This electronic text has been prepared from a copy in the editor's possession. The text has been corrected in keeping with the author's own corrections, as itemized on the ERRATA page (p. [v]). All other textual phenomena, including nonstandard spellings and puctuation, appear here as they do in the original.

I am grateful to Dawn Vernooy Epp for her assistance with scanning and proofreading of the original text.

This HTML edition was prepared in Dreamweaver 4.0, 2002. © Stephen C. Behrendt, 2002.

ORIGINAL SONNETS,

AND

OTHER SMALL POEMS.

BY ANNA MARIA SMALLPIECE.

Is there who ne'er these mystic transports felt,
Of Solitude and Melancholy born?
                   BEATTIE'S MINSTREL.

LONDON:

PRINTED FOR J. JOHNSON, NO. 72, ST. PAUL'S CHURCH-YARD.

1805.

Printed by E. Hemsted, Great New Street,
Fetter Lane.

[i]

TO MY DEAR FRIEND

MARIA D——TT

THESE POEMS ARE INSCRIBED,

AS A TRIBUTE OF THE

AFFECTIONATE FRIENDSHIP

AND

GRATEFUL ESTEEM

OF

THE AUTHOR.

[ii]

[iii]

PREFACE.

AN interesting Author of the present day* has,
in his preface to his beautiful Poems, so exactly
anticipated every thing that can be said on com-
positions resembling the following, that I have
only with great humility to submit them to the
Public, soliciting their indulgence for the melan-
choly that pervades them, which, unfortunately
for the writer, has not been affected. To those who
have suffered from long sickness; to those who
have stood,

Around the death-bed of their dearest friends,
And mark'd the parting anguish;

To those who have suffered by the keen sting
of ingratitude, these effusions may not be unac-

                 *Coleridge

[iv]

ceptable, and may perhaps be read with kindred
sympathy; as under the pressure of such feelings
they have generally been written.

Il est permis à un cœur blessé par la tristesse d'en peindre les
effets.

[v]

ERRATA.

[NOTE: This errata page is here for reference purposes only. All the corrections have been made in the electronic text in accordance with the author's directions on this page.]

Page          Line                                              Read
   2               7  and in every subsequent one
                        where this word recurs              its
   3             10   -     -     -     -     -     -     -       hues
   3             12   -     -     -     -     -     -     -       pursues
 13               5   -     -     -     -     -     -     -       sheds
 18             10   -     -     -     -     -     -     -       feeds
 21               7   -     -     -     -     -     -     -       fling
 27               4   -     -     -     -     -     -     -       wish
 28             11   -     -     -     -     -     -     -       bid
 29             10   -     -     -     -     -     -     -       sheds
 30             12   -     -     -     -     -     -     -       peers
 48             11   -     -     -     -     -     -     -       fires
 48             14   -     -     -     -     -     -     -       inspires
 49               2   -     -     -     -     -     -     -       peer'st
 55               2   -     -     -     -     -     -     -       pines
 55               4   -     -     -     -     -     -     -       entwines
 71               9   -     -     -     -     -     -     -       wave
 82               4   -     -     -     -     -     -     -       tear
114              4   -     -     -     -     -     -     -       strew
126              4   -     -     -     -     -     -     -       corpse
146              1   -     -     -     -     -     -     -       own
167            11   -     -     -     -     -     -     -       veils

 [Beginning here, and continuing through page 51, the running head on every page reads: ORIGINAL SONNETS.]

[1] 

ORIGINAL SONNETS.

SONNET—TO R. W. W. ESQ.

O! happy Bard, nurs'd by the graceful Muse,
She early taught thee to attune the lyre,
To touch the string, and harmony diffuse,
To which her children only dare aspire.
I, vagrant loit'rer near the fairy land,
Pleas'd with the shadows of her sun to play,
Presuming struck the chord, with unskill'd hand,
And nought but discord sounded to my lay.
Forgive, sweet Muse, a rude uncultur'd weed,
That dar'd to spring 'mid Helicon's fair flow'rs;
Yet not devoid of sunshine are her days,
Though still denied the favour'd Poet's meed,
Since on her graceless line thy bounty show'rs,
Since not unpleas'd thou read'st her untaught lays.

SONNET II.

AS daisies white adorn the Summer field,
So art thou, Pity, in the human breast;
Pretty, yet useless, all that thou canst yield
Will ne'er recall the wretched unto rest,
And mean the soul, who does thy aid implore.
Ah! teach me, Heaven, greatly to disdain,
The common world, who from its boasted store
Gives helpless Pity to relieve my pain.
Sweet partner of my woes, O! friend sincere,
Oft have I trac'd, adown thy crimson'd cheek,
The shining moisture of a new fall'n tear,
When thy heart beat what language could not speak.
But not from Pity only was it giv'n,
'Twas shed to soften the decree of Heav'n.

SONNET III.

WRITTEN IN ILL HEALTH.


AH! what avails, when sinking down to sleep,
That silken curtains shade the languid eye?
On beds of down how many wake to weep,
And break the calm of night with sorrow's sigh!
O! then, thou poor, ne'er at thy lot repine,
If o'er thy straw-stuff'd bed no trappings play;
More pure thy sleep, and calmer dreams are thine,
Than those who waste in luxury their day.
If o'er thy cheek the loose-zon'd goddess, Health,
With coral finger, spread her rosy hues,
Far art thou bless'd, beyond the joys of wealth,
And all the joys the busy crowd pursues.
Nor more would I at little ills repine,
Were her full eye, and sparkling luster mine.

SWEET, as when Spring unfolds the infant leaf
Of purple violets, peeping in the shade,
Is silent Charity, whose fond relief
Falls as the Summer rain o'er plants that fade.
Thou, Heav'n-born virtue, inmate of the heart,
Where whiterob'd Peace, and calm Contentment dwell,
Giv'st not the pompous alms, but far apart
From crowded haunts, seek'st the sequester'd cell.[1]
There, bending o'er the couch of tott'ring age,
Where some poor hopeless sinner fears to die,
Thou calm'st his terrours with the sacred page,
Sweet mercy's drop bright sparkling in thine eye,
And tell'st that Heav'n, unlike the worldly friend,
Forgives weak man, and knows he must offend.

SONNET V.

TO WOBURN EVERGREENS.

YE solemn Evergreens! beneath whose shade
The blossom'd Laurel sheds divine perfume,
I love your mossy bed in dew array'd,
And court your shelter of congenial gloom.
Yet doom'd, alas! to take the sad farewel,
No more to wander through your hallow'd grove,
O! let this verse my parting anguish tell,
And still be sacred to the shades I love.
And may no wand'rer thro' this peaceclad grove
Invoke the Muse, to pour the sorrowing lay,
But hearts united by the purest love
Still loiter here their tender vows to pay;
Nor may the din of vice pollute this seat,
Where virtue only finds a calm retreat.

SONNET VI.

ON LEAVING WOKINGHAM.

SILENT and sad I take a fond adieu
Of yon sweet wood, and variegated plain;
Ah! 'twill be long ere Spring these charms renew,
Or I shall tread the mossy grove again.
Ah! sister dear, sweet partner of my walk,
On whose kind arm delighted I have hung,
List'ning with rapture to thy friendly talk,
Or loit'red where the Nightingale had sung.
Though fate decrees us now to live apart,
And tears me from the scenes I most adore,
She may relent, and to this throbbing heart
The friend sincere, and flow'ry path restore;
Together then we'll live, and fondly prove,
That absence long has not diminsh'd love.

SONNET VII.

TO ··········

AH! whether wand'ring o'er thy native plains,
Where the full grape in sweet luxuriance wild [2]
Gives up its treasures to the sunburnt swains,
Who in purple vintage long have toil'd:
Or whether liot'ring through our rosy bow'rs,
Or on our chalky cliffs you musing stray,
Culling with tasteful hand fair Nature's flowers,
O! take with thee this tributary lay.
Of the coy Muse no favours do I own,
Th'encircling bays for me were ne'er entwin'd,
Else would I tell what virtues in thee shone,
And sing the beauties of thy polish'd mind.
Then ah! forgive, if no kind Muse inspire,
So ill I paint the talents I admire.

SONNET VIII.

PENSIVE I stray, and view the setting sun
Skirting with gold the blue horizon wide,
Till sober Ev'ning throws her mantle dun
O'er the broad landscape, and the mountain's side.
Here, undisturb'd, does Memory retrace,
With pencil kind, past happiness. Awhile
She seems to please, and I with joy embrace
Her visions fair, the sad hours to beguile.
Yet like the trav'ller, who with heart forlorn,
Exil'd from all he loves, turns to the shore,
Where dwells the partner from his bosom torn,
And turning, does with streaming eye deplore,
E'en so to Mem'ry do I vainly mourn,
And sighing say, these joys will ne'er return.

SONNET IX.

THE tender flow'ret, nursling of the morn,
That flaunted gaily in the noontide ray,
Oft bows its head beneath night's 'whelming storm,
Embraces earth, and slowly dies away.
So sinks the bosom by sharp misery torn,
When Hope, enchantress of the soul! is fled,
When friends long lov'd are gone, and we forlorn
Are left to weep o'er their cold earthy bed.
Slow winds the silver stream adown the lawn,
And the wide prospect opens with the day,
As it had wont; but ah! I weeping mourn,
That she, with whom enraptur'd I did stray,
Sleeps in the grave, and I must still deplore,
Till this sad trembling heart can beat no more.

SONNET X.

TO SLEEP.

O! why, soft sleep, do I thy aid implore?
For though awhile, to this deluded breast,
Thy dreams the image of my friend restore,
I wake from the fair picture thou hast dress'd,
And to my silent pillow vainly grieve
That the fond phantom flies at morning's light,
And I no more the fancied bliss receive,
Or hear her soothing voice with sweet delight.
Yet flatt'ring power, wrapt in thy dark arms
I oft enjoy thee, though I sadly find,
Like the false friend, thou quickly withdraw'st thy charms,
When grief's hard pressure wastes the tortur'd mind.
But ah! how lovely do thy joys appear,
When tired infants court thee with a tear.

SONNET XI.

TO A ROSE IN NOVEMBER.   [3]

AH! ling'ring beauty of the faded year,
The while I gaze on thy poor sickly crest,
O'er thy brown leaves I drop the silent tear
That flows for her, who in youth's lustre dress'd
Fell, sadly fell, 'neath death's relentless hand;
And the fair face that far outshone thy bloom,
And the soft voice that did all ears command,
Is sunk, is lost, in the cold cheerless tomb.
Alas! I mourn, as thy neglected root,
When all its beauteous buds are from it torn.
Yet Summer's sun again will bid them shoot,
Again its leaves will drink the dew of morn,
But Frienship's sun no more o'er me will spread,
Nor its soft dew revive my drooping head.

SONNET XII.

ON REVISITING A VILLAGE WHERE I PASSED
                       MY INFANCY.

SCENES of my youth, where in life's early day
I tun'd the artless reed of rural joy,
How all thy fairy pleasures fade away!
Ah! how does time the flow'ry path destroy!
Here have I nurs'd the lily's tender stem,
And seen with joy the yellow crocus blow;
And when the hoar forst had dress'd with many a gem
The flow'rets, peeping from their beds of snow,
On the white margin of the frozen flood
How oft did I the prattling circle meet,
And with the vacant mind have laughing stood,
To see the ice betray th'adventurer's feet.
Ah! happy days! ye flew on hasty wing,
Remembrance now is all I've left of Spring.

SONNET XIII.

TO MUSWELL HILL.

AS thy green hill, sweet Muswell, I now tread,
And mourning wander o'er thy shadowy way;
From each lone shrub some spirit seems to say,
"Thy hours of peace and joy are ever fled."
Here, while pale Ev'ning sheds her pensive beam,
Veiling the beauteous landscape from the view,
On the high grass, bespangled with her dew,
Reclin'd, and wrapt in fancy's magic dream,
How oft has Friendship, whispering most sweet
Her dulcet notes in my deluded ear,
Beguil'd the time: and still this bliss sincere,
Amid thy shades, I ever hop'd to meet;
But now thy trees, thy flow'rs, no pleasure lend,
They blow around the low grave of my Friend.

