictitious happiness it flies, And where Elysian bowers of bliss arise, I seem, my Emmeline­to meet with thee! Ah! Fancy then, dissolving human ties, Gives me the wishes of my soul to see; Tears of fond pity fill thy soften'd eyes: In heavenly harmony­our hearts agree. Alas! these joys are mine in dreams alone, When cruel Reason abdicates her throne! Her harsh return condemns me to complain Through life unpitied, unrelieved, unknown. And as the dear delusions leave my brain, She bids the truth recur­with aggravated pain.

SONNET XXXIX.

TO NIGHT.

FROM THE SAME.

I LOVE thee, mournful, sober‐suited Night! When the faint moon, yet lingering in her wane, And veil'd in clouds, with pale uncertain light Hangs o'er the waters of the restless main. In deep depression sunk, the enfeebled mind Will to the deaf cold elements complain, And tell the embosom'd grief, however vain, To sullen surges and the viewless wind. Though no repose on thy dark breast I find, I still enjoy thee­cheerless as thou art; For in thy quiet gloom the exhausted heart Is calm, though wretched; hopeless, yet resigned. While to the winds and waves its sorrows given, May reach­though lost on earth­the ear of Heaven!

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SONNET XL.

FROM THE SAME.

FAR on the sands, the low, retiring tide, In distant murmurs hardly seems to flow; And o'er the world of waters, blue and wide, The sighing summer wind forgets to blow. As sinks the day‐star in the rosy west, The silent wave, with rich reflection glows: Alas! can tranquil nature give me rest, Or scenes of beauty soothe me to repose? Can the soft lustre of the sleeping main, Yon radiant heaven, or all creation's charms, "Erase the written troubles of the brain," Which memory tortures, and which guilt alarms? Or bid a bosom transient quiet prove, That bleeds with vain remorse and unextinguish'd love!

SONNET XLI.

TO TRANQUILLITY.

IN this tumultuous sphere, for thee unfit, How seldom art thou found­Tranquillity! Unless 'tis when with mild and downcast eye By the low cradles thou delight'st to sit Of sleeping infants­watching the soft breath, And bidding the sweet slumberers easy lie; Or sometimes hanging o'er the bed of death, Where the poor languid sufferer­hopes to die. Oh, beauteous sister of the halcyon peace! I sure shall find thee in that heavenly scene Where care and anguish shall their power resign; Where hope alike, and vain regret shall cease, And memory­lost in happiness serene, Repeat no more­that misery has been mine!

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SONNET XLII.

Composed during a Walk on the Downs, Nov. 1787.

THE dark and pillowy cloud, the sallow trees, Seem o'er the ruins of the year to mourn; And, cold and hollow, the inconstant breeze Sobs through the falling leaves and wither'd fern. O'er the tall brow of yonder chalky bourn, The evening shades their gather'd darkness fling, While, by the lingering light, I scarce discern The shrieking night‐jar sail on heavy wing. Ah! yet a little­and propitious spring Crown'd with fresh flowers shall wake the woodland strain; But no gay change revolving seasons bring To call forth pleasure from the soul of pain; Bid Syren Hope resume her long‐lost part, And chase the vulture Care­that feeds upon the heart.

SONNET XLIII.

THE unhappy exile, whom his fates confine To the bleak coast of some unfriendly isle, Cold, barren, desert, where no harvests smile, But thirst and hunger on the rocks repine; When, from some promontory's fearful brow, Sun after sun he hopeless sees decline In the broad shipless sea­perhaps may know Such heartless pain, such blank despair as mine; And, if a flattering cloud appears to show The fancied semblance of a distant sail, Then melts away­anew his spirits fail, While the lost hope but aggravates his woe! Ah! so for me delusive fancy toils, Then, from contrasted truth­my feeble soul recoils.

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SONNET XLIV.

Written in the Church‐yard at Middleton, in Sussex.

PRESS'D by the moon, mute arbitress of tides, While the loud equinox its power combines, The sea no more its swelling surge confines, But o'er the shrinking land sublimely rides. The wild blast, rising from the western cave, Drives the huge billows from their heaving bed; Tears from their grassy tombs the village dead, And breaks the silent sabbath of the grave! With shells and sea‐weed mingled, on the shore, Lo! their bones whiten in the frequent wave; But vain to them the winds and waters rave; They hear the warring elements no more: While I am doom'd­by life's long storm opprest, To gaze with envy on their gloomy rest.

SONNET XLV.

ON LEAVING A PART OF SUSSEX.

FAREWELL, Aruna!­on whose varied shore My early vows were paid to Nature's shrine, When thoughtless joy, and infant hope were mine, And whose lorn stream has heard me since deplore Too many sorrows! Sighing I resign Thy solitary beauties­and no more Or on thy rocks or in thy woods recline, Or on the heath, by moonlight lingering, pore On air‐drawn phantoms­while in Fancy's ear, As in the evening wind thy murmurs swell, The Enthusiast of the Lyre who wander'd here, Seems yet to strike his visionary shell, Of power to call forth Pity's tenderest tear, Or wake wild Frenzy­from her hideous cell!

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SONNET XLVI.

Written at Penhurst, in Autumn 1788.

YE towers sublime! deserted now and drear! Ye woods! deep sighing to the hollow blast, The musing wanderer loves to linger near, While History points to all your glories past: And startling from their haunts the timid deer, To trace the walks obscured by matted fern, Which Waller's soothing lyre were wont to hear, But where now clamours the discordant hern! The spoiling hand of Time may overturn These lofty battlements, and quite deface The fading canvass whence we love to learn Sydney's keen look, and Sacharissa's grace; But fame and beauty still defy decay, Saved by the historic page­the poet's tender lay!

SONNET XLVII.

TO FANCY.

THEE, queen of shadows!­shall I still invoke, Still love the scenes thy sportive pencil drew, When on mine eyes the early radiance broke Which show'd the beauteous rather than the true! Alas! long since those glowing tints are dead, And now 'tis thine in darkest hues to dress The spot where pale Experience hangs her head O'er the sad grave of murder'd Happiness! Through thy false medium, then, no longer view'd, May fancied pain and fancied pleasure fly, And I, as from me all thy dreams depart, Be to my wayward destiny subdued: Nor suffer perfection with a poet's eye, Nor suffer anguish with a poet's heart!

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SONNET XLVIII.

TO MRS * * * *

NO more my wearied soul attempts to stray From sad reality and vain regret, Nor courts enchanting fiction to allay Sorrows that sense refuses to forget: For of calamity so long the prey, Imagination now has lost her powers, Nor will her fairy loom again essay To dress affliction in a robe of flowers. But if no more the bowers of Fancy bloom, Let one superior scene attract my view, Where heaven's pure rays the sacred spot illume, Let thy loved hand with palm and amaranth strew The mournful path approaching to the tomb, While Faith's consoling voice endears the friendly gloom.

SONNET XLIX.

FROM THE NOVEL OF CELESTINA.

Supposed to have been written in a church‐yard, over
the grave of a young woman of nineteen.

O THOU! who sleep'st where hazle‐bands entwine The vernal grass, with paler violets drest; I would, sweet maid! thy humble bed were mine, And mine thy calm and enviable rest. For never more by human ills opprest Shall thy soft spirit fruitlessly repine: Thou canst not now thy fondest hopes resign Even in the hour that should have made thee blest. Light lies the turf upon thy virgin breast; And lingering here, to love and sorrow true, The youth who once thy simple heart possest Shall mingle tears with April's early dew; While still for him shall faithful Memory save Thy form and virtues from the silent grave.

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SONNET L.

FROM THE NOVEL OF CELESTINA.

FAREWELL, ye lawns!­by fond remembrance blest, As witnesses of gay unclouded hours; Where, to maternal friendships' bosom prest, My happy childhood past among your bowers. Ye wood‐walks wild!­where leaves and fairy flowers By Spring's luxuriant hand are strewn anew; Rocks!­whence with shadowy grace rude nature low'rs O'er glens and haunted streams!­a long adieu! And you!­O promised Happiness!­whose voice Deluded Fancy heard in every grove, Bidding this tender, trusting heart, rejoice In the bright prospect of unfailing love: Though lost to me­still may thy smile serene Bless the dear lord of this regretted scene.

SONNET LI.

FROM THE NOVEL OF CELESTINA.

Supposed to have been written in the Hebrides.

ON this lone island, whose unfruitful breast Feeds but the summer‐shepherd's little flock With scanty herbage from the half‐clothed rock, Where osprays, cormorants, and sea‐mews rest; Even in a scene so desolate and rude I could with thee for months and years be blest; And of thy tenderness and love possest, Find all my world in this wild solitude! When Summer suns these Northern seas illume, With thee admire the light's reflected charms, And when drear Winter spreads his cheerless gloom, Still find Elysium in thy shelt'ring arms: For thou to me canst sovereign bliss impart, Thy mind my empire­and my throne thy heart.

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SONNET LII.

FROM THE NOVEL OF CELESTINA.

THE PILGRIM.

FAULTERING and sad the unhappy pilgrim roves, Who, on the eve of bleak December's night, Divided far from all he fondly loves, Journeys alone, along the giddy height Of these steep cliffs, and as the sun's last ray Fades in the West, sees, from the rocky verge, Dark tempests scowling o'er the shortened day, And hears, with ear appall'd, the impetuous surge Beneath him thunder!­So, with heart oppress'd, Alone, reluctant, desolate, and slow, By Friendship's cheering radiance now unblest, Along life's rudest path I seem to go; Nor see where yet the anxious heart may rest, That, trembling at the past­recoils from future woe.

