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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
Such melodies as thine, lest I should lose
All memory of the wrongs and sore distress,
For which my miserable brethren weep!
But should uncomforted misfortunes steep
My daily bread in tears and bitterness;
And if at death's dread moment I should lie
With no beloved face at my bed-side,
To fix the last glance of my closing eye,
Methinks, such strains, breathed by my angel-
guide,

Would make me pass the cup of anguish by,

Mix with the blest, nor know that I had died!

ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG MAN OF FORTUNE,

WHO ABANDONED HIMSELF TO AN INDOLENT AND CAUSELESS MELANCHOLY.

HENCE that fantastic wantonness of wo
O youth to partial fortune vainly dear!
To plunder'd want's half-shelter'd hovel go,
Go, and some hunger-bitten infant hear
Moan haply in a dying mother's ear:
Or when the cold and dismal fog-damps brood
O'er the rank churchyard with sere elm leaves
strew'd,

Pace round some widow's grave, whose dearer part
Was slaughter'd, where o'er his uncoffin'd limbs
The flocking flesh-birds scream'd! Then, while
thy heart

Groans, and thine eye a fiercer sorrow dims, Know (and the truth shall kindle thy young mind) What nature makes thee mourn, she bids thee heal! O abject if, to sickly dreams resign'd, All effortless thou leave life's commonweal A prey to tyrants, murderers of mankind.

SONNET.

COMPOSED ON A JOURNEY HOMEWARD; THE AUTHOR HAVING RECEIVED INTELLIGENCE OF THE BIRTH

OF A SON, SEPTEMBER 20, 1796.

OFT o'er my brain does that strange fancy roll Which makes the present (while the flash doth last)

Seem a mere semblance of some unknown past, Mix'd with such feelings, as perplex the soul Self-question'd in her sleep; and some have said

We lived ere yet this robe of flesh we wore. O my sweet baby! when I reach my door, If heavy looks shall tell me thou art dead, (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 reprieve,

While we wept idly o'er thy little bier!

SONNET.

TO A FRIEND WHO ASKED, HOW I FELT WHEN THE NURSE FIRST PRESENTED MY INFANT TO ME.

CHARLES! my slow heart was only sad, when first I scann'd that face of feeble infancy:

For dimly on my thoughtful spirit burst

All I had been, and all my child might be !
But when I saw it on its mother's arm,

And hanging at her bosom (she the while
Bent o'er its features with a tearful smile,)
Then I was thrill'd and melted, and most warm
Impress'd a father's kiss: and all beguiled
Of dark remembrance and presageful fear,
I seem'd to see an angel form appear—
'Twas even thine, beloved woman mild!

So for the mother's sake the child was dear,
And dearer was the mother for the child.

SONNET TO THE RIVER OTTER.

DEAR native brook! wild streamlet of the west!
How many various-fated years have past,
What happy, and what mournful hours, since last
I skimm'd the smooth thin stone along thy breast,
Numbering its light leaps! yet so deep imprest
Sink the sweet scenes of childhood, that mine eyes
I never shut amid the sunny ray,

But straight with all their tints thy waters rise, Thy crossing plank, thy marge with willows gray,

And bedded sand that vein'd with various dyes Gleam'd through thy bright transparence! On my 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!

THE VIRGIN'S CRADLE HYMN.

COPIED FROM A PRINT OF THE VIRGIN IN A
CATHOLIC VILLAGE IN GERMANY.

DORMI, Jesu! Mater ridet,
Quæ tam dulcem somnum videt,
Dormi, Jesu! blandule!

Si non dormis, Mater plorat,
Inter fila cantans orat

Blande, veni, somnule.

ENGLISH.

Sleep, sweet babe! my cares beguiling,
Mother sits beside thee smiling;

Sleep, my darling, tenderly!
If thou sleep not, mother mournfath,
Singing as her wheel she turnetin:
Come, soft slumber, balmily!