SONNET XIV.

TO SENSIBLITY.

SWEET sensibility! though oft thy tear
Bedews my cheek, and makes me ever prone
To add each wretch's sorrow to my own,
Yet is thy gentle sigh to me most dear.
Far dost thou fly the giddy vacant throng;
And though the languid eye, and faded cheek,
Thy children, do most eloquently speak,
More melody than pleasure's syren song
Ere gave, in thy low whisper dwells,
When far retiring from the blaze of day,
Thy tearful eye emits its pensive ray,
As crowding thought thy gentle bosom swells
With scorn for those, who climbing fortune's steep,
Ne'er turn aside at thy low shrine to weep.

SONNET XV.

TO A. D.

NOT for the beauty of thy roseate cheek,
Not for the lustre of thy sparkling eye,
Wert thou alone caress'd; the tender sigh,
Soft heav'd for misery, did thy virtue speak.
This aching heart, so oft by sorrow torn,
That all its noble powers died away,
Has felt thy friendship shed its chearing ray,
Sweet as Aurora blushes o'er the morn.
But thou art gone; and never, never more,
Thy presence shall the lowly cot endear.
O'er her sad babes the widow drops the tear,
And feels no increase to her scanty store.
Ah! vain her tears, and vain this last sad boon,
It cannot reach thee in the silent tomb.

SONNET XVI.

TO THE MEMORY OF A FRIEND.

AMID The scene of mirth, could I forget
When the low beating of thy pulse did cease,
And the last sigh that wing'd thy soul to peace,
Then might I join the festive laugh. But yet
I see the cold dew on thy face that hung,
Hear the last accents tremble on thy tongue,
And on thy parting look, that seem'd to say,
'Lov'd friend, farewel, for me, ah! do not weep,
'A little while, and you with me may sleep,'
I fondly dwell; and ah! it smooths my way,
As when the Summer's sultry hours prevail,
The pallid wretch, long wasted by disease,
Feels blooming health wing'd on the soften'd breeze,
And grateful, worships Ev'ning's fresh'ning gale.

SONNET XVII.

AS to the dark green wood I bend my way,
To view the setting sun, while Ev'ning's breeze
Sighs with soft murmurs through the waving trees,
Whose boughs are glitt'ring in the crimson ray,
I think on those I love, and oft retrace
Those hours of bliss, when yet I mark'd its beams
Tint with a mellow hue the winding streams,
With heart at ease, and health expressive face.
But now slow sickness, with its with'ring hand,
Saddens my mind, and to the azur'd skies
Of ev'ning mild I raise my languid eyes;
And lost in thought sublime a mourner stand,
Who long by pain and hidden grief opprest,
Hopes soon, in brighter worlds, to sink to rest.

SONNET XVIII.

DEAR to the shepherd is the sylvan shade,
Where first his artless bosom heav'd with love,
And when his transports kindly were repaid,
And sighs sincere reecho'd through the grove.
But if no more affection is return'd,
If cold indiff'rence chill the fair one's heart,
Dark grows the view, his cottage low is spurn'd,
Nor joy to him does Summer's sun impart.
Ah! so to me the village once belov'd,
The common green where feeds the bleating fold,
The shadowy lane, by peasant hands improv'd,
Not so enraptur'd does my eye behold,
As when I cull'd, in childhood's happy morn,
The wild rose gay, unmindful of its thorn.

SONNET XIX.

EVENING.

THE plaintive music of the village bells,
In cadence slow, does with the breeze expire;
Still on my list'ning ear the soft sound dwells,
And prompts to melody my trembling lyre.
Ah! dear Maria, as I touch the chord
With languid hand, devoid of tuneful pow'r,
I think, how sweet thy numbers would accord
With the calm beauties of this peaceful hour.
The last faint blush of sunshine on the hills,
The Ev'ning cloud, all rich with streaming gold,
Whose shape phantastic my rapt bosom fills
With dreams romantic from some legend old,
Exalts my soul above this little sphere,
And charms my senses while I linger here.

SONNET XX.

SAY, Friend belov'd, should time with reckless speed
Wing fifty Summers ere we meet again,
Would either heart withhold soft friendship's meed,
Or tender vows of endless faith disdain?
Ah! surely not, 'twas Nature's sacred hand
Who wove the bands, that did our hearts entwine;
How sweet, how soft, will sympathy expand
The Souls united at her sacred shrine!
The hours, the days, the laggard months, roll on,
Pale morning's dawn and day's decline I see,
I tell the moon, the trees, the flow'rs, thou'rt gone.
Ah! 'neath its beam dost raise a thought to me?
This hope beguiles me, as I wander far,
And mourn thy absence to night's beaming star.

SONNET XXI.

COMPOSED ON A JOURNEY TO WOBURN.

WOBURN! to thee ungrateful I should prove,
Could I thy hills of sand, and verdure meet,
Nor feel my heart with tender tumult beat,
As I approach the kindred friends I love.
For ah! thy mossy banks of lively green,
When first refreshen'd by Spring's genial show'rs,
Which fling from bursting buds the blushing flow'rs,
Thy lily woods, and dark pines varied scene!
To me recall the fleeting days of youth,
Ere yet I trod the thorny paths of life,
Ere yet I listen'd to the voice of strife,
Or knew the lip could accent aught but truth.
Ah! shades belov'd, unalter'd ye remain,
But I salute ye with an heart of pain.

SONNET XXII.

GO, Friend belov'd, and leave the busy throng,
Go, seek the tangling wood and flow'ry plain,
As through their shade thy footsteps wind along,
Oh! may thy bosom ne'er awake to pain;
But mildly gentle, as the silver stream
Which through the valley winds its mazy way,
Or sweetly flower'd, as the Poet's dream,
O'er whom the wild fancy holds illusive sway,
Be all the moments of thy wand'rings past;
And as thou climb'st the mountain's misty brow,
On Mem'ry's page some glances shouldst thou cast,
Wilt thou on her one tender thought bestow?
Whose soul enamour'd loves on thee to dwell,
And the last moment of thy kind farewell.

SONNET XXIII.

WRITTEN ON THE EVENING BEFORE I LEFT THE
                                  COUNTRY.

Addio, Care Selve,
Care mie Selve, addio.

WHERE Nature all her blooming charms around
Diffuses kindly, why should my sad heart
Waft the deep sigh? and, sunk in gloom profound,
O'er others' mirth a chilling damp impart?
Ah! happy friends, whose lips have never press'd
The bitter cup of slow consuming woe,
Forgive the anguish of a mind opprest,
Forgive the tears, with which my eyes o'erflow.
These woods long love'd, this sylvan tranquil scene,
For worldly noise and turmoil must I leave,
Yet will remembrance linger on the green;
Can wounded Nature ever cease to grieve?
She bade me love her calm, her green retreats,
But fate unkind now tears me from her sweets.

SONNET XXIV.

COMPOSED ON A ROCK THAT OVERHANGS THE
         SEA AT WHITESANDS IN CORNWALL.

DARK sullen rock! on whose projecting steep
Ill omen'd sea birds build their gloomy home,
Whose screams responsive hail the angry deep,
When o'er thy sides the restless billows foam,
To my sad mind thy frowning brow appears,
While proud thou brav'st the elements unmov'd,
Like one whose cheeks ne'er dew'd with tender tears
For other sorrows, or for friends belov'd.
Should some poor sailor to thy bosom cling,
When the wreck'd vessel breaks its massy sides,
Yet thou again the fainting wretch would'st fling
To the rude fury of the 'whelming tides,
Like faithless friends, who flatter for awhile,
And lure their victims with affection's smile.

SONNET XXV.

TO THE TREE IN ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD.

POOR mournful Tree! who 'mid the city's smoke
With languid mien unfolds thy tremb'ling leaves,
No pensive Poet does thy shade invoke,
Thy sickly form no zephyr's breath receives.
Alone, forlorn, no kindred, elm expands
Its clust'ring foliage with thy boughs t'entwine,
Nor Philomel, who cheers the Shepherd's lands,
Will pour from thee its melody divine.
Yet ah! mayhap, like some fair thoughtless maid,
More proud thou feel'st to lure the public eye,
Than wave thy honours in the pensive glade,
Or o'er the streamlet to the wild winds sigh.
Alas! too soon thy faded form will show,
The transient pleasures pubic life bestow.

SONNET XXVI.

TO THE MOON.

COMPOSED IN THE CHAMBER OF A DYING
                           FRIEND.

NOT o'er the summit of the pine crown'd hill,
Not soft reflected in the glassy stream,
Nor silv'ring o'er the gently flowing rill,
Sweet Moon! do I behold thy lucid beam;
But, from the chamber where relentless death
Hangs o'er the pillow of a friend sincere,
Where sad I sit, and watch the short'ning breath,
Or silent shed the unavailing tear,
I mark thy shadows tremb'ling o'er the scene,
With superstition's dark, terrifick gloom.
For many a shape phantastick now is seen,
And hollow groans reecho from the tomb.
Fancy now joys to hold her mimick sway,
While night is tissu'd with thy silver ray.

SONNET XXVII.

NOT to the vulgar, not the common eye,
Thy worth, dear friend, will hastily unfold,
But souls who thirst for sympathy's soft sigh,
And wish their sorrows to remain untold,
On thy calm breast may pillow their deep woes,
And feel thy tear sweet as the Ev'ning dew,
That to the fever'd low reclining rose
Does grateful fragrance and gay tints renew.
Not fiction's pencil, that in colours bright
Paints glowing virtues to the senseless heart,
Now leads the muse—But oh! the soft delight
Thy friendship faithful does to life impart,
Prompts the pure lay—I feel its soothing charms,
I fly from sorrow to thy circling arms.

SONNET XXVIII.

TO THE MOON.

COMPOSED DURING A STORM AT SEA.  [4]

MILD lamp of light, ah! wherefore now retire
Behind the blacken'd cloud, why quickly glide?
The tide obediently flows at thy desire,
O! stay awhile, our tossing bark to guide.
The lightning's flash, the hurling blasts of wind,
The dashing waves, my trembling soul affright,
And thoughts of friends, O! sadly left behind,
Swell on my heart, and darker grows the night.
Yet ah! perhaps, thou could'st not on the storm
Unpitying gaze, so veil'd thy silver face,
And kindly bid the twinkling star of morn
Smile from the East, and all our fears erase.
For calm the waters now as some soft stream,
The blue waves sparkling in Aurora's beam.

SONNET XXIX.

COMPOSED AFTER READING MELANCHOLY SON-
                             NETS BY A FRIEND.

SWEET are thy strains, fair warbler, soothing sweet;
Yet cease awhile o'er human ills to mourn,
Thine are the woes each sensate soul must meet,
Still doom'd with common mortals to sojourn.
If thy warm heart some tender sorrows move,
Do not thy joys receive a zest unknown
To minds, devoid of pity or of love,
Who shed no tears for sorrows not heir own?
Ah! seek stern fortitude, her iron breast
N'er o'er her children sheds a useless tear,
She through life's storms uplifts her rugged crest,
Nor bends with streaming eye o'er friendship's bier;
For well she knows this transient scene will cease,
And life's pale mourner find eternal peace.

SONNET XXX.

WHERE the slow ship moves on the dusky line,
Oft, oft, dear friend, I turn my humid eye,
And view the westering Sun, with ray divine,
Sink on blue Ocean's breast; but doom'd to sigh,
I turn away—o'er joys long fled, then cast
The mournful thought; as fades the orb of day,
So quickly flew my pleasures, ah! they pass'd
As the light winds that with the salt waves play,
Then quick recede, and leave them to night's storm.
But ah! th'unconscious waves lament not long
The faithless winds, Aurora's blushing form
Peers from her spangled car; the sea boys song
Floats on the breeze, the golden clouds rejoice;
Just so grief flies, when hear'd thy soothing voice.

SONNET XXXI.

TO THE THORN OF THE ROSE.

