Where sat its honoured mistress, and with smile
Of love indulgent, from a floral pile
The gayest glory of the summer bower
Culled for the new-arrived-the human flower,
A lovely infant-girl, who pensive stood
Close to her knees, and charmed us as we viewed.

O hast thou marked the summer's budded rose,
When 'mid the veiling moss its crimson glows!
So bloomed the beauty of that fairy form,
So her dark locks, with golden tinges warm,
Played round the timid curve of that white neck,
And sweetly shaded half her blushing cheek.
O! hast thou seen the star of eve on high,
Through the soft dusk of summer's balmy sky
Shed its green light, and in the glassy stream
Eye the mild reflex of its trembling beam?
So looked on us with tender, bashful gaze,
The destined charmer of our youthful days;
Whose soul its native elevation joined
To the gay wildness of the infant mind;
Esteem and sacred confidence impressed,
While our fond arms the beauteous child caressed.

Song.

[From Mrs Hunter's Poems.]

The season comes when first we met,
But you return no more;
Why cannot I the days forget,

Which time can ne'er restore?
O days too sweet, too bright to last,
Are you indeed for ever past?
The fleeting shadows of delight,
In memory I trace;

In fancy stop their rapid flight,
And all the past replace:
But, ah! I wake to endless woes,
And tears the fading visions close!

Song.

[From the same.]

O tuneful voice! I still deplore

Those accents which, though heard no more,
Still vibrate on my heart;
In echo's cave I long to dwell,
And still would hear the sad farewell,
When we were doomed to part.
Bright eyes, O that the task were mine
To guard the liquid fires that shine,

And round your orbits play;
To watch them with a vestal's care,
And feed with smiles a light so fair,
That it may ne'er decay!

The Death Song, Written for, and Adapted to, an
Original Indian Air.

[From the same.]

The sun sets in night, and the stars shun the day,
But glory remains when their lights fade away.
Begin, you tormentors! your threats are in vain,
For the son of Alknomook will never complain.
Remember the arrows he shot from his bow,
Remember your chiefs by his hatchet laid low.
Why so slow? Do you wait till I shrink from the
pain?

No; the son of Alknomook shall never complain.
Remember the wood where in ambush we lay,
And the scalps which we bore from your nation away.
Now the flame rises fast; you exult in my pain;
But the son of Alknomook can never complain.

1 The lustre of the brightest of the stars (says Miss Seward,

In a note on her ninety-third sonnet) always appeared to me of a green hue; and they are so described by Ossian.

I go to the land where my father is gone,
His ghost shall rejoice in the fame of his son;
Death comes, like a friend, to relieve me from pain;
And thy son, O Alknomook! has scorned to complain.

To my Daughter, on being Separated from her on her
Marriage.

[From the same.]

Dear to my heart as life's warm stream
Which animates this mortal clay,
For thee I court the waking dream,

And deck with smiles the future day;
And thus beguile the present pain
With hopes that we shall meet again.
Yet, will it be as when the past
Twined every joy, and care, and thought,
And o'er our minds one mantle cast

Of kind affections finely wrought?
Ah no! the groundless hope were vain,
For so we ne'er can meet again!
May he who claims thy tender heart
Deserve its love, as I have done!
For, kind and gentle as thou art,

If so beloved, thou'rt fairly won.
Bright may the sacred torch remain,
And cheer thee till we meet again!

The Lot of Thousands.

[From the same.]
When hope lies dead within the heart,
By secret sorrow close concealed,
We shrink lest looks or words impart
What must not be revealed.

"Tis hard to smile when one would weep;
To speak when one would silent be;
To wake when one should wish to sleep,
And wake to agony.

Yet such the lot by thousands cast

Who wander in this world of care,
And bend beneath the bitter blast,
To save them from despair.
But nature waits her guests to greet,

Where disappointment cannot come;
And time guides with unerring feet
The weary wanderers home.

The Orphan Boy's Tale.
[From Mrs Opie's Poems.]