* Ην που ημών η ψυχη πριν εν τωδε τω ανθρωπινω είδει γενέσθαι. PLAT in Phadon.

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MELANCHOLY.

A FRAGMENT.

STRETCH'D on a moulder'd abbey's broadest wall,
Where running ivies propp'd the ruins steep-
Her folded arms wrapping her tatter'd pall,
Had melancholy mused herself to sleep.
The fern was press'd beneath her hair,
The dark green adder's tongue was there;
And still as past the flagging sea-gale weak,
The long lank leaf bow'd fluttering o'er her cheek.

That pallid cheek was flush'd: her eager look
Beam'd eloquent in slumber! Inly wrought,
Imperfect sounds her moving lips forsook,

And her bent forehead work'd with troubled thought.

Strange was the dream

A CHRISTMAS CAROL.

THE shepherds went their hasty way,
And found the lowly stable-shed
Where the virgin mother lay:

And now they check'd their eager tread,
For to the babe, that at her bosom clung,
A mother's song the virgin-mother sung.

They told her how a glorious light,
Streaming from a heavenly throng,
Around them shone, suspending night!

While, sweeter than a mother's song,
Blest angels heralded the Saviour's birth,
Glory to God on high! and peace on earth.
She listen'd to the tale divine,

And closer still the babe she press'd;
And while she cried, the babe is mine!
The milk rush'd faster to her breast:
Joy rose within her, like a summer morn;
Peace, peace on earth! the Prince of peace is born.

Thou mother of the Prince of peace,
Poor, simple, and of low estate !
That strife should vanish, battle cease,

O why should this thy soul elate?

Sweet music's loudest note, the poet's story,-
Didst thou ne'er love to hear of fame and glory?

And is not war a youthful king,
A stately hero clad in mail?
Beneath his footsteps laurels spring;

Him earth's majestic monarchs hail

Their friend, their playmate! and his bold bright eye
Coinpels the maiden's love-confessing sigh.

"Tell this in some more courtly scene,
To maids and youths in robes of state!
I am a woman poor and mean,

And therefore is my soul elate.

War is a ruffian, all with guilt defiled,
That from the aged father tears his child!

* A botanical mistake. The plant which the poet here describes is called the hart's tongue.

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
Such melodies as thine, lest I should lose
All memory of the wrongs and sore distress,
For which my miserable brethren weep!
But should uncomforted misfortunes steep
My daily bread in tears and bitterness;
And if at death's dread moment I should lie
With no beloved face at my bed-side,
To fix the last glance of my closing eye,
Methinks, such strains, breathed by my angel-
guide,

Would make me pass the cup of anguish by,

Mix with the blest, nor know that I had died!

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SONNET.

COMPOSED ON A JOURNEY HOMEWARD; THE AUTHOR HAVING RECEIVED INTELLIGENCE OF THE BIRTH

OF A SON, SEPTEMBER 20, 1796.

OFT o'er my brain does that strange fancy roll Which makes the present (while the flash doth last)

Seem a mere semblance of some unknown past, Mix'd with such feelings, as perplex the soul Self-question'd in her sleep; and some have said* We lived ere yet this robe of flesh we wore. O my sweet baby! when I reach my door, If heavy looks shall tell me thou art dead, (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 reprieve,

While we wept idly o'er thy little bier!

SONNET.

TO A FRIEND WHO ASKED, HOW I FELT WHEN THE NURSE FIRST PRESENTED MY INFANT TO ME.

CHARLES! my slow heart was only sad, when first I scann'd that face of feeble infancy:

For dimly on my thoughtful spirit burst

All I had been, and all my child might be! But when I saw it on its mother's arm,

And hanging at her bosom (she the while Bent o'er its features with a tearful smile,) Then I was thrill'd and melted, and most warm Impress'd a father's kiss: and all beguiled Of dark remembrance and presageful fear, I seem'd to see an angel form appear— 'Twas even thine, beloved woman mild!

So for the mother's sake the child was dear, And dearer was the mother for the child.