KIND guardian of the beauteous rose,
She to thy parent care her safety owes;
Thou hid'st beneath her silken leaves thy sting,
That should some coarse ungenial hand presume
To force her rudely from the flow'ry ring,
He bleeds to purchase the divine perfume.
Unheeded Thorn! few Poets sing thy pow'r,
Altho' protector of their darling flow'r;
But I regard thee as a friend sincere,
Who marking sorrow wound the gentle heart,
As the barb'd arrow would the bosom tear,
Uplifts his arm, and blunts th'envenom'd dart;
Thee Nature gave, the helpless rose to tend
To man sure succour, in a faithful friend.

SONNET XXXII.

BORNE by rude winds in eddies dark and sear,
The rustling leaves sweep through the forest wide,
Fled are the treasures of the golden year,
And deep rains swell the lone brook's willowy side;
I love thee, Autumn, for thy freshen'd morn,
Thy half dismantl'd woods, and beech leaves red,
And all the glowing tints the clouds adorn,
When the bright Sun illumes his western bed;
And sweet the balmy breeze of Ev'ning pale,
That o'er the bosom of the calm lake creeps,
Where lovers sigh, 'neath twilight's mystick veil,
And grief unseen beside the streamlet weeps,
While the low whispering wind to Fancy's ear
Sighs as a distant friend, and prompts the tender tear.

SONNET XXXIII.

TO ILLUSION.

CLAD in the mantle of eternal Spring,
Her robe loose floating to the tepid air,
Through which she flew; on zephyr's balmy wing,
Enwreathing chaplets for the brow of care,
Illusion comes; her soft bewitching smile,
Too sweet enchantress! won my youthful gaze;
Her voice of sorrow did my heart beguile;
Entranc'd, I wander'd through her flow'ry maze,
Where all was bliss; nor dread of future sighs,
Nor faithless friends, nor lovers insincere,
Clouded the azure of her golden skies,
Or dew'd her rose buds with a trembling tear;
But all was sweet, till Age, with icy pow'rs,
Froze her clear streams, and wither'd her fair flow'rs.

SONNET XXIV.

THE veil's remov'd, the gaudy, flimsy veil,
That shrowded thy false heart, and now I see,
With friendship pure, it never beat for me.
Fool! that I was, to listen to the tale.
Well, be it so—this pleasure must prevail,
Though at thy falshood much my heart has griev'd,
Thou canst not say, I e'er thy hopes deceiv'd.
This still my solace; should all others fail,
What now remains of life I will employ
In bliss less fragile; Nature's charms sublime,
Her hills and woodlands wild, reechoing joy,
Her blushing Spring, and Summer's flow'ry prime,
Though Winter for awhile her sweets destroy,
They still return, on wings of faithful time.

SONNET XXXIV.

EVENING.

FAST sinks the sun beneath the cloud topp'd hill,
The landscape round reflects the roseate dye,
Phantastick beauties gild the western sky;
And my rapt bosom with such transports fill,
That the big tear, t'were wisdom to suppress,
Falls from my languid eye; and I retrace
Fond scenes, fond friends, who ever must have place
In this too sensate heart; yet why caress
In retrospect alone life's fleeting joys?
Why not submissive rest on Heaven's pow'r,
Who can with blessings cheer the future hour?
Nor faithless friends, nor time, can e'er destroy
Virtue's pure meed; life's mimick pleasures o'er,
The spirit free, will from this prison soar.

SONNET XXXVI.

COMPOSED IN ASPLEY WOOD.

THE narrow path deep winding through this wood,
The Robin's song, that cheers the wint'ry glade,
How much I lov'd! and O! the silver flood,
And brook so clear that o'er the pebbles play'd,
Warbled congenial music to mine ear,
And sooth'd to peace this agitated heart,
When Memory rested on a lov'd friend's bier,
And tender scenes from which t'was hard to part;
Here while the cowslip hung its pallid head
Amid the high grass, chrystaliz'd with dew,
The primrose peeping from its mossy bed,
Beside the streamlet Spring's first incense threw;
They charm'd me then, and could all care beguile,
But now, alas! in vain does Nature smile.

SONNET XXXVII.

TO THE LOON BIRD OF NORTH AMERICA.

BIRD of the barren rock, whose piercing cries
Mock the rude dashings of the mournful main,
Making strange wailings to the gloomy skies,
As though thou would'st of thy sad fate complain;
Doom'd where the sea fowl seeks diurnal prey,
To raise above the liquid world thy crest,
And shrieking from the waves of silver'd grey,   [5]
The sailor hails thee, as some wretch distress'd;
Now droops his heart, when on their dreary side
No vestige of society is seen,
And through the high cleft rocks the prospect wide
Is topp'd with pine trees dark funereal green.
O! then on home, on friends belov'd he thinks,
And all forlorn, his soul with sorrow sinks.

SONNET XXXVIII.

MORNING.

BLUSHING Aurora, o'er the distant hills
I see thy shadowy mantle far unfold;
And flocks, and fields, and chrystal streaming rills,
The broad sun rising, spangles o'er with gold.
The mist that hover'd o'er the lowly vale,
Dispers'd in air, unveils the cottage scene;
Awak'ning Nature chirping songsters hail;
The peasant leads his cattle o'er the green.
Sweet morning breezes! on this languid form
How fresh ye blow, ah! could your breath restore
Bliss to a heart o'erwhelm'd by sorrow's storm,
Then I should feel its chilling blast, no more:
But as the sun dispels the silver dew,
So friends belov'd, and hours of pleasure flew.

SONNET XXXIX.

TO MAY.

PARENT of love and song! luxuriant May,   [6]
I welcome thy return; but whither fled
The blushing honours that enwreath'd thy head,
Thy cowslip sprinkl'd meads, th' emblossom'd spray?
Dark wint'ry clouds obscure thy dawning day,
Veil the bright tints, by fair Aurora spread,
To hail thy coming from her orient bed,
While her sweet songsters tune the thrilling lay.
Cold thro' thy half clad groves the north wind blows,
No op'ning violets scent the vernal gale
Nor modest blackthorn spicy odours throws
From clust'ring blossoms thro' the green hedg'd vale.
Ah! kindred gloom! for in my bosom glows
No hope that did o'er Summers past prevail.

SONNET XL.

                          TO MISS WILLIAMS,
ON READING HER SONNET TO THE STRAWBERRY.

O! sweetest minstrel of green England's Isle,
Who from your native fields, now far away,
While you revert to your primeval May;
To blushing fruits, that did your youth beguile,
And wild woods teeming in gay Summer's smile,
Ah! as you frame the soft expressive lay,
And carol sweetly childhood's playful day;
Youth's happy season seems renew'd awhile,
For I like you these white wing'd hours retrace,
Their transient bliss, their faded prime deplore;
Yet could my pen paint with your vivid grace,
The sweet illusion might gay youth restore;
Luxuriant fancy all its hopes replace,
And to eternal Summer fondly soar.

SONNET XLI.

TO THE COMING SPRING.

CLEAR streams, and skies, and primrose tufted groves,
Will soon return, and chase the wint'ry year;
Already snowdrops from their green leaves peer,
And cheerful songsters woo their timid loves.
Nature awakes! and lengthen'd daylight proves
Soft Spring's return; but O! the bitter tear
Shed o'er the vanish'd scenes, to Memory dear,
When once she smil'd, my throbbing bosom moves;
Nor joy to me can all her beauties bring,
While thoughts of pleasures past so heavy press.
Birds! as ye skim through air, on busy wing,
And wander far some warbling love to bless,
To your soft bosoms no remembrance clings
Of former joys, to cloud succeeding Springs.

SONNET XLII.

THE Sun, though set, still spreads along the west
The ling'ring vestige of his crimson ray;
The little birds, reposing in their nest,
Have sung the requiem of departed day.
A thousand perfumes float athwart the air
From sleeping flow'rets, rock'd by zephyr's sigh.
The brook reflects, as in a mirror fair,
The night's chaste queen, who, rising from on high,
Throws o'er the landscape the soft soothing light,
Which sorrow seeks its full heart to unfold.
For wounded souls fly broad day's garish light
And common ear, to their complainings cold;
And while th' unfeeling crowd in silence sleep,
Steal 'neath this shadowy beam, alone to weep.

SONNET XLIII.

TO SOME AUTUMNAL FLOWERS,

GIVEN ME ON THE DAY OF A FRIEND'S MARRI-
AGE, WHO WAS GOING TO LIVE AT A GREAT
DISTANCE.

YE flow'ry tribe, who grac'd the fading year,
And sipp'd the dew, beneath the autumnal moon,
O! ye are sweet, as soft affection's tear
Mingled by parting friends, who feel too soon
That distance wide will bid those hours decay,
On which the youthful heart its pleasures hung,
While Memory only paints with shadowy ray
Th' expressive smile, and accents of thy tongue.
For ah! the lengthen'd mile, like Winter's frost,
May chill the heart, and the celestial glow,
Suffus'd o'er meeting friends—those transports lost,
What bliss can life's monotony bestow?
The mind by turns then gathers fancy's bloom,
Or shrouds past scenes, in cold oblivion's gloom.

SONNET XLIV.

WHY clings remembrance to fond pleasures past,
Pleasures long flown, that can no more return?
Why fall my tears o'er friendship's silent urn,
Ah! why does melancholy fair hope o'ercast?
Turn restless thoughts, forget the chilling blast,
That quench the fires, which, ah! too ardent burn
In youth's warm breast; to sober reason turn
Those flames she tells us, which, too brisk to last,
Consume but cheer not: and the weaken'd mind
(Like some night trav'ller by the meteor's blaze
Misled, and weeping with the dawn to find
A trackless wood, and never ending maze,)
Shall from that clear road find itself afar,
Where reason points to truth, man's polar star.

SONNET XLV.

THE fields around smile in the noon tide beam,
While here, and there, the yellow corn is seen,
Mingling with patches of the cheerful green,
Or clover's purple hue; the silver stream
Meanders through the vale, calm as the dream
Of musing Poet o'er the sylvan scene,
With heart unruffled, and a mind serene,
While strew'd with flow'rets all his wand'rings seem.
Through life's dark maze, whate'er of future ill
Awaits my steps, still may I turn to cast
The ling'ring look on Nature's lovely views;
Her beauteous forms my mind with rapture fill,
Soft as the rainbow, when the storm is past,
Sheds o'er the landscape fair its roseate hues.

SONNET XLVI.

TO DR. J. ON HIS RETURN TO BARBADOES.

BARBADOES! thou whose flow'rets wildly blow,
Wreathing with chaplets gay each shadowy steep,
Or soft entwining through the valley creep,
Where lucid fountains sparkle as they flow,
Ting'd with the tropick Sun's refulgent glow;
Whose broad orb westering, trembles o'er the deep,
Ere on its blushing wave it sinks to sleep;
—Barbadoes! hush'd is all thy native's woe,
For ah! to thy congenial clime returns
He whom fair science fondly taught to roam;   [7]
Affection ardent in his bosom burns,
Rekindling rapture as he meets his home,
And friends long lov'd; but those whom here he leaves
Feel the heart's pang, that in his absence grieves.

SONNET XLVII.

EVENING.

THE sultry day is past, and pensive eve
Bathes, with its balmy dew, the sleeping flow'rs,
Scenting the humid air. Sweet, tranquil hours!
I watch thy ling'ring lights, that slowly leave
Th' empurpled west, soft fading into night,
With the calm pleasure of an heart resign'd,
Worn with the world's cold scorn, and friends unkind,
And love sincere, return'd with causeless slight.
'Tis then, great Nature, as thy works we meet,
A world eternal opens to the view;
The flimsy pleasures of this sphere decay,
A power divine in ev'ry flower we greet,
And as they lift their heads, reviv'd by dew,
So we revive, cheer'd by Religion's ray.

SONNET XLVIII.

WRITTEN ON SEEING A MANIAC LOOKING THROUGH
            THE BARS OF HIS WINDOW ON A VERY
                                FINE EVENING.