SONNET LIII.

FROM THE NOVEL OF CELESTINA.

THE LAPLANDER.

THE shivering native, who by Tenglio's side Beholds with fond regret the parting light Sink far away, beneath the darkening tide, And leave him to long months of dreary night, Yet knows, that springing from the eastern wave The sun's glad beams shall re‐illume his way, And from the snows secured­within his cave He waits in patient hope­returning day. Not so the sufferer feels, who, o'er the waste Of joyless life, is destin'd to deplore Fond love forgotten, tender friendship past, Which, once extinguish'd, can revive no more! O'er the blank void he looks with hopeless pain; For him those beams of heaven shall never shine again.

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SONNET LIV.

THE SLEEPING WOODMAN.

Written in April, 1790.

YE copses wild, where April bids arise The vernal grasses, and the early flowers; My soul depress'd­from human converse flies To the lone shelter of your pathless bowers.

Lo!­where the Woodman, with his toil oppress'd, His careless head on bark and moss reclined, Lull'd by the song of birds, the murmuring wind, Has sunk to calm though momentary rest.

Ah! would 'twere mine in Spring's green lap to find Such transient respite from the ills I bear! Would I could taste, like this unthinking hind, A sweet forgetfulness of human care, Till the last sleep these weary eyes shall close, And Death receive me to his long repose.

SONNET LV.

RETURN OF THE NIGHTINGALE.

Written in May, 1791.

BORNE on the warm wing of the western gale, How tremulously low is heard to float Thro' the green budding thorns that fringe the vale The early Nightingale's prelusive note. 'Tis Hope's instinctive power that through the grove Tells how benignant Heaven revives the earth; 'Tis the soft voice of young and timid love That calls these melting sounds of sweetness forth. With transport, once, sweet bird! I hail'd thy lay, And bade thee welcome to our shades again, To charm the wandering poet's pensive way And soothe the solitary lover's pain; But now!­such evils in my lot combine, As shut my languid sense­to Hope's dear voice and thine!

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SONNET LVI.

THE CAPTIVE ESCAPED
In the wilds of America.

ADDRESSED TO THE HON. MRS O'NEILL.

IF, by his torturing, savage foes untraced, The breathless captive gain some trackless glade, Yet hears the war‐whoop howl along the waste, And dreads the reptile‐monsters of the shade; The giant reeds that murmur round the flood, Seem to conceal some hideous form beneath; And every hollow blast that shakes the wood, Speaks to his trembling heart of woe and death. With horror fraught, and desolate dismay, On such a wanderer falls the starless night; But if, far streaming, a propitious ray Leads to some amicable fort his sight, He hails the beam benign that guides his way, As I, my Harriet, bless thy friendship's cheering light.

SONNET LVII.

TO DEPENDENCE.

DEPENDENCE! heavy, heavy are thy chains, And happier they who from the dangerous sea, Or the dark mine, procure with ceaseless pains A hard‐earn'd pittance­than who trust to thee! More blest the hind, who from his bed of flock Starts­when the birds of morn their summons give, And waken'd by the lark­" the shepherd's clock," Lives but to labour­labouring but to live. More noble than the sycophant, whose art Must heap with tawdry flowers thy hated shrine; I envy not the meed thou canst impart To crown his service­while, tho' pride combine With Fraud to crush me­my unfetter'd heart Still to the Mountain Nymph may offer mine.

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SONNET LVIII.

THE GLOW‐WORM.

WHEN on some balmy‐breathing night of Spring The happy child, to whom the world is new, Pursues the evening moth, of mealy wing, Or from the heath‐bell beats the sparkling dew; He sees before his inexperienced eyes The brilliant Glow‐worm, like a meteor, shine On the turf‐bank;­amazed, and pleased, he cries, "Star of the dewy grass!­I make thee mine!"­ Then, ere he sleep, collects "the moisten'd" flower, And bids soft leaves his glittering prize enfold, And dreams that Fairy‐lamps illume his bower: Yet with the morning shudders to behold His lucid treasure, rayless as the dust! ­So turn the world's bright joys to cold and blank disgust.

SONNET LIX.

Written Sept. 1791, during a remarkable thunder
storm, in which the moon was perfectly clear, while
the tempest gathered in various directions near the
earth.

WHAT awful pageants crowd the evening sky! The low horizon gathering vapours shroud, Sudden, from many a deep‐embattled cloud Terrific thunders burst and lightnings fly­ While in serenest azure, beaming high, Night's regent, of her calm pavilion proud, Gilds the dark shadows that beneath her lie, Unvex'd by all their conflicts fierce and loud. ­So, in unsullied dignity elate, A spirit conscious of superior worth, In placid elevation firmly great, Scorns the vain cares that give Contention birth; And blest with peace above the shocks of Fate, Smiles at the tumult of the troubled earth.

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ODE TO DESPAIR.

FROM THE NOVEL OF EMMELINE.

THOU spectre of terrific mien! Lord of the hopeless heart and hollow eye, In whose fierce train each form is seen That drives sick Reason to insanity! I woo thee with unusual prayer, "Grim visaged, comfortless Despair:" Approach; in me a willing victim find, Who seeks thine iron sway­and calls thee kind!

Ah! hide for ever from my sight The faithless flatterer Hope­whose pencil, gay, Portrays some vision of delight, Then bids the fairy tablet fade away;

While in dire contrast, to mine eyes, Thy phantoms, yet more hideous, rise, And Memory draws from Pleasure's wither'd flower, Corrosives for the heart­of fatal power!

I bid the traitor Love adieu! Who to this fond believing bosom came, A guest insidious and untrue, With Pity's soothing voice­in Friendship's name; The wounds he gave, nor Time shall cure, Nor Reason teach me to endure. And to that breast mild Patience pleads in vain, Which feels the curse­of meriting its pain.

Yet not to me, tremendous Power! Thy worst of spirit‐wounding pangs impart, With which, in dark conviction's hour, Thou strik'st the guilty unrepentant heart; But of illusion long the sport, That dreary, tranquil gloom I court, Where my past errors I may still deplore, And dream of long‐lost happiness no more!

To thee I give this tortured breast, Where Hope arises but to foster pain; Ah! lull its agonies to rest! Ah! let me never be deceived again! But callous, in thy deep repose, Behold, in long array, the woes Of the dread future, calm and undismay'd, Till I may claim the hope­that shall not fade!

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ELEGY.

"DARK gathering clouds involve the threatening skies, The sea heaves conscious of the impending gloom, Deep, hollow murmurs from the cliffs arise; They come­the Spirits of the Tempest come!

"Oh! may such terrors mark the approaching night As reign'd on that these streaming eyes deplore! Flash, ye red fires of heaven, with fatal light, And with conflicting winds ye waters roar!

"Loud and more loud, ye foaming billows, burst! Ye warring elements, more fiercely rave! Till the wide waves o'erwhelm the spot accurst 'Where ruthless Avarice finds a quiet grave!' "

Thus with clasp'd hands, wild looks, and streaming hair, While shrieks of horror broke her trembling speech, A wretched maid­the victim of despair, Survey'd the threatening storm and desert beech.

Then to the tomb where now the father slept Whose rugged nature bade her sorrows flow, Frantic she turn'd­and beat her breast and wept, Invoking vengeance on the dust below.

"Lo! rising there above each humbler heap, Yon cypher'd stones his name and wealth relate, Who gave his son­remorseless­to the deep, While I, his living victim, curse my fate.

"Oh, my lost love! no tomb is placed for thee, That may to strangers' eyes thy worth impart; Thou hast no grave but in the stormy sea, And no memorial but this breaking heart.

"Forth to the world, a widow'd wanderer driven, I pour to winds and waves the unheeded tear, Try with vain effort to submit to Heaven, And fruitless call on him­'who cannot hear.'

"Oh! might I fondly clasp him once again, While o'er my head the infuriate billows pour, Forget in death this agonizing pain, And feel his father's cruelty no more!

"Part, raging waters! part, and show beneath, In your dread caves, his pale and mangled form; Now, while the demons of despair and death Ride on the blast, and urge the howling storm:

"Lo! by the lightning's momentary blaze, I see him rise the whitening waves above, No longer such as when in happier days He gave the enchanted hours­to me and love.

"Such, as when daring the enchafed sea, And courting dangerous toil, he often said That every peril, one soft smile from me, One sigh of speechless tenderness o'erpaid.

"But dead, disfigured, while between the roar Of the loud waves his accents pierce mine ear, And seem to say­Ah, wretch! delay no more, But come, unhappy mourner­meet me here.

"Yet, powerful Fancy, bid the phantom stay, Still let me hear him!­'Tis already past; Along the waves his shadow glides away, I lose his voice amid the deafening blast.

"Ah, wild delusion, born of frantic pain! He hears not, comes not from his watery bed; My tears, my anguish, my despair are vain, The insatiate ocean gives not up its dead.

" 'Tis not his voice! Hark! the deep thunders roll; Upheaves the ground; the rocky barriers fail; Approach, ye horrors that delight my soul, Despair, and Death, and Desolation, hail!"