Stay, lady, stay, for mercy's sake,
And hear a helpless orphan's tale,
Ah! sure my looks must pity wake,
'Tis want that makes my cheek so pale.
Yet I was once a mother's pride,

And my brave father's hope and joy;
But in the Nile's proud fight he died,
And I am now an orphan boy.
Poor foolish child! how pleased was I

When news of Nelson's victory came,
Along the crowded streets to fly,

And see the lighted windows flame! To force me home my mother sought, She could not bear to see my joy ; For with my father's life 'twas bought, And made me a poor orphan boy. The people's shouts were long and loud,

My mother, shuddering, closed her ears; 'Rejoice! rejoice!' still cried the crowd; My mother answered with her tears. 'Why are you crying thus,' said I,

While others laugh and shout with joy?' She kissed me and with such a sigh! She called me her poor orphan boy.

'What is an orphan boy?' I cried,
As in her face I looked, and smiled;
My mother through her tears replied,

You'll know too soon, ill-fated child!'
And now they've tolled my mother's knell,
And I'm no more a parent's joy;
O lady, I have learned too well
What 'tis to be an orphan boy!
Oh! were I by your bounty fed!
Nay, gentle lady, do not chide-
Trust me, I mean to earn my bread;
The sailor's orphan boy has pride.
Lady, you weep-ha?-this to me?
You'll give me clothing, food, employ?
Look down, dear parents! look, and see
Your happy, happy orphan boy!

Song.

[From the same.]

Go, youth beloved, in distant glades
New friends, new hopes, new joys to find!
Yet sometimes deign, 'midst fairer maids,
To think on her thou leav'st behind.
Thy love, thy fate, dear youth, to share,
Must never be my happy lot;
But thou mayst grant this humble prayer,
Forget me not! forget me not!

Yet, should the thought of my distress
Too painful to thy feelings be,
Heed not the wish I now express,
Nor ever deign to think on me:
But oh! if grief thy steps attend,
If want, if sickness be thy lot,
And thou require a soothing friend,
Forget me not! forget me not!

[On a Sprig of Heath.]

[From Mrs Grant's Poems.]

Flower of the waste! the heath-fowl shuns
For thee the brake and tangled wood-
To thy protecting shade she runs,

Thy tender buds supply her food;
Her young forsake her downy plumes,
To rest upon thy opening blooms.
Flower of the desert though thou art!
The deer that range the mountain free,
The graceful doe, the stately hart,

Their food and shelter seek from thee;
The bee thy earliest blossom greets,
And draws from thee her choicest sweets.
Gem of the heath! whose modest bloom
Sheds beauty o'er the lonely moor;
Though thou dispense no rich perfume,
Nor yet with splendid tints allure,
Both valour's crest and beauty's bower
Oft hast thou decked, a favourite flower.
Flower of the wild! whose purple glow
Adorns the dusky mountain's side,
Not the gay hues of Iris' bow,

Nor garden's artful varied pride,
With all its wealth of sweets could cheer,
Like thee, the hardy mountaineer.

Flower of his heart! thy fragrance mild

Of peace and freedom seem to breathe;

To pluck thy blossoms in the wild,

And deck his bonnet with the wreath,
Where dwelt of old his rustic sires,
Is all his simple wish requires.

A writer in the Edinburgh Review styles this production

of Mrs Opie's one of the finest songs in our language.

Flower of his dear-loved native land!
Alas, when distant far more dear!
When he from some cold foreign strand,
Looks homeward through the blinding tear,
How must his aching heart deplore,
That home and thee he sees no more!

[The Highland Poor.]

[From Mrs Grant's poem of The Highlander."]
Where yonder ridgy mountains bound the scene,
The narrow opening glens that intervene
Still shelter, in some lowly nook obscure,
One poorer than the rest-where all are poor;
Some widowed matron, hopeless of relief,
Who to her secret breast confines her grief; .
Dejected sighs the wintry night away,
And lonely muses all the summer day:
Her gallant sons, who, smit with honour's charms,
Pursued the phantom Fame through war's alarms,
Return no more; stretched on Hindostan's plain,
Or sunk beneath the unfathomable main;
In vain her eyes the watery waste explore
For heroes-fated to return no more!
Let others bless the morning's reddening beam,
Foe to her peace-it breaks the illusive dream
That, in their prime of manly bloom confest,
Restored the long-lost warriors to her breast;
And as they strove, with smiles of filial love,
Their widowed parent's anguish to remove,
Through her small casement broke the intrusive day,
And chased the pleasing images away!
No time can e'er her banished joys restore,
For ah! a heart once broken heals no more.
The dewy beams that gleam from pity's eye,
The 'still small voice of sacred sympathy,
In vain the mourner's sorrows would beguile,
Or steal from weary wo one languid smile;
Yet what they can they do-the scanty store,
So often opened for the wandering poor,
To her each cottager complacent deals,
While the kind glance the melting heart reveals;
And still, when evening streaks the west with gold,
The milky tribute from the lowing fold
With cheerful haste officious children bring,
And every smiling flower that decks the spring:
Ah! little know the fond attentive train,
That spring and flowerets smile for her in vain :
Yet hence they learn to reverence modest wo,
And of their little all a part bestow.