O! not for thee the Ev'ning's mellow beam,
O! not for thee, poor Maniac, it glows,
While through thy veins the blood impetuous flows,
And life's full tide is one wild dashing stream.
Could for awhile cool reason on thee gleam,
O! I would ask the source of all thy woes,
And the soft balm, that sympathy bestows,
Should hush thy sorrows, as some peaceful dream.
Has bitter hatred where thou cherish'd love,
Has cold neglect, like ice upon the soul,
(That ardent glowing with affection's fires)
Damp'd the soft flame that did thy bosom move?
Alas! sad truth, 'tis here we must control
The sweet sensations tenderness inspires.

SONNET XLVIX.

TO AN EARLY SICKLY ROSE.

CHILD of the tepid gale! first Rose of Spring,
Who, from thy silken leaves, just peer'st thy head,
With timid mien, as fearing soon to shed
Thy honours 'neath the blasts, that sometimes fling
Low to the earth the fairy blossom'd ring
By Flora wreath'd, to grace her bridal bed,
When love sick zephyr, to her bowers led,
Perfumes her flow'rets with his dewy wing.
Ah, Rose! to me thy pallid form is dear,
More dear than flaunting in gay Summer's pride:
Thy sickly, drooping crest provokes the tear,
The tear that flows from warm affection's tide,
As I reflect, that, keen as Winter's wind,
So slander, blights the blossoms of the mind.

SONNET L.

To ··········

'MIDST groves, 'midst lawns, and wildly winding streams,
And forests deep, and hills that bound the view,
Whose green slopes catch the sun's departing beams,
Gilding their summits with celestial hue,
How kindly Nature destines thee to dwell,
To drink the waters from the fountains clear.
No noise arrests thee, but the sheep-fold's bell,
Or song of birds, that carol in the year.
But Ah! nor groves, nor Nature's beauteous face,
Nor blossom'd Spring, nor Summer's sweetest flow'rs,
Could charm the soul where passions fierce deface
Rural delights, and cloud the peaceful hours.
No, friend so dear, 'tis thy own gentle heart
That to these scenes a zest sublime impart.

SONNET LI.

ILLUSION sweet, to all thy sunny days,
That have my paths illum'd, a long adieu;
Unwelcome truth is, now, unveil'd to view;
Ah me! I shudder at her purer rays,
Again would listen to love's thrilling lays,
And would again the dear deceit pursue,
Again believe the heart's effusion true,
And nurse the flame that o'er my bosom plays.
—Ah! idle dreams, by rude experience taught,
Rare is the treasure of a faithful friend;
E'en life itself, consuming at this thought,
Drags its long chain, and languishes to end.
For e'en the self depending soul must bend
'Neath cold neglect, where it warm friendship sought.

[52]

LINES

WRITTEN MARCH 1, 1796.

COLD frost arrests the streamlet's course,
    The birds in silence drop their wing,
And yielding to stern Winter's force,
    Their matin hymns now cease to sing.

Go, zephyr, wake the sleeping flow'rs
    That linger 'neath their beds of snow,
And thou, green Spring, with gentle show'rs,
    Their timid beauties bid to blow.

Recall the roses sweet perfume,
    In blossoms dress the country wide,
Unfold the clust'ring lilack's bloom,
    And deck the fields in flow'ry pride.

But ah! for me nor Spring's return,
    Nor Summers flow'ry wreath has charms,
Chill fancy points to yonder urn,
    Where sleeps my friend in death's cold arms.

LINES

WRITTEN WHILE WALKING THROUGH A BEAU-
                      TIFUL COUNTRY.

WHAT though the proud, the giddy and the gay,
Reject the cottage, and the sylvan scene,
What though they walk, unmindful of their way,
Nor stop to hail the perfume of the bean.
Yet, let not peasants so ungrateful prove;
Let senseless beings, of a pamper'd court,
Alone deride the haunts of purest love,
The woodland wild, the Muses sweet resort.
Ah! not for them slow winds the sapphire stream,
Ah! not for them the tangling woodbine blows;
The blackbird singing to the ev'ning's beam,
That wafts the shepherd to his calm repose,
Accords but ill to fashion's tutor'd ear,
Or eyes, that shed not soft affection's tear.

WRITTEN IN WOBURN EVERGREENS.

HOW dear is all this scene to me,
This lengthen'd hill, of shadowy pines,
The fresher green of new clad tree
Whose boughs the laughing Spring entwines.
O! through this whisp'ring grove I stray'd,
Press'd this soft moss with tiny feet,
At childish sports here thoughtless play'd,
My mind as calm as this retreat.
'Twas Nature's charms gave such delight,
Pure charms! ye still enchant my view;
All pleasures center'd in my sight,
Beyond these woods no world I knew.
Ah! many a weary day is past,
And many a pang this heart has torn,
Since, peaceful shades, I trod ye last,
In spring tide days, in life's gay morn.

MALVINA'S DREAM.

IMITATED FROM OSSIAN.    [8]

SOFT to Malvina's ear, as morning's breath
Whisp'ring the sleeping flow'rets to unclose,
Oscar, thy voice came from the halls of death,
While my clos'd eyelids lightly sought repose.
O! blissful dream! again I turn'd to sleep,
But at the orient beam thy sweet form flew.
Yet on Malvina's soul thou'rt graven deep,
Riding through the gold edg'd clouds of azur'd hue,
Thy floating robes bright sun beams did adorn.
On the wind's wing how quick thou pass'd away.
O! dark blue lake, why came the breeze of morn,
Rippling thy wave, to bid my dream decay?
With the grey dawn my sighs unbidden rise,
Constant my tears as night's returning dew.

TO A FRIEND,

WHO WROTE ME SOME LINES IN WINTER, WHICH
            SHE CALLED A WINTER'S NOSEGAY.

THOUGH hid beneath their beds of snow,
    The flowers torpid lay,
Rock'd by the bitter winds, that blow,
    And desolate each spray;

Though Naiads, o'er their urns reclin'd,
    Sigh o'er their languid tide,
Which frost delights in ice to bind,
    As slow their waters glide;

Yet, dear Maria, there are bow'rs,
    Which wintry winds defy,

Imagination's vivid ray,
    Bright shining on the breast,
Recalls the perfumes of the May,
    The woods in verdure drest:

Recalls the bless'd, though short liv'd hours,
    When kindred spirits meet
To mingle smiles, or tender showers
    Of sympathy most sweet:

Recalls the soft resistless glance,
    That, beaming from the eye,
Speaks the full soul's extatic trance,
    When friends belov'd are nigh.

The Winter garland thou hast wove
    Amid the year's decay,
And pillag'd from the blighted grove,
    Is sweet as buds of May.

For in the laurel I will trace
    Thy never changing mind,
And in the myrtle soft embrace
    Thy taste and sense refin'd.

Then give the Rose to sparkling youth,
    I throw gay flow'rs aside;
To wear these symbols of thy truth
    Shall be my heart's first pride.

LINES

ON GATHERING A HEDGE ROSE AS I PARTED
                           WITH A FRIEND.

AH! little flow'ret, droop not, though my hand
    Has dar'd to force thee from thy native vale,
Mild as when by thy parent zephyr fann'd,
    Or light as dewy Ev'ning's balmy gale,
Is my fond touch; so dear art thou to me,
That I with tender care will cherish thee.
What though thy leaves may not so gay appear,
As when by glitt'ring sun beams thou wert drest,
Yet in the morn thy dew shall be my tear,
While thy sweet incense shall perfume my breast;
And though once sever'd from thy parent hedge,
Forgive the hand that made thee friendship's pledge.

LINES

WRITTEN ON THE SEA COAST IN SUMMER.

WHEN sinks the Sun on Ocean's waves,
And sea nymphs sport in coral caves;
When moonlight sleeps along the grove,
The calm retreat for hopeless love,
I wander on the pebbled shore,
And listen to the white waves roar;
Or, sighing to the "viewless wind,"
I oft deplore my lot unkind;
For here alone unblest I stray,
No kindred spirit cheers my way;
I sigh—but ah! no gentle voice
Bids hope again my soul rejoice,
Nor does soft sympathy impart
Its balsam to a wounded heart.

IMITATED FROM ESTELLE.

BEAUTEOUS Narcissus! which a maid
    (Whose whiteness may with thine compare)
Hath dropp'd in this deserted shade,
    Be now the flow'ret of my care:

Since touch'd, since cull'd by that dear hand,
    To thee the rose and lily yield,
Thy charms unrivall'd now will stand,
    Thou art the monarch of the field!

O! lovely flower, my only wealth,
    Till death, to you I'll constant prove,
Inhale thy sweets, and thus by stealth
    Intoxicate my soul with love.

TO POVERTY.

STERN Poverty! whose haggard mien
Affrights each mortal, by whom seen;
It is not thee, dire nymph, I dread,
    But 'tis thy vile oppressive train,
    Who, link'd with tyranny's hard chain,
Scourges the wretch on thy hard bed.

I woo thee not, or wish with thee to dwell,
    Yet, unrepining, could thy visits bear,
If friendship did not take unkind farewell
    Soon as thy form terrifick does appear;
But ah! too oft, she flies at thy control,
And leaves to thy devouring hand, the fetter'd soul.

E'en love, the favor'd offfspring of the heart,
    Flies at thy voice, and sickens at thy name;
Dark doubt and av'rice warn him to depart,
    While pride and int'rest quench the ardent flame,
And only pity, unaspiring maid,
Gives to thy children sad her weak and unask'd aid.

TO THE WINDS.

WRITTEN IN A FRIEND'S GARDEN ON A VERY
                           STORMY DAY.

YE winds so rude, awhile be still,
    The flowers you deform;
Your blasts their timid beauties chill,
    They shiver in the storm.

And as they bend to your control,
    To me an emblem stand
Of some poor, gentle, tender soul
    Beneath a tyrant's hand;

Who, like the lily's silken stem,
    First struggles with the blast;
Till in their eye the crystal gem
    Proclaims resistance past.

ODE TO THE RIVER THAMES.   [9]

FROM LONDON BRIDGE.

O! River, to the merchant dear,
How black, how dark, thy banks appear,
        By traffick's hand compress'd!
But where thy silver streaming tide
Salutes the green hill's flow'ry side,
        How clear thy ample breast!

Oft as I mark thy foaming wave,
Whilst gliding on, those shores to lave,
        Far, far remov'd from me,
I wish, that, wafted by the air,
Thou couldst me on thy bosom bear,
        To Neptune's sparkling sea.

There might I watch day's ling'ring light,
That slowly yields to starry night
        Its faintly blushing ray;
There might I, o'er the liquid space,
'Mid fleecy clouds, the white moon trace,
        High on her eastern way.

There might I woo the Muses lyre,
And sing what Nature's scenes inspire,
        Secure from folly's throng,
Who never loiter'd near the shrine,
Or felt the extacy divine
        Of Poesy's soft song.

Ah me! regardless of each frown,
Could I but leave this smoky town,
        Fair Thames, with thee to stray;

With joy the seaman, doom'd to roam,
Salutes thee as his happy home,
        With heart and courage brave;
Unmindful of all dangers past,
He hears secure the rising blast,
        At anchor on thy wave.

So I, from busy scenes remov'd,
To solitude and woods belov'd,
        Could bid the world farewell;
Forget its cares, as some bad dream,
And grateful to my native stream,
        With books and silence dwell.

IMITATION DE L'ODE AL LA TAMISE.

RIVIERE precieuse au commerçant avide,
        Tes bords retrecis et souillés
        Par la main d'un trafic perfide,
        Compriment tes flots accablés.

Mais quand ton onde au loin, s'étendant azurée
        Caresse au pied du mont voisin
        L'email fleuri, l'herbe alterée,
        Oh! qu'il est beau ton ample sein!

Quand je fixe mes yeux sur tes eaux ecumantes
        Qui s'ecoulent baignant tes bords,
        Ah! que tes vagues ondoyantes
        Sensibles a mes vifs transports

Pussent m'éloigner de moi même,
        Et loin de ce monde pervers
        M'emporter avec ce que j'aime
        Au milieu de profondes mers!

Là je verrais du jour la lueur expirante
        Céder ses rezeaux lumineux
        A l'étoile pale et naissante,
        Dont la nuit embellit les cieux.

A travers le nuage a la gaze liquide
        Je verrais dans son char tremblant,
        La lune s'élever sur la plaine fluide,
        Et décrire son beau croissant.