The Ocean hears­The embodied waters come­ Rise o'er the land, and with resistless sweep Tear from its base the proud aggressor's tomb, And bear the injured to eternal sleep.

SONG.

FROM THE FRENCH OF CARDINAL BERNIS.

I.

FRUIT of Aurora's tears, fair rose, On whose soft leaves fond zephyrs play, Oh! queen of flowers, thy buds disclose, And give thy fragrance to the day; Unveil thy transient charms:­ah, no! A little be thy bloom delay'd, Since the same hour that bids thee blow, Shall see thee droop thy languid head.

II.

But go! and on Themira's breast Find, happy flower! thy throne and tomb; While, jealous of a fate so blest, How shall I envy thee thy doom! Should some rude hand approach thee there, Guard the sweet shrine thou wilt adorn; Ah! punish those who rashly dare, And for my rivals keep thy thorn.

III.

Love shall himself thy boughs compose, And bid thy wanton leaves divide; He'll show thee how, my lovely rose, To deck her bosom, not to hide: And thou shalt tell the cruel maid How frail are youth and beauty's charms, And teach her, ere her own shall fade, To give them to her lover's arms.

THE
ORIGIN OF FLATTERY.

WHEN Jove, in anger to the sons of the earth, Bid artful Vulcan give Pandora birth, And sent the fatal gift which spread below O'er all the wretched race contagious woe, Unhappy man, by vice and folly tost, Found in the storms of life his quiet lost, While Envy, Avarice, and Ambition, hurl'd Discord and death around the warring world; Then the blest peasant left his fields and fold, And barter'd love and peace for power and gold; Left his calm cottage and his native plain, In search of wealth to tempt the faithless main; Or, braving danger, in the battle stood, And bathed his savage hands in human blood; No longer then, his woodland walks among, The shepherd lad his genuine passion sung, Or sought at early morn his soul's delight, Or graved her name upon the bark at night; To deck her flowing hair no more he wove The simple wreath, or with ambitious love Bound his own brow with myrtle or with bay, But broke his pipe, or threw his crook away. The nymphs forsaken, other pleasures sought; Then first for gold their venal hearts were bought, And nature's blush to sickly art gave place, And affectation seized the seat of grace: No more simplicity by sense refined, Or generous sentiment, possess'd the mind: No more they felt each other's joy and woe, And Cupid fled, and hid his useless bow. But with deep grief propitious Venus pined, To see the ills which threaten'd womankind; Ills that she knew her empire would disarm, And rob her subjects of their sweetest charm; Good humour's potent influence destroy, And change for lowering frowns the smile of joy, Then deeply sighing at the mournful view, She tried at length what heavenly art could do

To bring back Pleasure to her pensive train, And vindicate the glories of her reign. A thousand little loves attend the task, And bear from Mars's head his radiant casque, The fair enchantress on its silver bound Weaved with soft spells her magic cestus round, Then shaking from her hair ambrosial dew, Infused fair hope, and expectation new, And stifled wishes, and persuasive sighs, And fond belief, and 'eloquence of eyes, And falt'ring accents, which explain so well What studied speeches vainly try to tell; And more pathetic silence, which imparts Infectious tenderness to feeling hearts; Soft tones of pity; fascinating smiles; And Maia's son assisted her with wiles, And brought gay dreams, fantastic visions brought, And waved his wand o'er the seducing draught. Then Zephyr came: to him the goddess cried, "Go fetch from Flora all her flowery pride To fill my charm, each scented bud that blows, And bind my myrtles with her thornless rose; Then speed thy flight to Gallia's smiling plain, Where rolls the Loire, the Garonne, and the Seine; Dip in their waters thy celestial wing, And the soft dew to fill my chalice bring; But chiefly tell thy Flora, that to me She send a bouquet of her fleurs de lys; That poignant spirit will complete my spell." ­'Tis done: the lovely sorceress says 'tis well. And now Apollo lends a ray of fire, The caldron bubbles, and the flames aspire; The watchful Graces round the circle dance, With arms entwined to mark the work's advance; And with full quiver sportive Cupid came, Temp'ring his favourite arrows in the flame. Then Venus speaks, the wavering flames retire, And Zephyr's breath extinguishes the fire. At length the goddess in the helmet's round A sweet and subtile spirit duly found, More soft than oil, than ether more refined, Of power to cure the woes of womankind, And call'd it Flattery:­balm of female life, It charms alike the widow, maid, and wife; Clears the sad brow of virgins in despair, And smooths the cruel traces left by care;

Bids palsied age with youthful spirit glow, And hangs May's garlands on December's snow. Delicious essence! howsoe'er applied, By what rude nature is thy charm denied? Some form seducing still thy whisper wears, Stern Wisdom turns to thee her willing ears, And Prudery listens and forgets her fears. The rustic nymph whom rigid aunts restrain, Condemn'd to dress, and practise airs in vain, At thy first summons finds her bosom swell, And bids her crabbed gouvernantes farewell; While, fired by thee with spirit not her own, She grows a toast, and rises into ton. The faded beauty who, with secret pain, Sees younger charms usurp her envied reign, By thee assisted, can with smiles behold The record where her conquests are enroll'd; And dwelling yet on scenes by memory nursed, When George the Second reign'd, or George the First; She sees the shades of ancient beaux arise, Who swear her eyes exceeded modern eyes, When poets sung for her, and lovers bled, And giddy fashion follow'd as she led. Departed modes appear in long array, The flowers and flounces of her happier day; Again her locks the decent fillets bind, The waving lappet flutters in the wind. And then comparing with a proud disdain The more fantastic tastes that now obtain, She deems ungraceful, trifling and absurd, The gayer world that moves round George the Third. Nor thy soft influence will the train refuse, Who court in distant shades the modest Muse, Though in a form more pure and more refined, Thy soothing spirit meets the letter'd mind. Not death itself thine empire can destroy; Tow'rds thee, even then, we turn the languid eye; Still trust in thee to bid our memory bloom, And scatter roses round the silent tomb.

THE
PEASANT OF THE ALPS.

FROM THE NOVEL OF CELESTINA.

WHERE cliffs arise by winter crown'd, And through dark groves of pine around, Down the deep chasms the snow‐fed torrents foam, Within some hollow, shelter'd from the storms, The Peasant of the Alps his cottage forms, And builds his humble, happy home.

Unenvied is the rich domain, That far beneath him on the plain Waves its wide harvests and its olive groves; More dear to him his hut with plantain thatch'd, Where long his unambitious heart attach'd, Finds all he wishes, all he loves.

There dwells the mistress of his heart, And Love, who teaches every art, Has bid him dress the spot with fondest care; When borrowing from the vale its fertile soil, He climbs the precipice with patient toil, To plant her favourite flowerets there.

With native shrubs, a hardy race, There the green myrtle finds a place, And roses there the dewy leaves decline; While from the crags abrupt, and tangled steeps, With bloom and fruit the Alpine berry peeps, And, blushing, mingles with the vine.

His garden's simple produce stored, Prepared for him by hands adored, Is all the little luxury he knows. And by the same dear hands are softly spread, The Chamois' velvet spoil that forms the bed, Where in her arms he finds repose.

But absent from the calm abode, Dark thunder gathers round his road, Wild raves the wind, the arrowy lightnings flash, Returning quick the murmuring rocks among, His faint heart trembling as he winds along; Alarm'd­he listens to the crash

Of rifted ice!­Oh, man of woe! O'er his dear cot­a mass of snow, By the storm sever'd from the cliff above, Has fallen­and buried in its marble breast, All that for him­lost wretch­the world possest, His home, his happiness, his love!

Aghast the heart‐struck mourner stands, Glazed are his eyes­convulsed his hands, O'erwhelming anguish checks his labouring breath; Crush'd by despair's intolerable weight, Frantic he seeks the mountain's giddiest height, And headlong seeks relief in death.

A fate too similar is mine, But I­in lingering pain repine, And still my lost felicity deplore; Cold, cold to me is that dear breast become Where this poor heart had fondly fix'd its home, And love and happiness are mine no more.

---

SONG.

DOES Pity give, though Fate denies, And to my wounds her balm impart? O speak­with those expressive eyes! Let one low sigh escape thine heart.

The gazing crowd shall never guess What anxious, watchful Love can see; Nor know what those soft looks express, Nor dream that sign is meant for me.

Ah! words are useless, words are vain, Thy generous sympathy to prove; And well that sign, those looks explain, That Clara mourns my hapless love.

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THIRTY‐EIGHT.

ADDRESSED TO MRS. H­­­Y.

IN early youth's unclouded scene, The brilliant morning of eighteen, With health and sprightly joy elate We gazed on life's enchanting spring , Nor thought how quickly time would bring The mournful period­Thirty‐eight.

Then the starch maid, or matron sage, Already at the sober age, We view'd with mingled scorn and hate; In whose sharp words, or sharper face, With thoughtless mirth we loved to trace The sad effects of­Thirty‐eight.

Till saddening, sickening at the view We learn'd to dread what Time might do; And then preferr'd a prayer to Fate To end our days ere that arrived; When (power and pleasure long survived) We met neglect and­Thirty‐eight.

But time, in spite of wishes, flies And Fate our simple prayer denies, And bids us death's own hour await: The auburn locks are mix'd with grey, The transient roses fade away, But reason comes at­Thirty‐eight.

