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And once her both arms suddenly
Round Mary's neck she Aung, And her heart panted, and she felt
The words upon her tongue.
She felt them coming, but no power
Had she the words to smother ; And with a kind of shriek she cried,
“O Christ! you're like your mother!”
So gentle Ellen now no more
Could make this sad house cheery; And Mary's melancholy ways
Drove Edward wild and weary.
Lingering he raised his latch at eve,
Though tired in heart and limb: He loved no other place, and yet
Home was no home to him.
One evening he took up a book,
And nothing in it read; Then nung it down, and groaning, cried,
“O! Heaven ! that I were dead.”
His limbs along the moss, bis bead
Upon a mossy heap,
Might chatter one to sleep.
And was not well in health ;
And talk'd as 'twere by stealth. “ The sun peeps through the close thick leaves,
See, dearest Ellen! see! 'Tis in the leaves, a little sun,
No bigger than your e'e; “ A tiny sun, and it has got
A perfect glory, too;
Round that small orb, so blue."
What colour they might be: Says this, “ They're mostly green;" says that,
“ They're amber-like to me."
Were troubling Edward's rest;
And the thumping in his breast.
Did Edward mutter plain ;
With horror and huge pain.
What thoughts were in his mind;
That hath been just struck blind. He sat upright; and ere the dream
Had had time to depart, “O God, forgive me!” he exclaim'd,
“ I have torn out her heart."
Mary look'd up into his face,
And nothing to him said ; She tried to smile, and on his arm
Mournfully leand her head.
And he burst into tears, and fell
Upon his knees in prayer; “ Her heart is broke! O God! my grief,
It is too great to bear!”
'Twas such a foggy time as makes
Old sextons, sir! like me, Rest on their spades to cough; the spring
Was late uncommonly.
And then the hot days, all at once,
They came, we knew not how; You look'd about for shade, when scarce
A leaf was on a bough.
It happen'd then, ('twas in the bower
A furlong up the wood; Perhaps you know the place, and yet
I scarce know how you should,) No path leads thither, 'tis not nigh
To any pasture plot; But cluster'd near the chattering brook,
Lone hollies mark'd the spot.
Then Ellen shriek'd, and forth with burst
Into ungentle laughter;
And never she smiled after. Carmen reliquum in futurum tempus relegatum. To morrow! and lo-torrow! and to-morrow !
Those hollies of themselves a shape
As of an arbour took, A close, round arbour ; and it stands
Not three strides from a brook.
Within this arbour, which was sti:)
With scarlet berries hung, Were these three friends, one Sunday morn,
Just as the first bell rung.
Late, late yestreen, I saw the new Moon,
Ballad of Sir Patrick Spens.
'Tis sweet to hear a brook, 'tis sweet
To hear the Sabbath bell, 'Tis sweet to hear them both at once,
Deep in a woody dell.
1. WELL! if the bard was weather-wise, who made
The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence,
This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade
Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes, What, and wherein it doth exist,
This beautiful, and beauty-making power.
Joy, virtuous lady! Joy that ne'er was given, For lo! the new moon winter-bright!
Save to the pure, and in their purest hour, And overspread with phantom light,
Life, and life's effluence, cloud at once and shower, (With swimming phantom light o’erspread, Joy, lady! is the spirit and the power,
But rimm'd and circled by a silver thread,) Which wedding nature to us gives in dower, I see the old moon in her lap, foretelling
A new earth and new heaven, The coming on of rain and squally blast. Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud; And 0! that even now the gust were swelling, Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud
And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast! We in ourselves rejoice! Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight, they awed,
All melodies the echoes of that voice,
All colours a suffusion from that light.