Là je pourrais chanter sur ma naïve lyre
        Loin des yeux de jaloux mortels,

Là je pourrais en paix, dans l'extase sublime
        D'un espirit bizarre et leger,
        Epancher la timide rime
        Au sein du zéphir passager.

Ainsi l'ame exaltée au-dessus de l'envie,
        Planant dans l'empire ethéré,
        Je gouterais ma réverie
        A l'abri d'un siêcle acéré.

Inutiles souhaits! d'une indigène sphère,
        En vain je voudrais m'égarer;
        Tout me condamne a la misere,
        Je dois gémir, je dois pleurer.

Je veux donc, en suivant la course passagere,
        Belle Tamise, de tes eaux,
        Quitter au mepris du vulgaire
        Une ville infecte des maux.

Quel plaisi d'abreuver en parcourant tes rives,
        L'arbuste Cheri d'Apollon,
        D'enrichir avec tes eaux vives
        Les trèsors de chaque saison!

Le marin vagabond, qui sillone l'abime
        Du plus indomptable élément,

En ton sein maternel son ancre se repose,
        Et des horreurs de l'ouragan,
        La scene encore à peine close
        Ajoute a son contentement.

Oh! que ne puis-je ainsi dans une solitude
        Inaccessible aux noirs soucis,
        Vivre libre d'inquietude
        Au milieu des objets cheris?

En faisant mes adieux a ce malheureux monde,
        Oublier l'essaim de ses maux,
        Contemplant le cours de ton onde,
        Dans le silence et le repos.

LINES ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND,

IN ANSWER TO A LITTLE POEM HE SENT HIS
         SISTER EXPRESSIVE OF THE REGRET
            HE FELT AT THEIR SEPARATION.

AH! to thy native land for ever,
    Dear friend, thou hast not bade farewell,
Though distance for awhile may sever
    These scenes belov'd so long, so well.

Beneath the blue etherial heav'n,
    Again thou shalt enjoy its beam;   [10]
And ah! beneath the star of e'en,
    Again thou'lt wander with Mayteme.

There thy full heart, itself unveiling,
    Will pour in her's the many woes,

That in the world are still prevailing,
    To blast the little it bestows.

There mingling many a fond embrace,
    Belov'd Mayteme, thou'lt softly say,
No more an exile from this place,
    I'll tread through life's tumultuous way.

The mountain girl's untutor'd ditty
    Again delights my list'ning ear;
Sweet are her notes of love and pity,
    Sweet as the goatherd's voice is clear.

No sounds like these, the world bestowing,
    No pleasure pure its scenes impart,
All from the lip there falsely flowing,
    The ear conducts not to the heart.

LINES

WRITTEN ON A VERY WARM DAY IN JULY,
                                  1796.

AWAITING the shower, their charms to renew,
    The flow'rets are drooping forlorn,
And while the parch'd rose bud I sadly review,
    In sympathy all seem to mourn!

For I droop, and am pale, away from the friend,
    Whose presence my bosom could cheer,
I wish, like the Rose, for the dew to descend,
    The dew of affection's soft tear.

LINES

ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND WHO OBSERVED THAT
        SENSIBILITY WAS A SOURCE OF SORROW.

GRIEVE not, my friend, that partial Heav'n
To thee the feeling heart has giv'n,
Taught thy mild eyes with tears to flow,
When list'ning to some tale of woe,
And bade thy gentle breast deplore
When friends belov'd are seen no more.
Say, wouldst thou lose the pleasing smart
Of these sensations of the heart,
Change dove ey'd sensibility
For iron fronted apathy?
Ah! surely not, for hers the ray
That cheers us on life's rugged way;

Rose buds of hope from her will bloom,
Through darkest clouds of sorrow's gloom;
And though for human ills too oft she weeps,
Her tear the soul in tender transport steeps.

LINES

WRITTEN IN DEVONSHIRE.

ASK of the shepherd, on the mountain's brow,
    Who near his cottage guards his scatter'd sheep,
If the proud city, which he views below,
    Could tempt his footsteps from his native steep.

Deep in the bosom of the sloping grove,
    'Mid flow'rets wild, and shrubs of varied green,
Dwells the fond partner of his early love,
    Like all around him, beauteous and serene.

The new fall'n lamb for her how sweet to rear,
    For her to prune the wildly clust'ring vine,
Soon as the blossoms of the Spring appear.
    To teach its honours round her cot t' entwine.

O! he will tell you, that the breath of May,
    Night's plaintive warbler, and the woodlark's song,
Or robin, singing from th' autumnal spray,
    Delights his ear beyond the busy throng.

When thirsty roses drink the Ev'ning dew,
    And day's bright orb sinks 'neath the western sky,
When twilight veils the misty mountain view,
    And echo answers to the lover's sigh;

Mildly reclin'd, on beds of violets low,
    His pipe's sweet melody is heard afar;
While from his fair the soften'd wild notes flow,
    To hail with song night's silver beaming star.

Say, could he leave this happiness sincere,
    The lip of truth, the heart directed smile,

O! what to him ambition's thorny way,
    Or fortune's shallow, ever faithless tide?
More sweet the blush of slow returning day,
    The shadowy wood, and Autumn's yellow pride;

Bless'd when, at eve, he penns his bleating fold,
    To rove with her who owns his soften'd heart;
Say, can the wealth of worlds, or foreign gold,
    To his pure mind such real bliss impart?

EPITHALAMIUM FOR A FRIEND.

SOON as the dappled clouds of blushing dawn
From orient skies, unveil'd the golden morn,
Apollo rose; and to his throne divine,
In rosy bands, soft led the tuneful nine,
The laurell'd nymphs the high command obey,
Ambrosial flow'rets strewing on their way,
And softly smiling, bade me touch the string,
And thus of love the tender transports sing.

    O! Love, the silken chains, that bind
    Two kindred Souls, how sweet they find;
    Their pleasures feel a warmer glow,
    Their mingling tears divide their woe.

To hail this day, the dazzling queen of love
With sportive wood nymphs deign'd o'er earth to rove,

    How sweet is love's bewitching smile,
    How soft his looks, devoid of guile,
    When first he whispers to the heart,
    And truth directs the feather'd dart.

The goddess bow'd; with dimpling smiles reply'd,
Go wreath my myrtles in Aonian pride,
Around my altars thornless roses twine,
To grace the pair, who kneel at Hymen's shrine.

The youth is girt with truth's all spotless vest,
By Nature's hand the blushing maid is dress'd.
So sweet her mien, that Modesty would say,
She sure was form'd my likeness to pourtray.

    The violet low that scents the gale,
    The humble lilies of the vale,
    That blow in the sequester'd shade,
    Paint the soft beauties of the maid.

Go, Zephyrus, wake the lazy footed Spring,
His roundelay go bid the shepherd sing,
Go pillage sweets from from Flora's blushing bow'r,
Go burst each bud, detain'd by Winter's pow'r;
'Tis Venus, mother of sublimer joys,
Who o'er this pair her fondest care employs;
The clust'ring roses from the lap of May
She now commands, to hail this happy day.

    Then gently touch the dulcet lute,
    And sound the mirth inspiring flute;
    Let silver streams, that wind along,
    Responsive gurgle to my song.

Swift to their mother's Car the Graces flew,
Their white robes glist'ning with the morning dew;
With playful smiles from off her starry throne
The light clad sisters stole her magic zone,
To Hymen's alter laughing did repair,
And with the girdle bound the happy pair;
While Hope, with blue eyes rais'd, and throbbing breast,
On bending knees the goddess thus address'd:

    How sweet the morning zephyr blows,
    To rock the cradle of the rose!

    How sweet the lark salutes the morn
    When soaring from his bed of corn!

So sweet, great Venus, may their hours be pass'd
Free from corroding care or envy's blast;
And as mild ev'ning in her shadowy grey
Mildly succeeds the golden orb of day,
So may thy breath still fan the gentle flame,
Through fleeting youth and beauty's pensive wane;
Together may they, when these pleasures cease,
Sink on the bosom of domestic peace.

    O love! the gentle chains that bind
    Two kindred souls, how sweet they'll find;
    Their pleasures feel a warmer glow,
    Their mingling tears divide their woe.

TO A SNOWDROP,

DURING A VERY HARD WINTER.

SIMPLICITY'S symbol, first herald of Spring,
Unknown to mild zephyr, uncheer'd by his wing,
Ah! well may'st thou droop with such languor thy head,
Thy nurse the North wind! and the snow thy cold bed.
Thus drooping, thus pale, as rais'd from the earth
Thou sigh'st o'er the parent that smil'd at thy birth.
Ah me! timid flow'r, thus feeling hearts know,
The cold winds, that o'er sensibility blow,
Too tender to bear the keen glances of scorn,
They droop 'neath the cold blast, and wither forlorn.

TO THE RIVER TAMAR IN CORNWALL.

AH! stream belov'd, whose silver tide
    So oft arrests my wand'ring feet,
Should thy clear waters, as they glide,
    Some kindred spirits chance to greet;

Tell them thy murmurs soothe a soul,
    Sadly reclin'd on sorrow's urn,
Adown whose cheeks the tears oft roll,
    Deploring friends, who ne'er return.

Say too, that fancy on thy banks
    Loves much to rear her glowing bow'rs,
Where Oberon calls to wanton pranks,
    Each sportive Fay, at twilight hours;

LINES

WRITTEN ON HEARING A FRENCH PRISONER,
    WHO SUNG NIGHT AND MORNING IN THE
    PRISON AT DEAL, WHICH IS IMMEDIATELY
    OPPOSITE TO HIS OWN COAST.

SWEET are the melodious that gently float,
    Congenial to thy hours, pensive Eve,
When on the breeze is borne the sea boy's note,
    And waves receding, like torn spirits grieve.

Sooth'd by the murmurs of the restless main,
    Yon hapless pris'ner, constant as the star,
That with the pale moon cheers the peaceful plain,
    Throws o'er the wat'ry world his looks afar.

Fancy unveils to his all longing sight,
    Through the grey mist, some trace of his own shore,

When from yon orient day's returning beam,
    Through the barr'd windows of his prison dawns,
Calling his senses from the flatt'ring dream,
    Which pitying sleep for the unhappy forms;

He starts, he raves, and then his sinking heart,
    Wild with despair, he to the soft gale sings;
Echo repeats what he to gales impart,
    And o'er the liquid space his sorrow flings.

So some poor feather'd songster of the grove,
    In the close cage his native woods bewail,
So mourns his loss of liberty and love,
    While man, regardless, listens to the tale.

LINES WRITTEN AT DEAL,

ON AN OPEN BOAT BEING OVERSET, AND A YOUNG
      MAN DROWNED, WHO ENDEAVOURED TO
             SAVE HIMSELF BY SWIMMING.

BY the hard flinty stones, where the white waves are breaking,
        Behold a fair figure oft glide,
Whose arms clasp an infant, by others forsaken,
And who now from her bosom his sweet food is taken,
        While she lists to the high dashing tide.

For still as the waters salute this rude shore,
        Or murmur their hollow adieu,
She thinks on the husband she ne'er will see more,
And tells her dear babe, he is born to deplore,
        While his smile does her sorrow renew.

As, joyful, the seaman salutes the fair morning,
        Succeeding dark tempests of night,
So sweet on the mourner the flush of hope dawning,
And she oft kiss'd her boy, while fancy was forming
        Her Henry restor'd to her sight.

For once through the mist a sail was seen swelling,
        And made her belief as untrue

The report that her mate should no more cheer her dwelling;
But while fairy hope the fond story was telling,
        The wind blew with fury anew.

Now throng on the beach, wives, and mothers, who weep,
        Call loud to withdraw the full sail;    [11]
But the winds swell the waves, and the pitiless deep
Enshrowds the pale wretch, on its dark breast to sleep,
        And leaves the poor wife to bewail.

He leap'd from the boat, ere it broke its ribb'd sides,
        And swam to regain his own shore,
But his senses soon fled; and the high dashing tides
Obey'd the stern demon, who in the storm rides,
        And he sunk 'mid the ocean's loud roar.