Let those to wealth and proud distinction born,
With the cold glance of insolence and scorn
Regard the suppliant wretch, and harshly grieve
The bleeding heart their bounty would relieve:
Far, different these; while from a bounteous heart
With the poor sufferer they divide a part;
Humbly they own that all they have is given
A boon precarious from indulgent Heaven:
And the next blighted crop or frosty spring,
Themselves to equal indigence may bring.

[From Mrs Tighe's 'Psyche.']

[The marriage of Cupid and Psyche in the Palace of Love. Psyche afterwards gazes on Love while asleep, and is banished from the Island of Pleasure.]

She rose, and all enchanted gazed
On the rare beauties of the pleasant scene:
Conspicuous far, a lofty palace blazed
Upon a sloping bank of softest green;
A fairer edifice was never seen;

The high-ranged columns own no mortal hand,
But seem a temple meet for Beauty's queen;
Like polished snow the marble pillars stand,
In grace-attempered majesty, sublimely grand.

Gently ascending from a silvery flood, Above the palace rose the shaded hill, The lofty eminence was crowned with wood, And the rich lawns, adorned by nature's skill, The passing breezes with their odours fill; Here ever-blooming groves of orange glow, And here all flowers, which from their leaves distil Ambrosial dew, in sweet succession blow, And trees of matchless size a fragrant shade bestow. The sun looks glorious 'mid a sky serene, And bids bright lustre sparkle o'er the tide ; The clear blue ocean at a distance seen, Bounds the gay landscape on the western side, While closing round it with majestic pride, The lofty rocks mid citron groves arise; 'Sure some divinity must here reside,'

As tranced in some bright vision, Psyche cries, And scarce believes the bliss, or trusts her charmed eyes. When lo a voice divinely sweet she hears, From unseen lips proceeds the heavenly sound; 'Psyche approach, dismiss thy timid fears,

At length his bride thy longing spouse has found, And bids for thee immortal joys abound; For thee the palace rose at his command, For thee his love a bridal banquet crowned; He bids attendant nymphs around thee stand, Prompt every wish to serve-a fond obedient band.' Increasing wonder filled her ravished soul, For now the pompous portals opened wide, There, pausing oft, with timid foot she stole Through halls high-domed, enriched with sculptured pride,

While gay saloons appeared on either side, In splendid vista opening to her sight; And all with precious gems so beautified, And furnished with such exquisite delight, That scarce the beams of heaven emit such lustre bright. The amethyst was there of violet hue, And there the topaz shed its golden ray, The chrysoberyl, and the sapphire blue As the clear azure of a sunny day,

Or the mild eyes where amorous glances play; The snow-white jasper, and the opal's flame, The blushing ruby, and the agate gray, And there the gem which bears his luckless name Whose death, by Phoebus mourned, insured him death

less fame.

There the green emerald, there cornelians glow,
And rich carbuncles pour eternal light,
With all that India and Peru can show,
Or Labrador can give so flaming bright
To the charmed mariner's half-dazzled sight:
The coral-paved baths with diamonds blaze;
And all that can the female heart delight
Of fair attire, the last recess displays,
And all that luxury can ask, her eye surveys.

Now through the hall melodious music stole,
And self-prepared the splendid banquet stands,
Self-poured the nectar sparkles in the bowl,
The lute and viol, touched by unseen hands,
Aid the soft voices of the choral bands;
O'er the full board a brighter lustre beams
Than Persia's monarch at his feast commands:
For sweet refreshment all inviting seems

To taste celestial food, and pure ambrosial streams.
But when meek eve hung out her dewy star,
And gently veiled with gradual hand the sky,
Lo! the bright folding doors retiring far,
Display to Psyche's captivated eye
All that voluptuous ease could e'er supply
To soothe the spirits in serene repose:
Beneath the velvet's purple canopy,
Divinely formed, a downy couch arose,
While alabaster lamps a milky light disclose.