There was a time when, though my path was II.
rough, A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear, This joy within me dallied with distress, A stifled, drowsy, unimpassion'd grief,
And all misfortunes were but as the stuff Which finds no natural outlet, no relief,
Whence fancy made me dreams of happiness: In word, or sigh, or tear
For hope grew round me, like the twining vine, O lady! in this wan and heartless mood,
And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seem'd mine. To other thoughts by yonder throstle wood, But now afflictions bow me down to earth;
All this long eve, so balmy and serene, Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth. Have I been gazing on the western sky,
But 0! each visitation
Suspends what nature gave me at my birth,
But to be still and patient, all I can;
And haply by abstruse research to steal Now sparkling, now bedimind, but always seen : From my own nature all the natural manYon crescent moon, as fix'd as if it grew
This was my sole resource, my only plan; In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue;
Till that which suits a part infects the whole, I see them all so excellently fair,
And now is almost grown the habit of my soul. I see, not feel, how beautiful they are !
Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind, My genial spirits fail,
Reality's dark dream! And what can these avail
I turn from you, and listen to the wind, To lift the smothering weight from off my breast ? Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream It were a vain endeavour,
Of agony by torture lengthen’d out Though I should gaze for ever
That lute sent forth! Thou wind, that ravest On that green light that lingers in the west:
without, I may not hope from outward forms to win
Bare crag, or mountain tairn," or blasted tree, The passion and the life, whose fountains are Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb, within.
Or lonely house, long held the witches' home,
Methinks were fitter instruments for thee,
Mad lutanist! who in this month of showers, O lady! we receive but what we give,
Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping flowers, And in our life alone does nature live:
Makest devils' yule, with worse than wintry song, Ours is her wedding garment, ours her shroud ! The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among.
And would we aught behold, of higher worth, Thou actor, perfect in all tragic sounds! Than that inanimate cold world allow'd
Thou mighty poet, e'en to frenzy bold ! To the poor, loveless, ever-anxious crowd,
What tell’st thou now about? Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth,
'Tis of the rushing of a host in rout, A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud
With groans of trampled men, with smarting Enveloping the earth
woundsAnd from the soul itself must there be sent At once they groan with pain, and shudder with A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth,
the cold ! Of all sweet sounds the life and element !
* Tairn is a small lake, generally, if not always, applied to the lakes up in the mountains, and which are the
feeders of those in the valleys. This address to the storm O pure of heart ! thou need'st not ask of me
wind will not appear extravagant to those who have heard What this strong music in the soul may be ! it at night, and in a mountainous country.
But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence ! And yet, free nature's uncorrupted child,
And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd, You hail'd the chapel and the platform wild, With groans, and tremulous shudderings—all is Where once the Austrian fell
Beneath the shaft of Tell!
Whence learnt you that heroic measure ?
There crowd your finely-fibred frame,
All living faculties of bliss;
And genius to your cradle came,
His forehead wreathed with lambent flame,
And bending low, with godlike kiss And now moans low in bitter grief and fear,
Breathed in a more celestial life; And now screams loud, and hopes to make her But boasts not many a fair compeer
A heart as sensitive to joy and fear; mother hear.
And some, perchance, might wage an equal strife, VIII.
Some few, to nobler being wrought, 'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep:
Co-rivals in the nobler gift of thought. Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep!
Yet these delight to celebrate
Laurell'd war and plumy state ;
Or in verse and music dress
Tales of rustic happiness
Pernicious tales ! insidious strains !
That steel the rich man's breast,
And mock the lot unblest,
The sordid vices and the abject pains,
Which evermore must be
The doom of ignorance and penury! O simple spirit, guided from above,
But you, free nature's uncorrupted child, Dear lady! friend devoutest of my choice,
You hail'd the chapel and the platform wild, Thus may'st thou ever, evermore rejoice.
Where once the Austrian fell
Beneath the shast of Tell!
Where learnt you that heroic measure ?
You were a mother! That most holy name,
Which heaven and nature bless,
I may not vilely prostitute to those
Than the poor caterpillar owes
Its gaudy parent fly.
You were a mother! at your bosom sed
The babes that loved you. You, with laughing eye, With well-strung arm, that first preserved his child,
Each twilight thought, each nascent feeling read,
Which you yourself created. 0! delight!