Her voice the anguish contradicts That dying vanity inflicts; Her hand new pleasures can create, For us she opens to the view Prospects less bright­but far more true, And bids us smile at­Thirty‐eight.

No more shall scandal's breath destroy The social converse we enjoy With bard or critic tete a tete;­ O'er youth's bright blooms her blights shall pour, But spare the improving friendly hour That science gives to ­Thirty‐eight.

Stripp'd of their gaudy hues by Truth, We view the glitt'ring toys of youth, And blush to think how poor the bait For which to public scenes we ran And scorn'd of sober sense the plan Which gives content at­Thirty‐eight.

Though Time's inexorable sway Has torn the myrtle bands away, For other wreaths 'tis not too late, The amaranth's purple glow survives, And still Minerva's olive lives On the calm brow of­Thirty‐eight.

With eye more steady we engage To contemplate approaching age, And life more justly estimate; With firmer souls, and stronger powers, With reason, faith, and friendship ours, We'll not regret the stealing hours That lead from Thirty­even to Forty‐eight.

VERSES.

INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN PREFIXED TO THE NOVEL
OF EMMELINE, BUT THEN SUPPRESSED.

O'ERWHELM'D with sorrow, and sustaining long "The proud man's contumely, th' oppressor's wrong," Languid despondency, and vain regret, Must my exhausted spirit struggle yet? Yes!­Robb'd myself of all that fortune gave, Even of all hope­but shelter in the grave, Still shall the plaintive lyre essay its powers To dress the cave of Care with Fancy's flowers, Maternal Love the fiend Despair withstand, Still animate the heart and guide the hand. ­May you, dear objects of my anxious care, Escape the evils I was born to bear! Round my devoted head while tempests roll, Yet there, where I have treasured up my soul, May the soft rays of dawning hope impart Reviving patience to my fainting heart;­ And when its sharp solicitudes shall cease, May I be conscious in the realms of peace That every tear which swells my children's eyes, From sorrows past, not present ills arise, Then, with some friend who loves to share your pain, For 'tis my boast that some such friends remain, By filial grief, and fond remembrance prest, You'll seek the spot where all my sorrows rest; Recall my hapless days in sad review The long calamities I bore for you, And, with a happier fate, resolve to prove How well you merited your mother's love.

SONNET LX.

TO AN AMIABLE GIRL.

MIRANDA! mark where shrinking from the gale, Its silken leaves yet moist with early dew, That fair faint flower, the Lily of the vale Droops its meek head, and looks, methinks, like you! Wrapp'd in a shadowy veil of tender green, Its snowy bells a soft perfume dispense, And bending as reluctant to be seen, In simple loveliness it sooths the sense. With bosom bared to meet the garish day, The glaring Tulip, gaudy, undismay'd, Offends the eye of taste; that turns away To seek the Lily in her fragrant shade. With such unconscious beauty, pensive, mild, Miranda charms­Nature's soft modest child.

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SONNET LXI.

Supposed to have been written in America.

ILL‐omen'd bird! whose cries portentous float O'er yon savannah with the mournful wind; While, as the Indian hears your piercing note, Dark dread of future evil fills his mind; Wherefore with early lamentation break The dear delusive visions of repose? Why from so short felicity awake My wounded senses to substantial woes? O'er my sick soul thus rous'd from transient rest, Pale Superstition sheds her influence drear, And to my shuddering fancy would suggest Thou com'st to speak of ev'ry woe I fear, Ah! Reason little o'er the soul prevails, When, from ideal ill, the enfeebled spirit fails!

SONNET LXII.

Written on passing by Moon‐light through a Village,
while the ground was covered with Snow.

WHILE thus I wander, cheerless and unblest, And find in change of place but change of pain; In tranquil sleep the village labourers rest, And taste that quiet I pursue in vain! Hush'd is the hamlet now, and faintly gleam The dying embers, from the casement low Of the thatch'd cottage; while the Moon's wan beam Lends a new lustre to the dazzling snow­ O'er the cold waste, amid the freezing night, Scarce heeding whither, desolate I stray; For me, pale Eye of Evening, thy soft light Leads to no happy home; my weary way Ends but in sad vicissitudes of care: I only fly from doubt­to meet despair!

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SONNET LXIII.

THE GOSSAMER.

O'ER faded heath‐flowers spun, or thorny furze, The filmy Gossamer is lightly spread; Waving in every sighing air that stirs, As Fairy fingers had entwined the thread: A thousand trembling orbs of lucid dew Spangle the texture of the fairy loom, As if soft Sylphs, lamenting as they flew, Had wept departed Summer's transient bloom: But the wind rises, and the turf receives The glittering web:­So, evanescent, fade Bright views that Youth with sanguine heart, believes: So vanish schemes of bliss, by Fancy made; Which, fragile as the fleeting dreams of morn, Leave but the wither'd heath, and barren thorn!

SONNET LXIV.

Written at Bristol in the summer of 1794.

HERE from the restless bed of lingering pain The languid sufferer seeks the tepid wave, And feels returning health and hope again Disperse 'the gathering shadows of the grave!' And here romantic rocks that boldly swell, Fringed with green woods, or stain'd with veins of ore, Call'd native genius forth, whose Heaven‐taught skill Charm'd the deep echoes of the rifted shore. But tepid waves, wild scenes, or summer air, Restore they palsied Fancy, woe‐deprest? Check they the torpid influence of Despair, Or bid warm Health re‐animate the breast; Where Hope's soft visions have no longer part, And whose sad inmate­is a broken heart?

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SONNET LXV.

TO DR PARRY OF BATH.

With some botanic drawings which had been made
some years.

IN happier hours, ere yet so keenly blew Adversity's cold blight, and bitter storms, Luxuriant Summer's evanescent forms, And Spring's soft blooms with pencil light I drew: But as the lovely family of flowers Shrink from the bleakness of the Northern blast, So fail from present care and sorrow past The slight botanic pencil's mimic powers­ Nor will kind Fancy even by Memory's aid, Her visionary garlands now entwine; Yet while the wreaths of Hope and Pleasure fade, Still is one flower of deathless blossom mine, That dares the Lapse of Time, and Tempest rude, The unfading Amaranth of Gratitude.

SONNET LXVI.

Written in a tempestuous night on the coast of Sussex.

THE night‐flood rakes upon the stony shore; Along the rugged cliffs and chalky caves Mourns the hoarse Ocean, seeming to deplore All that are buried in his restless waves­ Mined by corrosive tides, the hollow rock Falls prone, and rushing from its turfy height, Shakes the broad beach with long‐resounding shock, Loud thundering on the ear of sullen Night; Above the desolate and stormy deep, Gleams the wan Moon by floating mist opprest; Yet here while youth, and health, and labour sleep, Alone I wander­Calm untroubled rest, "Nature's soft nurse," deserts the high‐swoln breast, And shuns the eyes, that only make to weep!

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SONNET LXVII.

On passing over a dreary tract of country, and near
the ruins of a deserted chapel, during a tempest.

SWIFT fleet the billowy clouds along the sky, Earth seems to shudder at the storm aghast; While only beings as forlorn as I, Court the chill horrors of the howling blast. Even round yon crumbling walls, in search of food, The ravenous Owl foregoes his evening flight, And in his cave, within the deepest wood, The Fox eludes the tempest of the night. But to my heart congenial is the gloom Which hides me from a World I wish to shun; That scene where Ruin saps the mouldering tomb Suits with the sadness of a wretch undone. Nor is the deepest shade, the keenest air, Black as my fate, or cold as my despair.

SONNET LXVIII.

Written at Exmouth, Midsummer, 1795.

FALL, dews of Heaven, upon my burning breast, Bathe with cool drops these ever‐streaming eyes, Ye gentle Winds, that fan the balmy West, With the soft rippling tide of morning rise, And calm my bursting heart, as here I keep The vigil of the wretched!­Now away Fade the pale stars, as wavering o'er the deep Soft rosy tints announce another day, The day of Middle Summer!­Ah! in vain To those who mourn like me, does radiant June Lead on her fragrant hours; for hopeless pain Darkens with sullen clouds the Sun of Noon, And veil'd in shadows Nature's face appears To hearts o'erwhelm'd with grief, to eyes suffused with tears.

---

SONNET LXIX.

Written at the same place, on seeing a Seaman return
who had been imprisoned at Rochfort.

CLOUDS, gold and purple, o'er the western ray Threw a bright veil, and catching lights between, Fell on the glancing sail, that we had seen With soft, but adverse winds, throughout the day Contending vainly: as the vessel nears, Increasing numbers hail it from the shore; Lo! on the deck a pallid form appears, Half wondering to behold himself once more Approach his home­And now he can discern His cottage thatch amid surrounding trees; Yet, trembling, dreads lest sorrow or disease Await him there, embittering his return: But all he loves are safe; with heart elate, Though poor and plunder'd, he absolves his fate!

SONNET LXX.

On being cautioned against walking over a headland
overlooking the sea, because it was frequented by a
Lunatic.

IS there a solitary wretch who hies To the tall cliff, with starting pace or slow, And, measuring, views with wild and hollow eyes Its distance from the waves that chide below; Who, as the sea‐born gale with frequent sighs Chills his cold bed upon the mountain turf, With hoarse, half utter'd lamentation, lies Murmuring responses to the dashing surf? In moody sadness, on the giddy brink, I see him more with envy than with fear; He has no nice felicities that shrink From giant horrors; wildly wandering here, He seems (uncursed with reason) not to know The depth or the duration of his woe.