Thou picture of sorrow, again view the light,
        And trust in that pow'r divine,
Who, though now he chastises, may still to thy sight
Some blessing bestow, that thy soul may delight
        And soften the loss you repine.

TO A TEAR.

Say, crystal drop, that trickles down my cheek,
Who can thy meaning tell? thy soft source speak?
If love is bliss, O! wherefore dost thou flow?
Is bliss extatic thus ally'd to woe?
Or are the chords of sympathy so strung,
That pain revibrates where fond pleasures hung?

To ··········

O! after day's fatiguing care,
        How sweet to rove with thee,
To cull wild flowers, to breath pure air,
        To range the woodlands free.

For if on earth's contracted sphere
        True happiness resides,
It is where love breathes vows sincere,
        From lips where truth presides.

Truth, like the lucid orb of day,
        Shines clear to every sight,
And through dark clouds that cross its ray
        Breaks forth with brighter light.

LINES

WRITTEN IN THE COUNTRY, AFTER A LONG
                   ABSENCE IN WINTER.

AGAIN, sweet Nature, I embrace
Thy tranquil shades, thy cheerful face,
        Amid the winter's frown.
O! ever to my pensive sight
Thy calm retreats give more delight,
        Than pleasures of the town.

O! could I on the mountain's brow,
Or in the peaceful vale below,
        Escape the city throng,
How sweet I'd rove beside thy streams,
And woo wild fancy's sportive dreams,
        While tun'd to thee the song.

Ah! who that marks the blushing thorn,
Or beauties of the breezy morn,
        Or sun set on the hill,
But must confess th' Eternal's pow'r,
Must hail his work in ev'ry flow'r,
        His voice in ev'ry rill.

Or when the silver beaming star
Lights the pale Ev'ning's spangled car,
        And tends the pensive moon,

Who but with contemplative thought,
With piety and meekness fraught,
        Revolves his earthly doom?

O! solitude, thy soothing charms
Stll fly my fond extended arms,
        I've sought thee long in vain;
For to my torn and wounded heart
Society no joys impart,
        'Tis but a varnish'd pain.

It circles words alone control,
The genuine feelings of the soul
        Are by its laws suppress'd.
Expressions vain with taste combin'd
Veil all deformity of mind,
        And fondly are caress'd.

TO A LILY OF THE VALLEY

I GATHERED IN ASPLEY WOOD, BROUGHT TO
       LONDON, AND TO WHICH A FRIEND
                      WROTE A SONNET.

FAR in the tangl'd wood, beneath a thorn,
This humble Lily of the vale was born;
Child of mild zephyr and the balmy May,
It flew the fervour of meridian day;
It knew no care bestow'd on garden flow'rs,
But grateful gave its incense to the show'rs;
Sipp'd the soft silver dew, devoid of pride,
By the wood strawberry or the dark fern's side,
And shelter'd 'neath its ample leaf of green,
Its cups hung trembling, fearing to be seen.
Oft as the winds sigh'd o'er its silken bell,
Its timid beauties flutter'd in their cell.

[107]

Ah! luckless hour, when zephyr's spicy wing
To its sweet nursling did fresh perfumes bring;
Far as he wafted o'er its form a sigh,
And ope'd its beauties to the gazer's eye,
Its freshen'd polish, and its shining vest,
Courted my touch—I snatch'd it to my breast.
Now from its mossy woods borne far away,
It droops its languid head, and seems to say,
"Forever sever'd from my native land,
"No more bright rain drops in my cup shall stand;
"No more, my faded lustre to renew,
"For me shall Ev'ning sprinkle silver dew;
"No more shall I the dazzling day star see;
"Day still returns, but brings no balm to me;
"Deny'd on earth to pillow my sad head,
"And my last perfumes in the woods to shed.
"Yet since a gentle maid, who long has own'd
"The modest charms for which I stood renown'd,

"Has told my beauties in her pensive strains,
"No more I mourn my mossy woods and plains;
"Sung by her muse, I feel no pain to die,
"Dew'd with her tear, and trembling to her sigh.

ON SOME FADED FLOWERS GIVEN ME BY A
                              FRIEND.

YOUR beauties are over; sweet roses, adieu
    This sorrowful truth you impart,
E'en while we caress, pleasure flies our fond view,
    And regret is the thorn of the heart.

TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. SANDYS.

YET once again, ye Muses, once again
    The willow sad and cypress wreath prepare,
Let Helicon repeat the mournful strain,
    Let dying rose buds scent the Ev'ning air.

For she who watch'd the cowslip's op'ning bell
    What time it sprinkled o'er the laughing mead;
She who nurs'd the violets in the lowly dell,
    And lov'd the musick of the sighing reed,

Has closs'd her eye, has sought her native skies,
    Left us to weep o'er virtue's sacred urn,
And now beneath the high grass silent lies,
    To weeping friends, O! never to return.

Ah! slender poplars, mournful now ye wave
    Your thin clad branches to the whisp'ring wind,

Unheeded now the flow'rets blow around,
    Rude winds may tear them from their mossy beds,
Bend their weak beauties to the humid ground,
    No more Eliza shall uprear their heads:

No more, as token of her faithful love,
    Shall she for me the nosegay gay prepare,
No more her voice shall tender raptures move,
    No more her smile shall calm the brow of care.

O! she was fair, and pure as mountain snow,
    That charms the Alpine trav'ller on his way,
Soft was her voice as summer breezes blow,
    To curl the glassy lake then die away.

Friends, husband, kindred, who around her bier
    With streaming eyes and anguish'd bosoms bend;
Well may you weep o'er private worth so dear,
    A wife so faithful, and so fond a friend.

Yet let us, thankful to th' all bounteous Pow'r,
    With grateful hymns bend low before his throne,
Who lent us for awhile this lovely flow'r,
    That through life's seasons with such lustre shone.

Nor has she dy'd; to brighter worlds remov'd,
    She blooms in sunshine of eternal day,
By kindred angels and by Heaven approv'd,
    She now expands, unmindful of decay.

TO THE EVENING STAR.

SWEET silver star! whose radiant light
    Must ev'ry pensive Poet cheer,
Thou sooth'st my soul to calm delight,
    To thee how oft I've shed the tear

O'er the cold urn of her long lov'd,
    Or thoughts of bliss for ever fled,
When my sad heart by grief was mov'd,
    And love and joy to me were dead.

Thou too hast shone on softer hours,
    Delightful ever to review;
Ah! they were sweet as May's first flow'rs,
    But then, alas! as transient too.

LINES

WRITTEN TO A FRIEND.

THE pensive Eve, the rosy blush of Morn,
    The fervid day, and twilight's dewy hours,
And Nature's boundless charms, did once adorn
    My votive Muse, and strew with fairy flow'rs

Life's upland path: but ah! relentless time,
    With sharpen'd scythe, has swept those buds away,
That mystick fancy wove in careless rhyme,
    And bade their timid beauties all decay.

For not with joy primeval now I see
    The op'ning blossoms of the balmy Spring;
Remembrance dwells on Winter's leafless tree,
    And the cold blasts, that desolation fling

Ah! me deceiv'd! I on the orb of night
    Now sighing gaze, and oft beneath its beam
Retrace those hours o'er which it shed its light,
    Which, ah! were fleeting as the Poet's dream.

COMPOSED IN A WOOD BESIDE THE WATER.

HOW sweet, amidst this deep sequester'd wood,
To hear the whisp'ring waters break away,
Restless again to reach the silver flood,
From which the wild banks lur'd their waves astray,

Ah! fickle waves, ye come and kiss the flow'r,
Then travel onward to some distant shore,
Like faithless friends, the flatt'rers of an hour;
Who woo, then leave you to return no more.

O me! my heart with throbbing anguish beats,
At pleasure's past, that o'er remembrance steal;
These sylvan scenes, these peaceful green retreats,
Renew emotions, prudence would conceal.

THE ROBIN TO HIS MATE IN WINTER.

FORGET not, love, the choral song,
    Though Winter shuts the year,
Spring will return, our joys prolong,
    And sun beams glitter here.

Though now we pick the scanty food
    The snow clad hedge supplies,
Our new fledg'd young, in warblings rude,
    Will hail the vernal skies.

Near cottage low, whose friendly door
    Affords the crumb fall'n meal,
We'll freely rove, nor yet be poor;
    True love few wants can feel.

Then come, sweet mate, uplift thine head,
    New plume thy dappled wing;
Soon will the grove thick foliage spread,
    Where we secure may sing.

Then o'er the green hill's blossom'd brow,
    Deep in the valley's breasts,
Where wild flow'rs gay their perfumes throw,
    We'll build the hidden nest.

Near to our tangled calm retreat,
    No school boy rude shall pace,

Nor shall the gunner's vagrant feet
    Our lowly dwelling trace.

For us the chrystal fountains flow,
    Fresh moss bedecks the grove,
Where mingled flow'rets wildly blow
    To dress the bow'rs of love.

I'll lead thee to the brook so clear,
    Where pliant willows bend,
Whose whisp'ring boughs delight the ear,
    And slighted love befriend.

Or should the garden beauty lure
    Thy wing from shady tree,
O'er the gay rose, or lily pure,
    W'ell wanton in full glee;

And now I see thy bosom red
    Fresh glows with hope's delight,
And seem my faithful wing is spread,
    To guard thee on thy flight.

THE DESERTER.

SERENE was the air, and the half closing flow'rs
    Were drinking the Ev'ning's soft dew,
While Zephyrus caressing in Flora's gay bow'rs,
The light footed Nymphs who lead the calm hours,
    To the rose did fresh perfumes renew.

With splendor refulgent, and silv'ring their brow,
    The moon rose the mountains between;
And the waves in soft murmurs while breaking below,
Reflected the planet that bade their tide flow,
    And sparkled with joy in its beam.

But ah! not the beauties of the Ev'ning displaying
    Could soften the voice of despair,

Ye winds that so lightly are whisp'ring around,
    O! bear my sad strains on your breeze;
Amid your far wand'rings should Laura be found,
O! say that her soldier low on the cold ground
    Tells her name to the rocks and the seas.

"Kind echo does Laura, dear Laura, repeat,
    "Till it sinks with the slow dying gale;
"And the rocks, though they mock me, yet make my heart beat.

"Till I starting view round me the ocean's wide seat,
    "Which extends between me and Ash dale.

"That vale where my bosom first felt the dear flame,
    "And my eyes spoke their meaning too well;
"Ah! Laura, I knew thy fond heart felt the same,
"And I think on thy look when the false Captain came,
    "And we could only whisper—farewell.

"Hard, hard as the rocks the high billows repelling,
    "Are the hearts that thus true love would cross.
"O! parent relentless, canst rest in thy dwelling,
"Nor shed one soft tear when the big waves are swelling,
    "On which our frail vessel must toss?

"For love gave me courage, and far behind me
    "In the camp my poor comrades repose;
"I've stol'n from the regiment, and close by the sea
"I await the kind bark that may bear me to thee,
    "Thy smile will reward all my woes!"

Thus sang the Deserter, when loud on his ear
    Some voices well known seem to swell,
And the moon glitter'd bright on the death dealing spear;
Then did kindly behind a dark cloud disappear,
    His secret retreat not to tell.

"But hope in his bosom now ceasing to glow,
    "He leap'd from the rock's rugged side,
"Receive me, he cry'd, to the dark flood below,
"O! bear my poor corpse, ye salt waves as ye flow,
    "To Laura; and say, why I dy'd."

INSCRIPTION FOR MR. K'S GREEN-HOUSE.

AH! ye who love the woodland's calm retreat,
And Nature's sylvan scenes and roseate bow'rs,
Ye whose pure bosoms ne'er with envy beat,
Come breathe these sweets, come live among these flow'rs.

'Tis here the myrtle in luxuriance spreads
Its balmy shade for friendship's sacred shrine,
Exhaling perfumes from their lowly beds,
Th' emblossom'd shrubs in wreaths phantastic twine.

Come then, forget life's flimsy flutt'ring throng,
Here taste the pleasures of pure Nature's charms,
No restless passions to her groves belong,
All here breathless peace, all shelter'd from alarms.