Without the mother's bitter groans:
Another thought, and yet another,
By touch or taste, by looks or tones
O’er the growing sense to roll,
The mother of your infant's soul!
The angel of the earth, who, while he guides
All trembling gazes on the eye of God,
Blest intuitions and communions fleet
With living nature, in her joys and woes! Obeisance, praises soothed your infant heart:
Thenceforth your soul rejoiced see Emblazonments and old ancestral crests
The shrine of social liberty! With many a bright obtrusive form of art,
O beautiful ! O nature's child ! Detain'd your eye from nature: stately vests, 'Twas thence you hail'd the platform wild, That veiling strove to deck your charms divine,
Where once the Austrian fell
Beneath the shaft of Tell !
Thence learnt you that heroic measure.
Now lead, now follow: the glad landscape round, ODE TO TRANQUILLITY. le
Wide and more wide, increasing without bound! PLS TRANQUILLITY! thou better name Than all the family of fame!
O then 'twere loveliest sympathy, to mark D. Thou ne'er wilt leave my riper age
The berries of the half uprooted ash te To low intrigue, or factious rage;
Dripping and bright; and list the torrent's dash,For O! dear child of thoughtful truth,
Beneath the cypress, or the yew more dark, To thee I gave my early youth,
Seated at ease, on some smooth mossy rock; ad left the bark, and blest the steadfast shore, In social silence now, and now t’unlock e yet the tempest rose and scared me with its The treasured heart; arm link'd in friendly arm, roar.
Save is the one, his muse's witching charm
Muttering brow-bent, at unwatch'd distance lag; Who late and lingering seeks thy shrine,
Till high o’erhead his beckoning friend appears, On him but seldom, power divine,
And from the forehead of the topmost crag
Shouts eagerly: for haply there uprears
That shadowing pine its old romantic limbs,
Which latest shall detain th' enamour'd sight And dire remembrance interlope,
Seen from below, when eve the valley dims, 13 to vex the feverish slumbers of the mind :
Tinged yellow with the rich departing light; G? 'he bubble floats before, the spectre stalks behind. And haply, basind in some unsunn’d cleft,
A beauteous spring, the rock's collected tears, But me thy gentle hand will lead
Sleeps shelter'd there, scarce wrinkled by the gale! At morning through th’accustom'd mead; Together thus, the world's vain turmoil lest, And in the sultry summer's heat
Stretch'd on the crag, and shadow'd by the pine, Will build me up a mossy seat;
And bending o'er the clear delicious fount, And when the gust of autumn crowds
Ah! dearest youth! it were a lot divine And breaks the busy moonlight clouds, To cheat our noons in moralizing mood, Thou best the thought canst raise, the heart attune, While west winds fann'd our temples toil-bedew'd: Light as the busy clouds, calm as the gliding moon. Then downwards slope, oft pausing, from the
mount, I The feeling heart, the searching soul,
To some lone mansion, in some woody dale,
Where smiling with blue domestic bliss
Gives this the husband's, that the brother's kiss !
Thus rudely versed in allegoric lore, The present works of present man
The hill of knowledge I essay'd to trace ;
To glad and fertilize the subject plains;
And many a fancy-blest and holy sod,
Where inspiration, his diviner strains
Low murmuring, lay; and starting from the rocks ON HIS PROPOSING TO DOMESTICATE WITH THE
Stiff evergreens, whose spreading foliage mocks
Want's barren soil, and the bleak frosts of age, COMPOSED IN 1796.