---

SONNET LXXI.

Written at Weymouth in winter.

THE chill waves whiten in the sharp North‐east; Cold, cold the night‐blast comes, with sullen sound, And black and gloomy, like my cheerless breast: Frowns the dark pier and lonely sea‐view round. Yet a few months­and on the peopled strand Pleasure shall all her varied forms display; Nymphs lightly tread the bright reflecting sand, And proud sails whiten all the summer bay: Then, from these winds that whistle keen and bleak, Music's delightful melodies shall float O'er the blue waters; but 'tis mine to seek Rather, some unfrequented shade, remote From sights and sounds of gaiety­I mourn All that gave me delight­Ah! never to return

SONNET LXXII.

TO THE MORNING STAR.

Written near the sea.

THEE! lucid arbiter 'twixt day and night, The seaman greets, as on the ocean stream Reflected, thy precursive friendly beam Points out the long‐sought haven to his sight.

Watching for thee, the lover's ardent eyes Turn to the eastern hills; and as above Thy brilliance trembles, hails the lights that rise To guide his footsteps to expecting love!

I mark thee too, as night's dark clouds retire, And thy bright radiance glances on the sea; But never more shall thy heraldic fire Speak of approaching morn with joy to me! Quench'd in the gloom of death that heavenly ray Once lent to light me on my thorny way!

---

SONNET LXXIII.

TO A QUERULOUS ACQUAINTANCE.

THOU! whom Prosperity has always led O'er level paths, with moss and flow'rets strewn; For whom she still prepares a downy bed With roses scatter'd, and to thorns unknown, Wilt thou yet murmur at a misplaced leaf? Think, ere thy irritable nerves repine, How many, born with feelings keen as thine, Taste all the sad vicissitudes of grief; How many steep in tears their scanty bread; Or, lost to reason, Sorrow's victims! rave: How many know not where to lay their head; While some are driven by anguish to the grave! Think; nor impatient at a feather's weight, Mar the uncommon blessings of thy fate!

SONNET LXXIV.

THE WINTER NIGHT.

"SLEEP, that knits up the ravell'd sleeve of care," Forsakes me, while the chill and sullen blast, As my sad soul recalls its sorrows past, Seems like a summons bidding me prepare For the last sleep of death­Murmuring I hear The hollow wind around the ancient towers, While night and silence reign; and cold and drear The darkest gloom of middle winter lowers; But wherefore fear existence such as mine, To change for long and undisturb'd repose? Ah! when this suffering being I resign And o'er my miseries the tomb shall close, By her, whose loss in anguish I deplore, I shall be laid, and feel that loss no more!

---

SONNET LXXV.

WHERE the wild woods and pathless forests frown, The darkling Pilgrim seeks his unknown way, Till on the grass he throws him weary down, To wait in broken sleep the dawn of day: Through boughs just waving in the silent air, With pale capricious light the summer moon Chequers his humid couch; while Fancy there, That loves to wanton in the night's deep noon, Calls from the mossy roots and fountain edge Fair visionary Nymphs that haunt the shade, Or Naiads rising from the whispering sedge: And, 'mid the beauteous group, his dear loved maid Seems beckoning him with smiles to join the train: Then, starting from his dream, he feels his woes again!

SONNET LXXVI.

TO A YOUNG MAN ENTERING THE WORLD.

GO now, ingenious youth!­The trying hour Is come: The world demands that thou shouldst go To active life: There titles, wealth, and power, May all be purchased­Yet I joy to know Thou wilt not pay their price. The base control Of petty despots in their pedant reign Already hast thou felt;­and high disdain Of tyrants is imprinted on thy soul­ Not, where mistaken Glory, in the field Rears her red banner, be thou ever found: But, against proud Oppression raise the shield Of patriot daring­So shalt thou renown'd For the best virtues live; or that denied May'st die, as Hampden or as Sydney died!

---

SONNET LXXVII.

TO THE INSECT OF THE GOSSAMER.

SMALL, viewless aeronaut, that by the line Of Gossamer suspended, in mid air Float'st on a sun beam­Living atom, where Ends thy breeze‐guided voyage;­with what design, In ether dost thou launch thy form minute, Mocking the eye?­Alas! before the veil Of denser clouds shall hide thee, the pursuit Of the keen Swift may end thy fairy sail!­ Thus on the golden thread that Fancy weaves Buoyant, as Hope's illusive flattery breathes, The young and visionary poet leaves Life's dull realities, while sevenfold wreaths Of rainbow‐light around his head revolve. Ah! soon at Sorrow's touch the radiant dreams dissolve!

SONNET LXXVIII.

SNOWDROPS.

WAN Heralds of the sun and summer gale! That seem just fallen from infant Zephyrs' wing; Not now, as once, with heart revived I hail Your modest buds, that for the brow of Spring Form the first simple garland­Now no more Escaping for a moment all my cares, Shall I, with pensive, silent, step explore The woods yet leafless; where to chilling airs Your green and pencil'd blossoms, trembling, wave. Ah! ye soft, transient, children of the ground, More fair was she on whose untimely grave Flow my unceasing tears! Their varied round The Seasons go; while I through all repine: For fix'd regret, and hopeless grief are mine.

---

SONNET LXXIX.

TO THE GODDESS OF BOTANY.

OF Folly weary, shrinking from the view Of Violence and Fraud, allow'd to take All peace from humble life; I would forsake Their haunts for ever, and, sweet Nymph! with you Find shelter; where my tired, and tear‐swollen eyes Among your silent shades of soothing hue, Your "bells and florrets of unnumber'd dyes" Might rest­And learn the bright varieties That from your lovely hands are fed with dew; And every veined leaf, that trembling sighs In mead or woodland; or in wilds remote, Or lurk with mosses in the humid caves, Mantle the cliffs, on dimpling rivers float, Or stream from coral rocks beneath the ocean's waves.

SONNET LXXX.

TO THE INVISIBLE MOON.

DARK and conceal'd art thou, soft Evening's queen, And Melancholy's votaries that delight To watch thee, gliding through the blue serene, Now vainly seek thee on the brow of night­ Mild Sorrow, such as hope has not forsook, May love to muse beneath thy silent reign; But I prefer from some steep rock to look On the obscure and fluctuating main, What time the martial star with lurid glare, Portentous, gleams above the troubled deep; Or the red comet shakes his blazing hair; Or on the fire‐ting'd waves the lightnings leap; While thy fair beams illume another sky, And shine for beings less accursed than I.

---

SONNET LXXXI.

HE may be envied, who with tranquil breast Can wander in the wild and woodland scene, When summer's glowing hands have newly dress'd The shadowy forests, and the copses green; Who, unpursued by care, can pass his hours Where briony and woodbine fringe the trees, On thymy banks reposing, while the bees Murmur "their fairy tunes, in praise of flowers;" Or on the rock with ivy clad, and fern That overhangs the ozier‐whispering bed Of some clear current, bid his wishes turn From this bad world; and by calm reason led, Knows, in refined retirement, to possess By friendship hallow'd­rural happiness!

SONNET LXXXII.

TO THE SHADE OF BURNS.

MUTE is thy wild harp, now, O bard sublime! Who, amid Scotia's mountain solitude, Great Nature taught to "build the lofty rhyme," And even beneath the daily pressure, rude, Of labouring poverty, thy generous blood, Fired with the love of freedom­Not subdued Wert thou by thy low fortune: but a time Like this we live in, when the abject chime Of echoing parasite is best approved, Was not for thee­Indignantly is fled Thy noble spirit; and no longer moved By all the ills o'er which thine heart has bled, Associate, worthy of the illustrious dead, Enjoys with them "the liberty it loved."

---

SONNET LXXXIII.

THE SEA VIEW.

THE upland shepherd, as reclined he lies On the soft turf that clothes the mountain brow, Marks the bright sea‐line mingling with the skies; Or from his course celestial, sinking slow, The summer‐sun in purple radiance low, Blaze on the western waters; the wide scene Magnificent, and tranquil, seems to spread Even o'er the rustic's breast a joy serene, When, like dark plague‐spots by the demons shed, Charged deep with death, upon the waves, far seen, Move the war‐freighted ships; and fierce and red, Flash their destructive fires­The mangled dead And dying victims then pollute the flood. Ah, thus man spoils Heaven's glorious works with blood!

SONNET LXXXIV.

TO THE MUSE.

WILT thou forsake me who in life's bright May Lent warmer lustre to the radiant morn; And even o'er summer scenes by tempests torn, Shed with illusive light the dewy ray Of pensive pleasure? Wilt thou, while the day Of saddening autumn closes, as I mourn In languid, hopeless sorrow, far away Bend thy soft step, and never more return?­ Crush'd to the earth, by bitterest anguish press'd, From my faint eyes thy graceful form recedes; Thou canst not heal a heart like mine that bleeds; But, when in quiet earth that heart shall rest, Haply mayst thou one sorrowing vigil keep, Where Pity and Remembrance bend and weep!

---

THE DEAD BEGGAR.

AN ELEGY.