O! shades of bliss, may never human woe,
Or sorrows secret sigh thy calm destroy;
But may each bosom 'midst thy flow'rs glow,
With love's pure rapture and eternal joy.

TO THE MOON.

AGAIN, sweet melancholy orb of night,
    I hail thy shadows pale and twilight grey;
For now unseen, befriended by thy light,
    I take my lonely solitary way.

I love to watch thee from the mountain steep,
    While mildly glist'ning thro' the passing cloud
Thou brav'st the gales that thro' the forest sweep,
    And gushing torrents fall in murmurs loud.

Pensive I gaze on thy soft placid mien,
    And see thee smile thro' Nature's threat'ning storm;
For ah! again thy beams shall cheer the scene,
    Illume the woods the wild winds may deform.

'Tis thus thro' life the dark clouds hang awhile,
    The tempest scowls and threatens from afar,
Yet will sweet hope thro' dungeon horrors smile,
    Thro' clouds of of sorrow shine, as the bright star
By which the youthful mariner does steer
His homeward course, to meet some partner dear.

ALONZO.

"COLD, cold, is the night dew, and murky the air,
        "Say, Pilgrim, why wand'ring so late?
"Why so haggard thy looks, and so wild grown thy hair,
"Thy eye balls why rolling in phrenzy'd despair,
        "As though long at war with thy fate ?

"Come turn to my cottage; dost see thro' yon trees
        "The smoke as it curls to the skies?
"There long have I dwelt, with no wealth but my bees,
"Or the harp, whose light tones softly sigh to the breeze,
        "As the shadows of Ev'ning arise.

"Vain to me, stranger kind," sad Alonzo reply'd,
        "The shadows of Ev'ning serene,
"Not for me does the day star return in full pride,
"The blossoms of hope round my temples have dy'd,
        "And dreary to me ev'ry scene.

"Forbear to repine," cry'd the silver hair'd sage,
        "The wise think on life like a dream,
"Or the wide restless ocean where storms sometimes rage,
"But soon angry sea gods their vengeance assuage,
        "And the sun gilds the waves with its beam.

"Come press my rush pillow, come taste my plain meal,
        "The streamlet runs close by my door;

"I lov'd fair Matilda, who, fair as the morn
        "When zephyr first woos the young May,
"Whose breath's intermingling perfume the white thorn,
"And quick from their bosoms sweet flow'rets are born,
        "To scatter delights on their way.

"Her heart too was constant and fond as the dove,
        "Who mourns if long absent his mate;
"My wife she became, O soft season of love!
"How quickly thy hours of rapture did move,
        "How soon did they hasten her fate!

"Far, far in the shades my Matilda was bred,
        "But her youth no fond parents did train;
"One brother beloved, by hope of gain led,
"For India's rich shore left his vine cover'd shed,
        "And 'twas said by a savage slain.

"O! luckless the hour, when moonless the night,
        "And darkness o'erspread the wide heav'n,
"Save where the blue light'ning falsh'd wildly its light,

"Ah me! tow'rds the cliff as I hasten'd away,
        "In hopes the poor wretches to save,
"Matilda, distress'd lest too long I should stay,
"Regardless of storm, o'er the rocks found her way,
        "Expos'd to the high dashing wave.

"My cottage forlorn on my hasty return,
        "Bereft of its only delight,
"To seek her my footsteps I quickly did turn,
"And with wild throbbing anguish my bosom did burn,
        "Till my blood became chill'd with affright.

"On the beech by a stranger Matilda reclin'd,
        "I saw him salute her pale cheek.
"This sword through thy heart a quick passage shall find,
"All phrenzy'd I cry'd; O! thou monster unkind,
        "Thy false tongue shall soon cease to speak.

"I saw her fall lifeless, I saw her blood flow
        "In the arms of the stranger so brave;
"And faintly she cry'd, O! thy pardon bestow,
"'Tis Alfred my brother! O! picture of woe,
        "Whom long I believ'd in his grave.

"And why did her brother his vengeance disarm,
        "Or snatch me from self given death?
"On the corse of Matlida why gaz'd he so calm,

"'Twas that attribute sweet, 'twas that earnest of Heav'n,
        "Soft mercy within him did glow,"
"Cry'd the Sage," but in vain; the death blow was giv'n,
Again from Alonzo all reason was driv'n,
        And his sword bade his last blood to flow.

TO A GENTLEMAN

WHO EXPRESSED HIS INTENTION OF RENOUNC-
                                ING POETRY.

AND wilt thou, then, forsake the tuneful Muse,
    In the warm sunshine of life's Summer day?
Thou, who couldst o'er its gloomy paths diffuse
    Th' etherial lustre of illusion's ray.

O! worshipper of Nature, yet return,
    Return, and carol in her roseate bow'rs;
Again, slow loit'ring by the Naiad's urn,
    Trace her soft streamlets, and her silver show'rs.

If mute thy lyre, say, who now shall sing
    The blushing beauties of the budding rose,

Who now the violet shall fondly rear,
    Soft, tender nursling of the silent shade?
Its blue bell, humid with the morning's tear,
    Unsung, will wither in the unsought glade.

No common eye its modest beauties find,
    No common Muse its mysteries declare;
Dear friend, it blooms, the emblem of thy mind,
    Child of thy fancy! offspring of thy care!

Desert it not, nor leave the glowing train
    Of Summer's sweets, or Autumn's yellow fields;
O! what is wealth, O! what is sordid gain,
    To the pure raptures, blooming Nature yields?

Nor yet with common or unconscious gaze
    Didst though great Nature's ample fields explore,
Botanic rapture grac'd the flow'ry maze,
    Fair Science bless'd thee with her magic lore.

No veined leaf of Flora's beauteous tribe,
    No golden cup surcharg'd with glitt'ring dew,
Or purple wild heath, gay in Summer's pride,
    But bade thy mind luxuriate with the view.

Now when the moon shines on thy lonely way,
    And o'er the landscape playful shadows fling,

Say, canst thou leave the clear brook's willowy side,
    To meet th' unmeaning smile in crowded halls ?
And canst thou leave the Muse, and pleas'd preside,
    Where sense oft sickens, and the fancy palls?

O! no, for thee the zephyr mildly blows,
    For thee the sun's beam crimsons o'er the west.,
For thee the torch of fancy's fire glows,
    She kindles rapture in thy ardent breast.

Her flame Promethean do not then resign,
    Let her relume imagination's ray,
That on thy mind its beams again may shine,
    The beams divine of "intellectual day."

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH.

I PLANTED it, I watch'd its birth,
    This beauteous rose bush, from whose thorn
The little birds, with joyful mirth,
    Sing 'neath my window ev'ry morn.

Ah! little birds, your am'rous lay
    In pity sing not from yon tree,
For he who lov'd me far away,
    In distant climes, now roams from me.

For treasures of the western wave,
    He flies from love, and death disdains;
Ah! why the stormy ocean brave
    For pleasures found upon our plains!

LI NES

TO A LADY WHO COMPLAINED OF THE INFIDELITY
                           OF HER LOVER.

AH! sensibility, how many a thorn
Tears the soft bosom, that thy sighs adorn!
Thy tears in showers fall, thy woes are deep,
Doom'd o'er ungrateful man too oft to weep.
Sweet as the dew drop spangles o'er the rose,
Or Zephyr's breath, that o'er the flow'ret blows,
Love softly steals in thy too tender heart,
Stings like the honey'd bee, with venom'd smart,
For which, alas! no healing balm is near,
If false the lover's vow, or feign'd his tear.
Ah! then, fair mourner, since thou'rt doom'd to prove
The bitter pang of hopeless slighted love,

"Own my vast pow'rs, amidst the lengthen'd gloom,
"From their beds of snow, I bid their roses bloom.
"Not does the earth my only care employ;
"In man's strong breast I plant this hope of joy,
"That when his breath shall stop, his pulse shall cease,
"He'll wake in regions of eternal peace,
"Where love no more his happiness destroys,
"Giving deep anguish for some slender joys,
"But where life's cares are hush'd, its sorrows o'er,
"And friend to friend is link'd to part no more."

TO MY RUSH LIGHT.

NOT radiant, as the golden orb of day,
    Nor lucid, as the silv'ry queen of night,
Pale taper, is the gently streaming ray,
    That throws a shadow from thy feeble light.

What though a stranger to the blazon'd room,
    Where proud prosperity its revels keep,
Yet with mild beam thou cheer'st the midnight gloom,
    When the pale suff'rer can in silence weep.

Ah! safely steady, as the friend sincere,
    Who the fine flash of genius never knew,
Yet who from sorrow ne'er withheld his tear,
    Or stung the bosom, to affection true.

THE HOUR WHEN WE SHALL MEET NO MORE.

                                    TO A FRIEND.

CONVULSIVE sighs my bosom swell
    When I the past review,
O! how shall I pronounce farewell,
    How tear myself from you!

I saw affection in thine eye,
    My heart to thine was press'd;
Our souls were mingled in one sigh,
    Ah me! supremely blest!

'Tis time that blights the Summer flow'r,
    And vainly we deplore;
'Tis time, alas! that wings the hour
    When we shall meet no more.

TO A SNOW SCENE.

O! not unpleas'd this scene I view,
    Where ermine snows the trees adorn,
And spangling frost detains the dew
    To gem with icicles the thorn.

I love to mark the chrystal stream
    Arrested in its winding course,
When the red sun with dazzling beam
    Breaks through the mist with splendid force.

What though the hedge with flow'rets gay,
    Profusely wild, delights no more,
Nor roses fair perfume the way,
    Nor woodbines scent the shepherd's door.

Yet Nature's stern and rugged face
    Delights my fancy soaring mind,
For in its icy chains I trace
    The changing lot of human kind.

Like to the adamantine flood,
    Fain would I ev'ry season meet,
In youth adorn and cheer the road,
    In age support the slider's feet.

E'en now, as musing o'er the scene
    Of spotless snow, whose bosom deep

Enshrouds the votive laurels green,
    While Flora and the zephyrs sleep.

I ask of friendship, sweetest flow'r
    That decorates man's thorny way!
To cheer life's Winter with its pow'r,
    As sun beams animate this day.

TO THE MOON.

IF clouds, pale Moon, obscure awhile thy light,
    Silv'ring no more the waters with thy beam,
Yet from the east again with lustre bright,
    Thy image fair will tremble on the stream.

But man, alas! whom want and age oppress,
    Surmounts no more the storm, on life's dark wave
For ever thrown; no light his day can bless,
    Who views—sad lot! his horizon the grave.

THE FIRST DAY OF SPRING, MARCH THE 13th.

SWEET smiling Spring! we hail thy birth;
    Before the fleecy ram receives
The sun's orb, that warms the earth,
    Thy breath salutes the embryo leaves.

The bright blue sky, the budding spray,
    The new fledg'd birds, the bleating sheep,
The fish that in the clear waters play,
    All, all with mirth thy birthday keep.

O! lovely nymph, now with us stay,
    Nor heed the north-east's chilling pow'rs,
The sun will chase his blasts away,
    He will nature mature thy infant flow'rs.

TO A FRIEND.

'TWAS not on life's tumultuous wave
    True happiness I sought,
Nor did I from proud fortune crave
    False pleasures, dearly bought.

I knelt, when hope and youth were new,
    At love's bewitching shrine;
But ah! each wreath to me he threw,
    Did rankling thorns entwine.

No glowing sun their sweets matur'd,
    The sickly blossoms fell;
Indiff'rence ev'ry tint obscur'd,
    And blighted ev'ry bell.

But now on charms that ne'er decay
    My aching heart I rest,
High Heaven's blue arch and spangled way,
    Pale Cynthia's silver crest.

In ev'ry star's translucent ray
    Great Nature's hand I trace,
And in each flow'r, that gems my way,
    A new born hope embrace.

For he who bathes their leaves in dew,
    And does fresh life impart,
I trust, with mercy will review
    The errors of this heart.

LINES

WRITTEN AFTER HAVING BEEN EXPOSED TO A
                                STORM.

SWIFT, and strong, the rain descending,
    To a river swells the brook,
Pity now, the wretch befriending,
    O'er the wild heath throws a look.