Once more she hears the hymeneal strain; Far other voices now attune the lay; The swelling sounds approach, awhile remain, And then retiring, faint dissolved away; The expiring lamps emit a feebler ray, And soon in fragrant death extinguished lie: Then virgin terrors Psyche's soul dismay, When through the obscuring gloom she nought can spy, But softly rustling sounds declare some being nigh.

Oh, you for whom I write! whose hearts can melt
At the soft thrilling voice whose power you prove,
You know what charm, unutterably felt,
Attends the unexpected voice of love:
Above the lyre, the lute's soft notes above,
With sweet enchantment to the soul it steals,
And bears it to Elysium's happy grove;
You best can tell the rapture Psyche feels,
When Love's ambrosial lip the vows of Hymen seals.
"Tis he, 'tis my deliverer! deep imprest
Upon my heart those sounds I well recall,'
The blushing maid exclaimed, and on his breast
A tear of trembling ecstacy let fall.
But, ere the breezes of the morning call
Aurora from her purple, humid bed,
Psyche in vain explores the vacant hall;
Her tender lover from her arms is fled,
While sleep his downy wings had o'er her eyelids
spread.

Illumined bright now shines the splendid dome,
Melodious accents her arrival hail:

But not the torch's blaze can chase the gloom,
And all the soothing powers of music fail;
Trembling she seeks her couch with horror pale,
But first a lamp conceals in secret shade,
While unknown terrors all her soul assail.
Thus half their treacherous counsel is obeyed,

For still her gentle soul abhors the murderous blade.

And now with softest whispers of delight, Love welcomes Psyche still more fondly dear; Not unobserved, though hid in deepest night, The silent anguish of her secret fear. He thinks that tenderness excites the tear, By the late image of her parent's grief, And half offended seeks in vain to cheer; Yet, while he speaks, her sorrows feel relief, Too soon more keen to sting from this suspension brief! Allowed to settle on celestial eyes,

Soft sleep, exulting, now exerts his sway, From Psyche's anxious pillow gladly flies To veil those orbs, whose pure and lambent ray The powers of heaven submissively obey. Trembling and breathless then she softly rose, And seized the lamp, where it obscurely lay, With hand too rashly daring to disclose The sacred veil which hung mysterious o'er her woes. Twice, as with agitated step she went,

The lamp expiring shone with doubtful gleam, As though it warned her from her rash intent: And twice she paused, and on its trembling beam Gazed with suspended breath, while voices seem With murmuring sound along the roof to sigh; As one just waking from a troublous dream, With palpitating heart and straining eye, Still fixed with fear remains, still thinks the danger nigh

Oh, daring Muse! wilt thou indeed essay To paint the wonders which that lamp could show! And canst thou hope in living words to say The dazzling glories of that heavenly view! Ah! well I ween, that if with pencil true That splendid vision could be well expressed, The fearful awe imprudent Psyche knew Would seize with rapture every wondering breast, When Love's all-potent charms divinely stood confessed.

All imperceptible to human touch,

His wings display celestial essence light;
The clear effulgence of the blaze is such,
The brilliant plumage shines so heavenly bright,
That mortal eyes turn dazzled from the sight;
A youth he seems in manhood's freshest years;
Round his fair neck, as clinging with delight,
Each golden curl resplendently appears,

Or shades his darker brow, which grace majestic wears:

Or o'er his guileless front the ringlets bright
Their rays of sunny lustre seem to throw,
That front than polished ivory more white!
His blooming cheeks with deeper blushes glow
Than roses scattered o'er a bed of snow:
While on his lips, distilled in balmy dews,
(Those lips divine, that even in silence know
The heart to touch), persuasion to infuse,
Still hangs a rosy charm that never vainly sues.
The friendly curtain of indulgent sleep
Disclosed not yet his eyes' resistless sway,
But from their silky veil there seemed to peep
Some brilliant glances with a softened ray,
Which o'er his features exquisitely play,
And all his polished limbs suffuse with light.
Thus through some narrow space the azure day,
Sudden its cheerful rays diffusing bright,