Addressed to a Lady, who was affected at seeing the
Funeral of a nameless Pauper, buried at the ex‐
pense of the Parish, in the Church‐Yard at Bright‐
helmstone, in November 1792.

SWELLS then thy feeling heart, and streams thine eye O'er the deserted being, poor and old, Whom cold, reluctant, parish charity Consigns to mingle with his kindred mould?

Mourn'st thou, that here the time‐worn sufferer ends Those evil days still threatening woes to come; Here, where the friendless feel no want of friends, Where even the houseless wanderer finds a home!

What though no kindred crowd in sable forth, And sigh, or seem to sigh, around his bier; Though o'er his coffin with the humid earth No children drop the unavailing tear?

Rather rejoice that here his sorrows cease, Whom sickness, age, and poverty oppress'd; Where death, the leveller, restores to peace The wretch who living knew not where to rest.

Rejoice, that though an outcast spurn'd by fate, Through penury's rugged path his race he ran; In earth's cold bosom, equall'd with the great, Death vindicates the insulted rights of man.

Rejoice, that though severe his earthly doom, And rude, and sown with thorns the way he trod, Now, (where unfeeling fortune cannot come) He rests upon the mercies of his God.

---

THE FEMALE EXILE.

Written at Brighthelmstone in Nov. 1792.

NOVEMBER'S chill blast on the rough beach is howling, The surge breaks afar, and then foams to the shore, Dark clouds o'er the sea gather heavy and scowling, And the white cliffs re‐echo the wild wintry roar.

Beneath that chalk rock, a fair stranger reclining, Has found on damp sea‐weed a cold lonely seat; Her eyes fill'd with tears, and her heart with repining, She starts at the billows that burst at her feet.

There, day after day, with an anxious heart heaving, She watches the waves where they mingle with air; For the sail which, alas! all her fond hopes deceiving, May bring only tidings to add to her care.

Loose stream to wild winds those fair flowing tresses, Once woven with garlands of gay summer flowers; Her dress unregarded, bespeaks her distresses, And beauty is blighted by grief's heavy hours.

Her innocent children, unconscious of sorrow, To seek the gloss'd shell, or the crimson weed stray; Amused with the present, they heed not to‐morrow, Nor think of the storm that is gathering to‐day.

The gilt, fairy ship, with its ribbon sail spreading, They launch on the salt pool the tide left behind; Ah! victims­for whom their sad mother is dreading The multiplied miseries that wait on mankind!

To fair fortune born, she beholds them with anguish, Now wanderers with her on a once hostile soil, Perhaps doom'd for life in chill penury to languish, Or abject dependence, or soul‐crushing toil.

But the sea‐boat, her hopes and her terrors renewing, O'er the dim grey horizon now faintly appears; She flies to the quay, dreading tidings of ruin, All breathless with haste, half expiring with fears.

Poor mourner!­I would that my fortune had left me The means to alleviate the woes I deplore; But like thine my hard fate has of affluence bereft me, I can warm the cold heart of the wretched no more!

---

[OCCASIONAL ADDRESS.]

Written for the benefit of a distressed Player, detained
at Brighthelmstone for Debt, November 1792.

WHEN in a thousand swarms, the summer o'er, The birds of passage quit our English shore, By various routs the feather'd myriad moves; The Becca‐Fica seeks Italian groves,

No more a Wheat‐ear; while the soaring files Of sea‐fowl gather round the Hebrid isles.

But if by bird‐lime touch'd, unplumed, confined, Some poor ill‐fated straggler stays behind, Driven from his transient perch, beneath your eaves On his unshelter'd head the tempest raves, While drooping round, redoubling every pain, His mate and nestlings ask his help in vain.

So we, the buskin and the sock who wear, And "strut and fret," our little season here, Dismiss'd at length, as fortune bids divide­ Some (lucky rogues!) sit down on Thames's side; Others to Liffy's western banks proceed, And some­driven far a‐field, across the Tweed: But, pinion'd here, alas! I cannot fly: The hapless, unplumed, lingering straggler I! Unless the healing pity you bestow, Shall imp my shatter'd wings, and let me go.

Hard is his fate, whom evil stars have led To seek in scenic art precarious bread, While still, through wild vicissitudes afloat, A hero now, and now a Sans Culotte! That eleemosynary bread he gains Mingling, with real distresses, mimic pains.

See in our group, a pale, lank Falstaff stare! Much needs he stuffing:­while young Ammon there Rehearses­in a garret­ten feet square! And as his soft Statira sighs consent, Roxana comes not­but a dun for rent! Here shiv'ring Edgar, in his blanket roll'd, Exclaims­with too much reason, "Tom's a‐cold!" And vainly tries his sorrows to divert, While Goneril or Regan­wash his shirt!

Lo! fresh from Calais, Edward, mighty king! Revolves­a mutton chop upon a string! And Hotspur, plucking "honour from the moon," Feeds a sick infant with a pewter spoon!

More bless'd the fisher, who undaunted braves In his small bark, the impetuous winds and waves; For though he plough the sea when others sleep, He draws, like Glendower, spirits from the deep.

And while the storm howls round, amidst his trouble, Bright moonshine still illuminates the cobble. Pale with her fears for him, some fair Poissarde, Watches his nearing boat; with fond regard Smiles when she sees his little canvass handing, And clasps her dripping lover on his landing.

More bless'd the peasant, who, with nervous toil Hews the rough oak, or breaks the stubborn soil: Weary, indeed, he sees the evening come, But then, the rude, yet tranquil hut, his home, Receives its rustic inmate; then are his, Secure repose, and dear domestic bliss. The orchard's blushing fruit, the garden's store, The pendant hop, that mantles round the door, Are his:­and while cheerful faggots burn, "His lisping children hail their site's return."

But wandering Players, "unhousel'd, unanneal'd," And unappointed, scour life's common field, A flying squadron!­disappointments cross 'em, And the campaign concludes, perhaps, at Horsham.

Oh! ye, whose timely bounty deigns to shed Compassion's balm upon my luckless head, Benevolence, with warm and glowing breast, And soft, celestial mercy, doubly bless'd! Smile on the generous act!­where means are given, To aid the wretched­is to merit heaven.

---

INSCRIPTION

On a Stone, in the Church‐Yard at Boreham, in
Essex; raised by the Honourable Elizabeth Olmius,
to the memory of Ann Gardner, who died at New
Hall, after a faithful Service of Forty Years.

WHATE'ER of praise, and of regret attend The grateful servant, and the humble friend, Where strict integrity and worth unite To raise the lowly in their Maker's sight,

Are her's; whose faithful service, long approved, Wept by the mistress whom through life she loved. Here ends her earthly task; in joyful trust To share the eternal triumph of the just.

---

A DESCRIPTIVE ODE,

Supposed to have been written under the Ruins of
Rufus's Castle, among the remains of the ancient
Church on the Isle of Portland.

CHAOTIC pile of barren stone, That Nature's hurrying hand has thrown, Half finish'd, from the troubled waves; On whose rude brow the rifted tower Has frown'd, through many a stormy hour, On this drear site of tempest‐beaten graves.

Sure Desolation loves to shroud His giant form within the cloud That hovers round thy rugged head; And as through broken vaults beneath, The future storms low‐muttering breathe, Hears the complaining voices of the dead.

Here marks the fiend with eager eyes, Far out at sea the fogs arise That dimly shade the beacon'd strand, And listens the portentous roar Of sullen waves, as on the shore, Monotonous, they burst and tell the storm at hand.

Northward the demon's eyes are cast O'er yonder bare and sterile waste, Where, born to hew and heave the block, Man, lost in ignorance and toil, Becomes associate to the soil, And his heart hardens like his native rock.

On the bleak hills, with flint o'erspread, No blossoms rear the purple head; No shrub perfumes the zephyrs' breath, But o'er the cold and cheerless down Grim desolation seems to frown, Blasting the ungrateful soil with partial death.

Here the scathed trees with leaves half‐dress'd, Shade no soft songster's secret nest, Whose spring‐notes soothe the pensive ear; But high the croaking cormorant flies, And mews and hawks with clamorous cries Tire the lone echoes of these caverns drear.

Perchance among the ruins grey Some widow'd mourner loves to stray, Marking the melancholy main Where once, afar she could discern O'er the white waves his sail return Who never, never now, returns again!

On these lone tombs, by storms up‐torn, The hopeless wretch may lingering mourn, Till from the ocean, rising red, The misty moon with lurid ray Lights her, reluctant, on her way, To steep in tears her solitary bed.

Hence the dire spirit oft surveys The ship, that to the western bays With favouring gales pursues its course; Then calls the vapour dark that blinds The pilot,­calls the felon winds That heave the billows with resistless force.

Commixing with the blotted skies, High and more high the wild waves rise, Till, as impetuous torrents urge, Driven on yon fatal bank accursed The vessel's massy timbers burst, And the crew sinks beneath the infuriate surge.

There find the weak an early grave, While youthful strength the whelming wave Repels; and labouring for the land,

With shorten'd breath and upturn'd eyes, Sees the rough shore above him rise, Nor dreams that rapine meets him on the strand.

And are there then in human form Monsters more savage than the storm, Who from the gasping sufferer tear The dripping weed?­who dare to reap The inhuman harvest of the deep, From half‐drown'd victims whom the tempests spare?

