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And for the past 'day's little errors
On my cheek tears of penitence shed;
By those innocent tears of repentance,

More pure e'en than smiles without sin,
Since they mark with what delicate sentence
Childhood's conscience whispers within;-
By the dear little forms, one by one,

Some in beds closely coupled half sleeping, While the cribb'd infant nestled alone

Whose heads at my coming all peeping, Betrayed that the pulse of each heart

Of my feet's stealing fall knew the speech; While all would not let me depart,

Till the kiss was bestowed upon each;

By the boy who, when walking and musing
And thinking myself quite alone,
Would follow the path I was choosing
And thrust his dear hand in my own;
Joy more welcome because unexpected;—
By all this fond store of delights,
(Which in sullen mood, had I neglected

Every curse with which heaven requites,
Were never sufficient for crushing

A churl so malign and hard-hearted,)
But by the warm tears that are gushing,
As I think of the joys that are parted;
Were ye not as the rays that are twinkling

On the waves of some clear haunted stream?
Were ye not as the stars that are sprinkling
Night's firmament, dark without them?

My forebodings then hear! By each one

Of the dear dreams through which I have travelled,

The cup of enjoyment from none

Can I take, till the spells, one by one, Which have withered ye all, be unravelled.


This is decidedly superior to any ode of Akenside's, and had it appeared among the works of Collins, few persons would have suspected it to be spurious. It is, unquestionably, a very beautiful, though not a faultless poem. The last three lines are objectionable, whether in point of sentiment or merely of phraseology, we will not decide.

When first thine eyes beheld the light
And Nature bursting on thy sight,

Poured on thy beating heart a kindred day:
GENIUS, the fire-eyed child of Fame

Circled thy brows with mystic flame,

And warm with hope pronounced this prophet lay:

"Thee, darling Boy! I give to know
Each viewless source of Joy and Wo,
In thee my vivid visions shall unfold;

Each form that freezes sense to stone,
Each phantom of the world unknown,

Shall flit before thine eyes, and waken thoughts untold.

"The bent of purpose unavowed;

Of Hopes and Fears the wildering crowd;

The incongruous train of wishes undefined;
Shall all be subjected to thee!

The excess of bliss and agony

Shall oft alternate seize thy high attempered mind.

"Oft in the moody summer vale,

When Evening breathes her balmy gale,

Oit by the wild brooks' margin shalt thou rove;
When just above the western line
The clouds with richer radiance shine,
Yellowing the dark tops of the mountain grove.

"There Love's warm hopes thy breast shall fill,
For Nature's charms with kindliest skill

Prepare for Love's delicious ecstasy;

Thy prostrate mind shall sink subdued,
While in a strange fantastic mood,

The wild power fires thy veins and mantles in thine eye!

"For know, where'er my influence dwells,
Each selfish interest it expels,
And wakes each latent energy
Indifference, of the marble mien,
Shall ne'er with lazy spells be seen,

of soul;

To quench th' immortal wish that aims perfections goal.

"These shalt thou burst, whate'er it be

That manacles mortality,

And range through scenes by fleshly feet untrod;

And Inspiration to thine eye

Shail bid futurity be nigh,

And with mysterious power approximate to God."


In a child's voice, is there not melody?

In a child's eye, is there not rapture seen?
And rapture not of passion's revelry;

Calm, though impassioned; durable, though keen!
It is all fresh. like the young spring's first green!
Children seem spirits from above descended,

To whom still cleave Heaven's atmosphere serene;
Their very wildnesses with truth are blended;
Fresh from their skiey mould, they cannot be amended.

Warm and uncalculating, they're more wise,-
More sense that ecstasy of theirs denotes,-
More of the stuff have they of Paradise,

And more the music of the warbling throats
Of choirs whose anthem round th' Eternal floats,
Than all that bards e'er feigned; or tuneful skill
Has e'er struck forth from artificial notes:
Theirs is that language, ignorant of ill,
Born from a perfect harmony of power and will.


Her father lov'd me-oft got drunk with me,
Captain, (he'd cry,) come tell us your adventures,

From year to year, the scrapes, intrigues, and frolics,
That you've been versed in.

I ran them through, from the day I first wore scarlet
To the very hour I tasted his fine claret;

Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chances

Of hair-breadth 'scapes from drunken frays in taverns,
Of being taken by the insolent foe, and lodged in the watch-house,
Of my redemption thence, with all my gallantry at country quar-


When of rope-ladders and of garret windows-
Of scaling garden-walls, lying hid in closets,
It was my hint to speak, (for I love bragging,)
And of the gamblers that each other cheat,
The pawn-brokers that prey on needy soldiers,
When sword or waistcoat's dipt. All these to hear,

His daughter Prue would from a corner lean,

But still to strain the milk, or skim the cream,

Was call'd to the dairy,

Which when she'd done, and cleanly lick'd the spoon,
She'd come again, and sit, with gaping mouth,
And staring eyes, devouring my discourse:-
Which I soon smoaking,

Once seiz'd a lucky hour, and entertained her
With a full history of my adventures;
Of fights in countries where I ne'er had been,
And often made her stare with stupid wonder
When I did talk of leaping from a window,
Or lying hid on tester of a bed.

She gave me for my pains a gloating look:

She swore, ecod 'twas strange, 'twas woundy strange,

'Twas comical, 'twas hugely comical;

"I' fags, you officers are vicked creatures,"

She'd be afraid of me, she vow'd-" and yet

You are so comical and entertaining,
Well, I declare, of all the men on earth,
I like a soldier." On the hint I spoke.
She lov'd me; for the sex loves wicked fellows,
And I lov'd her to get her father's money.




"The Point of Honour! what a pretty name!" Methinks I hear each auditor exclaim; While Fancy roams abroad on airy wing, And each anticipates a different thing. "The Point of Honour!" cries a matron sage, "Honour indeed! in this degenerate age! "Tis Satire surely-some mischievous poet, "Has mark'd our folly and would let us know it. "When I was young-if I remember right, "The point of honour was to be polite, "To act with due decorum, and to speak "With staid demeanour, and with accent meek; "No flippant miss then dar'd the public gaze, "Unless protected by a hoop and stays; "In ample folds the glossy satin fell, "And she who carried most, was most a belle; "Then so discreet their conduct too appear'd,"For pretty maidens then were seen, not heard, "The beaux too, then their wigs and small-swords sported, "Ah! men were men indeed, when I was courted!

"The Point of Honour!" cries a dashing blade, "An author teach a gentleman his trade! "Why curse his impudence! the knave no doubt "Would teach us how to call each other out, "Prescribe the distance, measure out the lead, "And tell the game cocks how they should be fed!"

The younger ladies sit in glad surprise,(I think I see it dancing in their eyes,) "The Point of Honour! I would bet a pair "Of white kid gloves, 'tis full of sweet despair,"Of love and fighting, danger and delight,"Wooing and wonder, frenzy and affright,"A cross old guardian, and a maiden aunt"A gallant lover and a spectre gaunt,—

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