SONNET TO THE RIVER OTTER.

DEAR native brook! wild streamlet of the west!
How many various-fated years have past,
What happy, and what mournful hours, since last
I skimm'd the smooth thin stone along thy breast,
Numbering its light leaps! yet so deep imprest
Sink the sweet scenes of childhood, that mine eyes
I never shut amid the sunny ray,

But straight with all their tints thy waters rise,
Thy crossing plank, thy marge with willows

gray,

And bedded sand that vein'd with various dyes Gleam'd through thy bright transparence! On my 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!

THE VIRGIN'S CRADLE HYMN. COPIED FROM A PRINT OF THE VIRGIN IN A CATHOLIC VILLAGE IN GERMANY.

DORMI, Jesu! Mater ridet,
Quæ tam dulcem somnum videt,
Dormi, Jesu! blandule!

Si non dormis, Mater plorat,
Inter fila cantans orat

Blande, veni, somnule.

ENGLISH.

Sleep, sweet babe! my cares beguiling,
Mother sits beside thee smiling:

Sleep, my darling, tenderly!
If thou sleep not, mother mourneth,
Singing as her wheel she turneth:
Come, soft slumber, balmily!

* Ην που ημών η ψυχη πριν εν τωδε τω ανθρωπινω είδει γενέσθαι. PLAT. in Phadon.

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ON THE CHRISTENING OF A FRIEND'S

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And such my infant's latest sigh! O tell, rude stone! the passer by, That here the pretty babe doth lie, Death sang to sleep with lullaby.

MELANCHOLY.

A FRAGMENT.

STRETCH'D on a moulder'd abbey's broadest wall,
Where running ivies propp'd the ruins steep-
Her folded arms wrapping her tatter'd pall,
Had melancholy mused herself to sleep.
The fern was press'd beneath her hair,

The dark green adder's tongue* was there;
And still as past the flagging sea-gale weak,
The long lank leaf bow'd fluttering o'er her check.

That pallid cheek was flush'd: her eager look
Beam'd eloquent in slumber! Inly wrought,
Imperfect sounds her moving lips forsook,

And her bent forehead work'd with troubled thought.

Strange was the dream

A CHRISTMAS CAROL.

THE shepherds went their hasty way,
And found the lowly stable-shed
Where the virgin mother lay:

And now they check'd their eager tread,
For to the babe, that at her bosom clung,
A mother's song the virgin-mother sung.

They told her how a glorious light,
Streaming from a heavenly throng,
Around them shone, suspending night!

While, sweeter than a mother's song,
Blest angels heralded the Saviour's birth,
Glory to God on high! and peace on earth.

She listen'd to the tale divine,

And closer still the babe she press'd;
And while she cried, the babe is mine!
The milk rush'd faster to her breast:
Joy rose within her, like a summer morn;
Peace, peace on earth! the Prince of peace is born.

Thou mother of the Prince of peace,
Poor, simple, and of low estate!
That strife should vanish, battle cease,

O why should this thy soul elate?

Sweet music's loudest note, the poet's story,-
Didst thou ne'er love to hear of fame and glory?

And is not war a youthful king,
A stately hero clad in mail?
Beneath his footsteps laurels spring;

Him earth's majestic monarchs hail

Their friend, their playmate! and his bold bright eye Coinpels the maiden's love-confessing sigh.

"Tell this in some more courtly scene, To maids and youths in robes of state! I am a woman poor and mean,

And therefore is my soul elate.

War is a ruffian, all with guilt defiled,
That from the aged father tears his child!

* A botanical mistake. The plant which the poet here describes is called the hart's tongue.

"A murderous fiend, by fiends adored,

He kills the sire and starves the son; The husband kills, and from her board Steals all his widow's toil had won ; Plunders God's world of beauty; rends away All safety from the night, all comfort from the day.

"Then wisely is my soul elate,

That strife should vanish, battle cease:
I'm poor and of a low estate,

The mother of the Prince of peace.
Joy rises in me, like a summer's morn:
Peace, peace on earth! the Prince of peace is born!"