Ah, yes! by avarice once possess'd, No pity moves the rustic breast; Callous he proves­as those who haply wait Till I (a pilgrim weary worn) To my own native land return, With legal toils to drag me to my fate!

---

VERSES

Supposed to have been written in the New Forest,
in early Spring.

AS in the woods, where leathery Lichen weaves Its wint'ry web among the sallow leaves, Which (through cold months in whirling eddies blown) Decay beneath the branches once their own, From the brown shelter of their foliage sear, Spring the young blooms that lead the floral year: When, waked by vernal suns, the Pilewort dares Expand her spotted leaves, and shining stars And (veins empurpling all her tassels pale) Bends the soft Wind‐flower in the tepid gale; Uncultured bells of azure Jacynth's blow, And the breeze‐scenting Violet lurks below: So views the wanderer, with delighted eyes, Reviving hopes from black despondence rise, When, blighted by adversity's chill breath, Those hopes had felt a temporary death;

Then with gay heart he looks to future hours, When love shall dress for him the summer bowers. And, as delicious dreams enchant his mind, Forgets his sorrows past, or gives them to the wind.

---

SONG.

FROM THE FRENCH.

I.

"AH! say," the fair Louisa cried, "Say where the abode of Love is found?" Pervading nature, I replied, His influence spreads the world around. When Morning's arrowy beams arise, He sparkles in the enlivening ray, And blushes in the glowing skies When rosy evening fades away.

II.

The summer winds that gently blow, The flocks that bleat along the glades, The nightingale, that soft and low, With music fills the listening shades: The murmurs of the silver surf All echo Love's enchanting notes, From violets lurking in the turf, His balmy breath through ether floats.

III.

From perfumed flowers and dewy leaves Delicious scents he bids exhale, He smiles amid autumnal sheaves, And clothes with green the grassy vale; But when that throne the god assumes Where his most powerful influence lies, 'Tis on Louisa's cheek he blooms, And lightens from her radiant eyes!

APOSTROPHE

TO AN OLD TREE.

WHERE thy broad branches brave the bitter North, Like rugged, indigent, unheeded, worth, Lo! Vegetation's guardian hands emboss Each giant limb with fronds of studded moss, That clothes the bark in many a fringed fold Begemm'd with scarlet shields, and cups of gold, Which, to the wildest winds their webs oppose, And mock the arrowy sleet, or weltering snows. ­But to the warmer West the woodbine fair With tassels that perfumed the summer air, The mantling clematis, whose feathery bowers Waved in festoons with nightshade's purple flowers, The silver weed, whose corded fillets wove Round thy pale rind, even as deceitful love Of mercenary beauty would engage The dotard fondness of decrepit age; All these, that during summer's halcyon days With their green canopies conceal'd thy sprays, Are gone for ever; or disfigured, trail Their sallow relicts in the autumnal gale; Or o'er thy roots, in faded fragments toss'd, But tell of happier hours, and sweetness lost! ­Thus in Fate's trying hour, when furious storms Strip social life of Pleasure's fragile forms, And awful Justice, as his rightful prey Tears Luxury's silk, and jewel'd robe, away, While reads Adversity her lesson stern, And Fortune's minions tremble as they learn; The crowds around her gilded car that hung, Bent the lithe knee, and troul'd the honey'd tongue, Desponding fall, or fly in pale despair; And Scorn alone remembers that they were. Not so Integrity; unchanged he lives In the rude armour conscious Honour gives, And dares with hardy front the troubled sky, In Honesty's uninjured panoply. Ne'er on Prosperity's enfeebling bed Or rosy pillows, he reposed his head,

But given to useful arts, his ardent mind Has sought the general welfare of mankind; To mitigate their ills his greatest bliss, While studying them, has taught him what he is; He, when the human tempest rages worst, And the earth shudders as the thunders burst, Firm, as thy northern branch, is rooted fast, And if he can't avert, endures the blast.

THE FOREST BOY.

THE trees have now hid at the edge of the hurst The spot where the ruins decay Of the cottage, where Will of the Woodland was nursed, And lived so beloved, till the moment accursed When he went from the woodland away.

Among all the lads of the plough or the fold; Best esteem'd by the sober and good, Was Will of the Woodlands; and often the old Would tell of his frolics, for active and bold Was William the boy of the wood.

Yet gentle was he, as the breath of the May, And when sick and declining was laid The woodman his father, young William away Would go to the forest to labour all day, And perform his hard task in his stead.

And when his poor father the forester died, And his mother was sad, and alone, He toil'd from the dawn, and at evening he hied In storm or in snow, or whate'er might betide, To supply all her wants from the town.

One neighbour they had on the heath to the west, And no other the cottage was near, But she would send Phoebe, the child she loved best, To stay with the widow, thus sad and distress'd, Her hours of dejection to cheer.

As the buds of wild roses, the cheeks of the maid Were just tinted with youth's lovely hue, Her form, like the aspen, wild graces display'd, And the eyes, over which her luxuriant locks stray'd, As the skies of the summer were blue.

Still labouring to live, yet reflecting the while, Young William consider'd his lot; 'Twas hard, yet 'twas honest; and one tender smile From Phoebe at night overpaid ev'ry toil, And then all his fatigues were forgot.

By the brook where it glides through the copse of Arbeal, When to eat his cold fare he reclined, Then soft from her home his sweet Phoebe would steal, And bring him wood‐strawberries to finish his meal, And would sit by his side while he dined.

And though when employed in the deep forest glade, His days have seem'd slowly to move, Yet Phoebe going home, through the wood‐walk has stray'd To bid him good night!­and whatever she said Was more sweet than the voice of the dove.

Fair Hope, that the lover so fondly believes, Then repeated each soul‐soothing speech, And touch'd with illusion, that often deceives The future with light; as the sun through the leaves Illumines the boughs of the beech.

But once more the tempests of chill winter blow, To depress and disfigure the earth; And now ere the dawn, the young woodman must go To his work in the forest, half buried in snow, And at night bring home wood for the hearth.

The bridge on the heath by the flood was wash'd down, And fast fell the sleet and the rain, The stream to a wild rapid river was grown, And long might the widow sit sighing alone Ere sweet Phoebe could see her again.

At the town was a market­and now for supplies, Such as needed her humble abode, Young William went forth; and his mother with sighs Watch'd long at the window, with tears in her eyes, Till he turn'd through the fields to the road.

Then darkness came on; and she heard with affright The wind every moment more high; She look'd from the door; not a star lent its light, But the tempest redoubled the gloom of the night, And the rain pour'd in sheets from the sky.

The clock in her cottage now mournfully told The hours that went heavily on; 'Twas midnight: her spirits sank hopeless and cold, And it seem'd as each blast of wind fearfully told That long, long would her William be gone.

Then heart‐sick and cold to her sad bed she crept, Yet first made up the fire in the room To guide his dark steps; but she listen'd and wept, Or if for a moment forgetful she slept, Soon she started!­and thought he was come.

'Twas morn; and the wind with a hoarse sullen moan Now seem'd dying away in the wood, When the poor wretched mother still drooping, alone, Beheld on the threshold a figure unknown, In gorgeous apparel who stood.

"Your son is a soldier," abruptly cried he, "And a place in our corps has obtain'd, Nay, be not cast down; you perhaps may soon see Your William a captain, he now sends by me The purse he already has gain'd."

So William entrapp'd 'twixt persuasion and force, Is embark'd for the isles of the West, But he seem'd to begin with ill omens his course, And felt recollection, regret, and remorse Continually weigh on his breast.

With useless repentance he eagerly eyed The high coast as it faded from view, And saw the green hills, on whose northernmost side Was his own silvan home: and he falter'd, and cried, "Adieu! ah! for ever adieu!

"Who now, my poor mother, thy life shall sustain, Since thy son has thus left thee forlorn? Ah! canst thou forgive me? And not in the pain Of this cruel desertion, of William complain, And lament that he ever was born?

"Sweet Phoebe!­if ever thy lover was dear, Now forsake not the cottage of woe, But comfort my mother; and quiet her fear, And help her to dry up the vain fruitless tear, That too long for my absence will flow.

"Yet what if my Phoebe another should wed, And lament her lost William no more?" The thought was too cruel; and anguish now sped The dart of disease­With the brave numerous dead He has fall'n on the plague‐tainted shore.

In the lone village church‐yard, the chancel‐wall near, High grass now waves over the spot, Where the mother of William, unable to bear His loss, who to her widow'd heart was so dear, Has both him and her sorrows forgot.

By the brook where it winds through the wood of Arbeal, Or amid the deep forest, to moan, The poor wandering Phoebe will silently steal; The pain of her bosom no reason can heal, And she loves to indulge it alone.

Her senses are injured; her eyes dim with tears; She sits by the river and weaves Reed garlands, against her dear William appears, Then breathlessly listens, and fancies she hears His step in the half wither'd leaves.

Ah! such are the miseries to which ye give birth, Ye statesmen! ne'er dreading a scar; Who from pictured saloon, or the bright sculptured hearth Disperse desolation and death through the earth, When ye let loose the demons of war.

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ODE
TO THE POPPY.

Written by a deceased friend.