Wide darts its lucid beams, to gild the brow of night.
His fatal arrows and celestial bow
Beside the couch were negligently thrown,
Nor needs the god his dazzling arms to show
His glorious birth; such beauty round him shone
As sure could spring from Beauty's self alone;
The bloom which glowed o'er all of soft desire
Could well proclaim him Beauty's cherished son:
And Beauty's self will oft those charms admire,
And steal his witching smile, his glance's living fire.
Speechless with awe, in transport strangely lost,
Long Psyche stood with fixed adoring eye;
Her limbs immovable, her senses tossed
Between amazement, fear, and ecstacy,
She hangs enamoured o'er the deity.

Till from her trembling hand extinguished falls
The fatal lamp-he starts-and suddenly
Tremendous thunders echo through the halls,
While ruin's hideous crash bursts o'er the affrighted
walls.

Dread horror seizes on her sinking heart, A mortal chillness shudders at her breast, Her soul shrinks fainting from death's icy dart, The groan scarce uttered dies but half expressed, And down she sinks in deadly swoon oppressed: But when at length, awaking from her trance, The terrors of her fate stand all confessed, In vain she casts around her timid glance; The rudely frowning scenes her former joys enhance.

No traces of those joys, alas, remain! A desert solitude alone appears; No verdant shade relieves the sandy plain, The wide-spread waste no gentle fountain cheers; One barren face the dreary prospect wears; Nought through the vast horizon meets her eye To calm the dismal tumult of her fears; No trace of human habitation nigh; A sandy wild beneath, above a threatening sky.

The Lily.

[By Mrs Tighe.]

How withered, perished seems the form
Of yon obscure unsightly root!
Yet from the blight of wintry storm,
It hides secure the precious fruit.

The careless eye can find no grace,
No beauty in the scaly folds,
Nor see within the dark embrace
What latent loveliness it holds.
Yet in that bulb, those sapless scales,
The lily wraps her silver vest,
Till vernal suns and vernal gales

Shall kiss once more her fragrant breast.
Yes, hide beneath the mouldering heap
The undelighting slighted thing;
There in the cold earth buried deep,
In silence let it wait the spring.

Oh! many a stormy night shall close
In gloom upon the barren earth,
While still, in undisturbed repose,
Uninjured lies the future birth:
And Ignorance, with sceptic eye,
Hope's patient smile shall wondering view:
Or mock her fond credulity,

As her soft tears the spot bedew.
Sweet smile of hope, delicious tear!

The sun, the shower indeed shall come; The promised verdant shoot appear,

And nature bid her blossoms bloom. And thou, O virgin queen of spring!

Shalt, from thy dark and lowly bed, Bursting thy green sheath's silken string, Unveil thy charms, and perfume shed; Unfold thy robes of purest white,

Unsullied from their darksome grave, And thy soft petals' silvery light

In the mild breeze unfettered wave. So Faith shall seek the lowly dust

Where humble Sorrow loves to lie, And bid her thus her hopes intrust,

And watch with patient, cheerful eye; And bear the long, cold wintry night,

And bear her own degraded doom; And wait till Heaven's reviving light, Eternal spring! shall burst the gloom.

ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.

ROBERT BLOOMFIELD, author of The Farmer's Boy, and other poems illustrative of English rural life and customs, was born at Honington, near Bury St Edmunds, Suffolk, in the year 1766. His father, a tailor, died whilst the poet was a child, and he was placed under his uncle, a farmer. Here he remained only two years, being too weak and diminutive for field labour, and he was taken to London by an elder brother, and brought up to the trade of a shoemaker. His two years of country service, and occasional visits to his friends in Suffolk, were of inestimable importance to him as a poet, for they afforded materials for his 'Farmer's Boy,' and gave a freshness and reality to his descriptions. It was in the shoemaker's garret, however, that his poetry was chiefly composed; and the merit of introducing it to the world belongs to Mr Capel Lofft, a literary gentleman residing at Troston, near Bury, to whom the manuscript was shown, after being rejected by several London booksellers. Mr Lofft warmly befriended the poet, and had the satisfaction of seeing his prognostications of success fully verified. At this time Bloomfield was thirty-two years of age, was married, and had three children. The 'Far mer's Boy' immediately became popular; the Duke of Grafton patronised the poet, settling on him a