And bigotry's mad fire-invoking rage ! A MOUNT, not wearisome and bare and steep,
But a green mountain variously up-piled, O meek retiring spirit! we will climb, Where o'er the jutting rocks soft mosses creep, Cheering and cheer'd, this lovely hill sublime; Or colour'd lichens with slow oozing weep;
And from the stirring world uplifted high, Where cypress and the darker yew start wild; (Whose noises, faintly wafted on the wind, And 'mid the summer torrent's gentle dash To quiet musings shall attune the mind, Dance brightend the red clusters of the ash;
And oft the melancholy theme supply,) Beneath whose boughs, by those still sounds be- There, while the prospect through the gazıng guiled,
eye Calm pensiveness might muse herself to sleep; Pours all its healthful greenness on the soul, Till haply startled by some fleecy dam,
We'll smile at wealth, and learn to smile at fame, That rustling on the bushy clist above,
Our hopes, our knowledge, and our joys the same, With melanchcly bleat of anxious love,
As neighbouring fountains image, each the Made meek inquiry for her wandering lamb.
whole : Such a green mountain 'twere most sweet to Then, when the mind hath drunk its hill of truth, climb,
We'll discipline the heart to pure delight, E’en while the bosom ached with loneliness- Rekindling sober joy's domestic flame. How more than sweet, if some dear friend should They whom I love shall love thee. Honour'd bless
youth! Th’adventurous toil, and up the path sublime Now may leaven realize this vision bright!
LINES TO W. L., ESQ.,
WHILE HE SANG A SONG TO PURCELL'S MUSIC.
While my young cheek retains its healthful hues,
And I have many friends who hold me dear;
L-! methinks, I would not often hear
For which my miserable brethren weep!
But should uncomforted misfortunes steep
With no beloved face at my bed-side,
Mix with the blest, nor know that I had died !
COMPOSED ON A JOURNEY HOMEWARD; THE AUTHOR
HAVING RECEIVED INTELLIGENCE OF THE BIRTH
OF A SON, SEPTEMBER 20, 1796.
We lived ere yet this robe of flesh we wore.
O my sweet baby! when I reach my door,
(As sometimes, through excess of hope, I fear,) I think that I should struggle to believe
Thou wert a spirit, to this nether sphere Sentenced for some more venial crime to grieve; Didst scream,
then spring to meet Heaven's quick
ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG MAN OF FOR
WHO ABANDONED HIMSELF TO AN INDOLENT AND
TO A FRIEND WHO ASKED, HOW I FELT WHEN THE HENCE that fantastic wantonness of wo
NURSE FIRST PRESENTED MY INFANT TO ME. O youth to partial fortune vainly dear!
CHARLES! my slow heart was only sad, when first To plunder'd want's half-shelter'd hovel go,
I scann'd that face of feeble infancy: Go, and some hunger-bitten infant hear
For dimly on my thoughtful spirit burst
All I had been, and all my child might be !
And hanging at her bosom (she the while
Bent o’er its features with a tearful smile,) Pace round some widow's grave, whose dearer part Then I was thrill'd and melted, and most warm Was slaughter'd, where o'er his uncoffin'd limbs
Impress'd a father's kiss: and all beguiled The flocking flesh-birds scream'd! Then, while
Of dark remembrance and presageful fear, thy heart
I seemd to see an angel form appearGroans, and thine eye a fiercer sorrow dims,
'Twas even thine, beloved woman mild! Know (and the truth shall kindle thy young mind)
So for the mother's sake the child was dear, What nature makes thee mourn, she bids thee heal!
And dearer was the mother for the child.
THE VIRGIN'S CRADLE HYMN.
COPIED FROM A PRINT OF THE VIRGIN IN A
CATHOLIC VILLAGE IN GERMANY.
SONNET TO THE RIVER OTTER.
DORMI, Jesu! Mater ridet,
Dormi, Jesu! blandule!
Blande, veni, somnule.
DEAR native brook! wild streamlet of the west!
How many various-fated years have past,
What happy, and what mournful hours, since last
I never shut amid the sunny ray,
way, Visions of childhood! oft have ye beguiled Lone manhood's cares, yet waking fondest sighs:
Ah! that once more I were a careless child!
Sleep, sweet babe! my cares beguiling,
Sleep, my darling, tenderly!
Come, soft slumber, balmily!
* Ην που ημων η ψυχη πριν εν τωδε τω ανθρωπινω ειδει γενεσθαι.
PLAT'. in Pradan.