NOT for the promise of the labour'd field, Not for the good the yellow harvests yield, I bend at Ceres' shrine; For dull, to human eyes, appear The golden glories of the year, Alas!­a melancholy worship's mine,

I hail the goddess for her scarlet flower; Thou brilliant weed, That dost so far exceed The richest gifts gay Flora can bestow: Heedless I pass'd thee, in life's morning hour, (Thou comforter of woe) Till sorrow taught me to confess thy power.

In early days, when Fancy cheats, A varied wreath I wove, Of laughing Spring's luxuriant sweets, To deck ungrateful Love: The rose, or thorn, my labours crown'd; As Venus smiled, or Venus frown'd;

But Love and Joy, and all their train, are flown; E'en languid Hope no more is mine, And I will sing of thee alone, Unless, perchance, the attributes of Grief, The cypress bud, and willow leaf, Their pale funereal foliage blend with thine.

Hail, lovely blossom!­thou canst ease The wretched victims of Disease; Canst close those weary eyes in gentle sleep, Which never open but to weep; For, oh! thy potent charm Can agonizing Pain disarm; Expel imperious Memory from her seat, And bid the throbbing heart forget to beat.

Soul‐soothing plant! that can such blessings give, By thee the mourner bears to live! By thee the hopeless die! Oh! ever "friendly to despair," Might Sorrow's pallid votary dare, Without a crime, that remedy implore, Which bids the spirit from its bondage fly, I'd court thy palliative aid no more;

No more I'd sue that thou shouldst spread, Thy spell around my aching head, But would conjure thee to impart Thy balsam for a broken heart; And by thy soft Lethean power, ( Inestimable flower) Burst these terrestrial bonds, and other regions try.

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[VERSES]

Written by the same lady on seeing her two sons
at play.

SWEET age of bless'd delusion! blooming boys, Ah! revel long in childhood's thoughtless joys, With light and pliant spirits, that can stoop To follow, sportively, the rolling hoop;

To watch the sleeping top with gay delight, Or mark, with raptured gaze, the sailing kite; Or, eagerly pursuing Pleasure's call, Can find it center'd in the bounding ball. Alas! the day will come, when sports like these Must lose their magic, and their power to please: Too swiftly fled, the rosy hours of youth Shall yield their fairy charms to mournful Truth; Even now, a mother's fond prophetic fear Sees the dark train of human ills appear; Views various fortune for each lovely child, Storms for the bold, and anguish for the mild; Beholds already those expressive eyes Beam a sad certainty of future sighs; And dreads each suffering those dear breasts may know In their long passage through a world of woe; Perchance predestined every pang to prove, That treacherous friends inflict, or faithless love; For, ah! how few have found existence sweet, Where grief is sure, but happiness deceit.

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VERSES

On the Death of the same Lady, written in Sept. 1794.

LIKE a poor ghost the night I seek; Its hollow winds repeat my sighs; The cold dews mingle on my cheek With tears that wander from mine eyes.

The thorns that still my couch molest, Have robb'd these heavy eyes of sleep; But though deprived of tranquil rest, I here at last am free to weep.

Twelve times the moon, that rises red O'er yon tall wood of shadowy pine, Has fill'd her orb, since low was laid My Harriet! that sweet form of thine!

While each sad month, as slow it pass'd, Brought some new sorrow to deplore; Some grief more poignant than the last, But thou canst calm those griefs no more.

No more thy friendship soothes to rest This wearied spirit tempest‐toss'd; The cares that weigh upon my breast Are doubly felt since thou art lost.

Bright visions of ideal grace That the young poet's dreams inflame, Were not more lovely than thy face; Were not more perfect than thy frame.

Wit, that no sufferings could impair, Was thine, and thine those mental powers Of force to chase the fiends that tear From Fancy's hands her budding flowers.

O'er what, my angel friend, thou wert, Dejected Memory loves to mourn; Regretting still that tender heart, Now withering in a distant urn.

But ere that wood of shadowy pine Twelve times shall yon full orb behold, This sickening heart, that bleeds for thine, My Harriet!­may like thine be cold!

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FRAGMENT,

Descriptive of the miseries of War; from a Poem
called "The Emigrants," printed in 1793.

TO a wild mountain, whose bare summit hides Its broken eminence in clouds; whose steeps

Are dark with woods: where the receding rocks Are worn with torrents of dissolving snow; A wretched woman, pale and breathless, flies, And, gazing round her, listens to the sound Of hostile footsteps:­No! they die away­ Nor noise remains, but of the cataract, Or surly breeze of night, that mutters low Among the thickets, where she trembling seeks A temporary shelter­Clasping close To her quick throbbing heart her sleeping child, All she could rescue of the innocent group That yesterday surrounded her­Escaped Almost by miracle!­Fear, frantic Fear, Wing'd her weak feet; yet, half repenting now Her headlong haste, she wishes she had staid To die with those affrighted Fancy paints The lawless soldiers' victims­Hark! again The driving tempest bears the cry of Death; And with deep, sudden thunder, the dread sound Of cannon vibrates on the tremulous earth; While, bursting in the air, the murderous bomb Glares o'er her mansion­Where the splinters fall Like scatter'd comets, its destructive path Is mark'd by wreaths of flame!­Then, overwhelm'd Beneath accumulated horror, sinks The desolate mourner!

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The feudal chief, whose gothic battlements Frown on the plain beneath, returning home From distant lands, alone, and in disguise, Gains at the fall of night his castle walls, But, at the silent gate no porter sits To wait his lord's admittance!­In the courts All is drear stillness!­Guessing but too well The fatal truth, he shudders as he goes Through the mute hall; where, by the blunted light That the dim moon through painted casement lends, He sees that devastation has been there; Then, while each hideous image to his mind Rises terrific, o'er a bleeding corse Stumbling he falls; another intercepts

His staggering feet­All, all who used to With joy to meet him, all his family Lie murder'd in his way!­And the day dawns On a wild raving maniac, whom a fate So sudden and calamitous has robb'd Of reason; and who round his vacant walls Screams unregarded, and reproaches Heaven!

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APRIL.

GREEN o'er the copses spring's soft hues are spreading, High wave the reeds in the transparent floods, The oak its sear and sallow foliage shedding, From their moss'd cradles start its infant buds.

Pale as the tranquil tide of summer's ocean, The willow now its slender leaf unveils; And through the sky with swiftly fleeting motion, Driv'n by the wind, the rack of April sails.

Then, as the gust declines, the stealing showers Fall fresh and noiseless; while at closing day The low sun gleams on moist and half‐blown flowers, That promise garlands for approaching May.

Bless'd are yon peasant children, simply singing, Who through the new‐sprung grass rejoicing rove; More bless'd! to whom the time, fond thought is bringing, Of friends expected, or returning love.

The pensive wanderer bless'd, to whom reflection Points out some future views that soothe his mind; Me how unlike!­whom cruel recollection But tells of comfort I shall never find!

Hope, that on Nature's youth is still attending, No more to me her syren song shall sing; Never to me her influence extending, Shall I again enjoy the days of Spring!

Yet, how I loved them once these scenes remind me, When light of heart, in childhood's thoughtless mirth, I reck'd not that the cruel lot assign'd me Should make me curse the hour that gave me birth!

Then, from thy wild‐wood banks, Aruna! roving, Thy thymy downs with sportive steps I sought, And Nature's charms, with artless transport loving, Sung, like the birds, unheeded and untaught.

But now the springtide's pleasant hours returning, Serve to awaken me to sharper pain; Recalling scenes of agony and mourning, Of baffled hope and prayers preferr'd in vain.

Thus shone the sun, his vernal rays displaying, Thus did the woods in early verdure wave, While dire disease on all I loved was preying, And flowers seem'd rising but to strew her grave.

Now, 'mid reviving blooms, I coldly languish, Spring seems devoid of joy to me alone; Each sound of pleasure aggravates my anguish, And speaks of beauty, youth, and sweetness gone.

Yet, as stern duty bids, with faint endeavour I drag on life, contending with my woe, Though conscious misery still repeats, that never My soul one pleasurable hour shall know.

Lost in the tomb, when Hope no more appeases The fester'd wounds that prompt the eternal sigh, Grief, the most fatal of the heart's diseases, Soon teaches, whom it fastens on, to die.

The wretch undone, for pain alone existing, The abject dread of death shall sure subdue, And far from his decisive hand resisting, Rejoice to bid a world like this, adieu.

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ODE
TO DEATH.

FRIEND of the wretched! wherefore should the eye Of blank Despair, whence tears have ceased to flow, Be turn'd from thee?­Ah! wherefore fears to die He, who compell'd each poignant grief to know, Drains to its lowest dregs the cup of woe?

Would Cowardice postpone thy calm embrace, To linger out long years in torturing pain? Or not prefer thee to the ills that chase Him, who too much impoverish'd to obtain From British Themis right, implores her aid in vain!

Sharp goading Indigence who would not fly, That urges toil the exhausted strength above? Or shun the once fond friend's averted eye? Or who to thy asylum not remove, To lose the wasting anguish of ungrateful love?

Can then the wounded wretch, who must deplore What most she loved, to thy cold arms consign'd, Who hears the voice that soothed her soul no more, Fear thee, O Death!­Or hug the chains that bind To joyless, cheerless life, her sick, reluctant mind?

Oh, Misery's cure! who e'er in pale dismay Has watch'd the angel form they could not save, And seen their dearest blessing torn away, May well the terrors of thy triumph brave, Nor pause in fearful dread before the opening grave!