Pleas'd to lead some wand'ring stranger
    To her shelter'd calm retreats,
Where secure from storm and danger,
    With gratitude his bosom beats.

Not the sun of Summer glowing,
    Can such vivid warmth impart,
As when mercy soft bestowing,
    Cheers the drooping, aching heart.

IMPROMPTU.

SOFT o'er my faded cheek the vernal gale
    Blows fresh; ah! friendly gale, thou can'st not heal
The pang of disappointment, cold, and pale,
    I feel its influence o'er my bosom steal;
And ah! to me in vain the flow'rs are gay,
And vainly round my brows the zephyrs play.

ON A HARE BELL.

THE Hare Bell trembled in the gale,
    Gemm'd with the morning's silver tear;
Languid it droop'd like sorrow pale,
    No sun beam did its bosom cheer.

Unfeelingly I pluck'd the flow'r,
    While pity's drop stood in its bell;
Poor was the triumph of an hour,
    Too soon its silken beauties fell.

Like Nature's modest simple child,
    Torn from its shades, with streaming eye
It mourn'd its waving woods so wild,
    I cull'd it, but to see it die.

LINES

WRITTEN TO THE PERIWINKLE ON RECEIVING A
     LETTER FROM A FRIEND IN IRELAND, WHO
     SAID SHE SAW ONE IN A GARDEN, AND THOUGHT
     ON ROUSSEAU AND ME.

NOT that thy blue bell emulates the rose
    In perfume sweet, or beauty's vivid dye,
Sweet flower, I love thee, but thy bloom bestows
    A pensive pleasure to the musing eye.

And ah! while sentiment the soul pervades,
    Thou to her children wilt be ever dear!
Rousseau caress'd thee in the silent shades,
    To love and memory thou didst prompt his tear.   [12]

And kinder still, on Erin's fertile plains
    Thou, in the bosom of a friend long lov'd,

Rais'd a soft thought of her, who here complains,
    From her sweet converse, from her sight remov'd.

Say, lovely flow'r, ah! did she kindly speak
    Of happy days, for ever, ever flown?
The trickling tear would glisten on her cheek,
    Did she like me those white wing'd hours mourn.

For I like thee, when droops thy pallid head,
    Faint, and expiring, in the sultry day,
Opress'd, and languid, am with gloom o'erspread,
    Senseless to pleasure, from her sight away.

THE RIVULET.

IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH.

AH! Rivulet, that bath'st this plain,
    How much dost thou resemble me!
In one smooth course thy waters train,
    So I, unalter'd, still must be.

Thy gentle murmurs soothe the ear,
    As gliding on so soft and slow,
My heart thus trembles with love's fear,
    I murmur, but in whispers low.

The azure of thy wave's more pure
    Than all the liquid world beside,
And ah! the ardor I endure
    Is not less pure than thy clear tide.

The winds that burst from Neptune's cave
    Sigh o'er thy peaceful stream in vain,
'Tis thus I cruel fortune brave,
    Nor does my heart of her complain.

Ah! for my tender friend I feel
    The love thou show'st to meadows fair,
O'er which thy gentle waters steal,
    And fertilize, with parent care.

When dear Themira treads thy shore,
    Her form's reflected on thy steam;
Thus does kind Memory restore
    Her image fair in love's soft dream.

Thy bounds prescib'd by Nature's hand,
    With even pace, from crystal urn

Without Themira can I live?
    Ah! on her love depends my peace;
To her each moment will I give,
    Till, chill'd by death, my pulse shall cease.

WRITTEN ON THE SEA COAST.

ROCK! on whose sides the foaming billow breaks,
    Savage retreats to sea fowl only known,
Thy gloom on me sublime impressions makes,
    To me, whom from society have flown,

These sounds have charms; though no melodious note
    Dies with the breeze, thrown from the harp's soft string,
Melting the soul, where love and pity float,
    And tender thoughts to tender bosoms bring.

Yet here vast Nature, on this rocky shore,
    Supremely reigns; nor man's inventive hands
Here dare, to stem the white waves dashing roar,
    Or raise a dwelling on the treach'rous sands.

Some cheek too, here, by faithless friends turn'd pale,
    Has felt the breeze its rosy tints restore,
And woo'd the whispers of the ev'ning gale,
    Resolv'd to trust society no more.

Though rough the wave, though rude the squally wind,
    Yet o'er the trav'ller undusguis'd it blows;
Unlike the world, who veils with accents kind
    The bitter sting that wounds the heart's repose.

O! sea beat shore, I hail thy lonely blast,
    Thy cliffs projecting with wild plants o'erspread,
Pleas'd, if unalter'd by each tempest past,
    I could, like thee, uprear my aching head.

TO NATURE.

HOW bless'd, sweet Nature, are the happy few
Who in thy woods their pleasures pure pursue!
O! what is wealth, O what its boasted charms,
Compar'd with bliss, found only in thine arms?
E'en so when Winter sways with icy pow'r,
From art's forc'd bosom springs the sickly flow'r,
But ah! pale stranger to thy genial sky,
Its scentless beauties half expanded die.

LINES

WRITTEN IN WARDSWORTH'S POEMS.

DEAR book, I love thee, for thy gentle strains
    My hours of weariness do oft beguile,
Dear book, extracting pleasure from my pains,
    To me thou'rt sweet as the departing smile

Of some lov'd friend, who looks into my heart,
    Feels its wild tumult, sees th' unsteady ray
From vivid fancy o'er its raptures dart,
    When poesy unlocks her golden day.

MARIA.

FROM the high vault of spangled, heaven
    The moon's beams trembled wide,
And dove ey'd peace command had giv'n
    To hush the murm'ring tide.

The winds were calm, the trees belov'd
    Hung o'er the glassy stream,
And zephyr only gently mov'd
    The flow'ret's leaf serene.

When up the shelving rock that stands
    High o'er the briny deep,
Maria stray'd with uplift hands,
    And eyes long doom'd to weep.

For she was constant as the star
    Aurora does await,
When forth she rides in golden car,
    To open morning's gate.

"Majestic waves," she fondly cry'd,
     "That lave this lonely shore,
"Then mingle with the waters wide,
    "Perhaps to come no more.

"Your murmurs soft, yout short liv'd stay,
    "Awake a tender pain;

"Thus Henry came, then far away
    "Sail'd on your faithless main.

"False to his vows, ah! should he prove,
    "Where could Maria rest?
"Like some poor bird, she then must rove,
    "Far driven from its nest.

"His picture dear around my neck
    "He on these cliffs did tie,
"'Twas here from off the ship's high deck
    "I heard his parting sigh.

"And yet, hard rocks, unmov'd ye bear
    "The records of his flame,
"Though on your sides with many a tear
     "He trac'd my hapless name.

"And thought my lover, as he view'd
    "Thy sweetly glimm'ring light,
"Would think on vows so oft renew'd
    "Beneath thy lustre bright.

"But all is o'er, and dark despair
    "Has call'd me to her shrine,
"Her cypress wreath I now must wear,
    "Nor flow'rs of hope entwine.

"She whispers thus—"thy Henry's gone,
    "Nor shalt thou see him more,
"On my dark breast thou must bemoan,
    "And there thy love deplore."

THE VISION OF HOPE.    [13]

PENSIVE my mind, my eyes suffus'd in tears
To read the sorrows of thy riper years,
When sordid int'rest led thy steps astray
To climb its thorny steep and rugged way,
To where its lofty domes, and columns high,
In gloomy pomp aspiring to the sky,
Sicken poor Nature's child, who turns away
To catch one sun beam of her cheerful day.
This sad idea fill'd my wand'ring thought,
And I the shelter of her wild groves sought;
When as bright Phœbus his last blushes spread
O'er fleecy clouds, that deck'd his western bed,
I on the mountain saw a form divine,
Around whose brows the woodbine did entwine;

"The Pyrenees, with lofty brow sublime,
"Nod o'er the vale where first he fram'd his rhyme,
"And clad in tears, as Winter's gloomy morn,
"They mourn their minstrel, from their wild heights torn.
"But then flutter with my playful gale,
"And send my musick o'er the expecting vale.
"His shepherdess suspends her trembling sigh,
"As soft I lead her to my cloudless sky;
"Again her blushes rise, her bosom burns,
"To all her charms her **** returns.
"My name is Hope, see round my oak wreath'd head,
"Eternal sunshine does its lustre spread.
"Go say, Maria, thou my form survey'd,
"In Heaven's blue vest, and azur'd tints array'd;
"Go tell the swain thou hast my mirror seen,
"Where stood a cottage on a peaceful green,

"Nor more shall int'rest to its with'ring arms
"Call our lov'd wand'rer from these rural charms.
"'Tis thus, cry'd Hope, 'tis thus his days shall pass."
She smil'd with rapture—and withdrew her glass.
I would reply—she pointed to the skies,
Through clouds of incense did majestic rise.
I prostrate fell as her fair form withdrew,
And pray'd the gods her mirror pictur'd true.

[179]

NOTES.

NOTE I.—SONNET 4.

        "Gives not the pompous alms, but far apart
        From crowded haunts, seeks the retired cell."

    It is not here meant that charity which consists in alms and
public donations, but that kind Philanthropy which teaches us
to forgive injuries, and allow for the failings of our fellow crea-
tures.

NOTE II.—SONNET 7.

         "Where the full grape in sweet luxuriance wild."

    The gentleman to whom this sonnet is addressed is a Biscayan.

NOTE III.—SONNET 11.

    The rose, to which this sonnet is addressed, was gathered in
November, in the garden of the dear friend whose death it de-
plores.

NOTE IV.—SONNET 28.

    Perhaps not any thing could be more picturesque than the
appearance of the moon: she was at her full. As soon as

NOTE V.—SONNET 36.

        "And shrieking from the waves of silver grey."

    The Loon Bird just thrusts its long neck above the water, and hal-
lows like a man shouting at a great distance. See Wansey's Tour
to the United States.

NOTE VI.—SONNET 38.

        "Parent of love and song, luxuriant May."

    O Primavera, gioventù de l'anno
    Bella Madre de' fiori.
                                                                     PASTOR FIDO.

NOTE VII.—SONNET 46.

        "He whom fair sceince fondly taught to roam."

    The amiable and excellent young man to whom this sonnet is
addressed came here to study physick.

NOTE VIII.—MALVINA'S DREAM.—p. 56.

        "It was the voice of my love! few
        Are his visits to the dreams of Malvina!"

    I have heard a voice in my dream, I feel the fluttering of my
soul. Why didst thou come, O blast! from the dark rolling of the
lake? Thy rustling wing was in the trees, the dream of Malvina
departed."
                                                                  OSSIANS POEMS.

NOTE X .—p. 77.

        "Beneath the blue etherial Heaven
        Again thou shalt enjoy its beam."

    The celestial blue of a Southern sky can hardly be conceived
by us Islanders, envelopped in fog and mist.

NOTE XI.—p. 98.

    "Now throng on the beach, wives and mothers, who weep,
    Calls loud to withdraw the full sail."

    I was actually on the beach when this accident happened.
The poor sufferer, too anxious to get his boat first to board a ves-
sel of the West India fleet coming round the South Foreland,
crowded too much sail and was upset. His companions stood on
the boat and was picked up, but he, trusting to his being a good
swimmer, jumped from it into the sea; when suddenly exclaim-
ing, O God! my wife and child! he sunk; nor was the body
found for several days: his wife too witnessed the accident from
the beach.

NOTE XII.—TO THE PERIWINKLE.—p.161.

        "Rousseau caress'd thee in the silent shade,
        To love and mem'ry thou didst prompt his tear."

    En marchant elle vit quelque chose de bleu dans la haie, et

                                                  CONFESSIONS DE ROUSSEAU, Livre 6.

NOTE XIII.—THE VISION OF HOPE.—p. 174.

This poem was written in answer to a very interesting one by
a friend, wherein he laments, that for commercial pursuits he had
left his friends and native home, which was most beautifully si-
tuated in a Hamlet not far distant from the banks of the Adour,
at the foot of the Pyrenean Mountains.

Printed by E. Hemsted, Great New Street,
Fetter Lane.