TELL'S BIRTHPLACE.

IMITATED FROM STOLBERG.

MARK this holy chapel well!
The birthplace, this, of William Tell.
Here, where stands God's altar dread,
Stood his parents' marriage bed.

Here first, an infant to her breast,
Him his loving mother prest;
And kiss'd the babe, and bless'd the day,
And pray'd as mothers used to pray:
"Vouchsafe him health, O God, and give
The child, thy servant, still to live!"
But God has destined to do more
Through him, than through an armed power.

God gave him reverence of laws,
Yet stirring blood in freedom's cause-
A spirit to his rocks akin,

The eye of the hawk, and the fire therein!

To nature and to holy writ
Alone did God the boy commit:
Where flash'd and roar'd the torrent, oft
His soul found wings, and soar'd aloft!

The straining oar and chamois chase
Had form'd his limbs to strength and grace:
On wave and wind the boy would toss,
Was great, nor knew how great he was!
He knew not that his chosen hand,
Made strong by God, his native land
Would rescue from the shameful yoke
Of slavery the which he broke !

HUMAN LIFE.

ON THE DENIAL OF IMMORTALITY.

Ir dead, we cease to be; if total gloom

Swallow up life's brief flash for aye, we fare As summer gusts, of sudden birth and doom, Whose sound and motion not alone declare, But are their whole of being! If the breath Be life itself, and not its task and tent, If e'en a soul like Milton's can know death,

O man! thou vessel, purposeless, unmeant, Yet drone-hive strange of phantom purposes ! Surplus of nature's dread activity,

Which, as she gazed on some nigh-finish'd vase, Retreating slow, with meditative pause,

She form'd with restless hands unconsciously! Blank accident! nothing's anomaly!

If rootless thus, thus substanceless thy state, Go, weigh thy dreams, and be thy hopes, thy fears, The counter-weights!-Thy laughter and thy tears Mean but themselves, each fittest to create, And to repay the other! Why rejoices

Thy heart with hollow joy for hollow good? Why cowl thy face beneath the mourner's hood, Why waste thy sighs, and thy lamenting voices, Image of image, ghost of ghostly elf,

That such a thing as thou feel'st warm or cold!
Yet what and whence thy gain if thou withhold
These costless shadows of thy shadowy self?
Be sad! be glad! be neither! seek, or shun!
Thou hast no reason why! Thou canst have none:
Thy being's being is a contradiction.

ELEGY,

IMITATED FROM ONE OF AKENSIDE'S BLANK VERSE

INSCRIPTIONS.

NEAR the lone pile with ivy overspread,

Fast by the rivulet's sleep-persuading sound, Where " sleeps the moonlight" on yon verdant

bed

O humbly press that consecrated ground!

For there does Edmund rest, the learned swain!
And there his spirit most delights to rove:
Young Edmund! famed for each harmonious strain,
And the sore wounds of ill-requited love.

Like some tall tree that spreads its branches wide,
And loads the west wind with its soft perfume,
His manhood blossom'd: till the faithless pride
Of fair Matilda sank him to the tomb.

But soon did righteous Heaven her guilt pursue! Where'er with wilder'd steps she wander'd pale, Still Edmund's image rose to blast her view,

Still Edmund's voice accused her in each gale.

With keen regret, and conscious guilt's alarms,
Amid the pomp of affluence she pined:
Nor all that lured her faith from Edmund's arms
Could lull the wakeful horror of her mind.

Go, traveller! tell the tale with sorrow fraught:
Some tearful maid, perchance, or blooming youth
May hold it in remembrance; and be taught
That riches cannot pay for love or truth.

THE VISIT OF THE GODS.

IMITATED FROM SCHILLER.

NEVER, believe me,

Appear the immortals,

Never alone:

Scarce had I welcomed the sorrow-beguiler, Iacchus but in came boy Cupid the smiler;

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