She comes ! she comes ! the meek eyed power I see

With liberal hand that loves to bless; The clouds of sorrow at her

presence flee; Rejoice! rejoice! ye children of distress! The beams that play around her head

Through Want's dark vale their radiance spread : The young

uncultur'd mind imbibes the ray, And Vice reluctant quits th' expected prey.

Cease, thou lorn mother! cease thy wailings drear;

Ye babes! the unconscious sob forego; Or let full gratitude now prompt the tear

Which erst did sorrow force to flow. Unkindly cold and tempest shrill

In life's morn oft the traveller chill, But soon his path the sun of Love shall warm; And each glad scene look brighter for the storm !

1789.

+ TIME, REAL AND IMAGINARY.

AN ALLEGORY.

ON the wide level of a mountain's head

(I knew not where, but 'twas some faery place) Their pinions, ostrich-like, for sails outspread, Two lovely children run an endless race,

A sister and a brother!

That far outstripp'd the other;
Yet ever runs she with reverted face,
And looks and listens for the boy behind;

For he, alas! is blind!
O’er rough and smooth with even step he passid,
And knows not whether he be first or last.

MONODY

ON THE DEATH OF CHATTERTON.

O WHAT a wonder seems the fear of death,

Seeing how gladly we all sink to sleep, Babes, Children, Youths, and Men, Night following night for threescore years and ten! But doubly strange, where life is but a breath To sigh and pant with, up Want's rugged steep, Away, Grim Phantom! Scorpion King, away! Reserve thy terrors and thy stings display For coward Wealth and Guilt in robes of State ! Lo! by the grave I stand of one, for whom A prodigal Nature and a niggard Doom (That all bestowing, this withholding all) Made each chance knell from distant spire or dome Sound like a seeking Mother's anxious call, Return, poor Child ! Home, weary Truant, home!

Thee, Chatterton! these unblest stones protect
From want, and the bleak freezings of neglect.
Too long before the vexing Storm-blast driven
Here hast thou found repose ! beneath this sod !
Thou! O vain word! thou dwell'st not with the clod!
Amid the shining Host of the Forgiven
Thou at the throne of Mercy and thy God
The triumph of redeeming Love dost hymn
(Believe it, O my soul !) to harps of Seraphim.

Yet oft, perforce ('tis suffering Nature's call),
I
weep,

that heaven-born Genius so should fall ; And oft, in Fancy's saddest hour, my soul Averted shudders at the poisoned bowl.

Now groans my sickening heart, as still I view

Thy corse of livid hue ; Now indignation checks the feeble sigh, Or flashes through the tear that glistens in mine eye!

Is this the land of song-ennobled line ?
Is this the land, where Genius ne'er in vain

Poured forth his lofty strain ?
Ah me! yet Spenser, gentlest bard divine,
Beneath chill Disappointment's shade,
His weary limbs in lonely anguish laid ;

And o'er her darling dead

Pity hopeless hung her head, While “mid the pelting of that merciless storm," Sunk to the cold earth Otway's famished form !

Sublime of thought, and confident of fame,
From vales where Avon winds the Minstrel* came.

Light-hearted youth! aye, as he hastes along,

He meditates the future song,
How dauntless Ælla fray'd the Dacyan foe;

And while the numbers flowing strong

In eddies whirl, in surges throng,
Exulting in the spirits' genial throe
In tides of power his life-blood seems to flow.

And now his cheeks with deeper ardors flame,
His eyes have glorious meanings, that declare
More than the light of outward day shines there,
A holier triumph and a sterner aim !
Wings grow within him, and he soars above
Or Bard's or Minstrel's lay of war or love.

Avon, a river near Bristol ; the birth-place of Chatterton.

Friend to the friendless, to the Sufferer health,
He hears the widow's prayer, the good man's praise ;
To scenes of bliss transmutes his fancied wealth,
And
young

and old shall now see happy days. On

many a waste he bids crim Gardens rise, Gives the blue sky to many a prisoner's eyes; And now in wrath he grasps the patriot steel, And her own iron rod he makes Oppression feel,

Sweet Flower of Hope! free Nature's genial child!
That did'st so fair disclose thy early bloom,
Filling the wide air with a rich perfume !
For thee in vain all heavenly aspects smiled;
From the hard world brief spite could they win-
The frost nipp'd sharp without, the canker prey'd

within !
Ah! where are fled the charms of vernal Grace,
And Joy's wild gleams that lightened o'er thy face?
Youth of tumultuous soul, and haggard eye!
Thy wasted form, thy hurried steps I view,
On thy wan forehead starts the lethal dew,
And oh! the anguish of that shuddering sigh!

Such were the struggles of the gloomy hour,

When Care, of withered brow, Prepared the poison's death-cold power: Already to thy lips was raised the bowl,

When near thee stood Affection meek

(Her bosom bare, and wildly pale her cheek), Thy sullen gaze she bade thee roll

On scenes that well might melt thy soul ; Thy native cot she flashed upon thy view, Thy native cot, where still, at close of day, Peace smiling sate, and listened to thy lay;

Thy Sister's shrieks she bade thee hear,
And mark thy Mother's thrilling tear;

See, see her breast's convulsive throe,

Her silent agony of woe !
Ah! dash the poisoned chalice from thy hand !

And thou had'st dashed it, at her soft command,
But that Despair and Indignation rose,
And told again the story of thy woes ;
Told the keen insult of the unfeeling heart;
The dread dependence on the low-born mind;
Told every pang, with which thy soul must smart,
Neglect, and grinning Scorn, and Want combined !
Recoiling quick, thou bad'st the friend of pain
Roll the black tide of Death through every freezing

vein !

O Spirit blest! Whether the Eternal's throne around, Amidst the blaze of Seraphim, Thou pourest forth the grateful hymn; Or soaring through the blest domain Enrapturest Angels with thy strain, Grant me, like thee, the lyre to sound, Like thee with fire divine to glow ;But ah! when rage the waves of woe, Grant me with firmer breast to meet their hate, And soar beyond the storm with upright eye elate !

Ye woods! that wave o'er Avon's rocky steep,
To Fancy's ear sweet is your murmuring deep!
For here she loves the cypress wreath to weave
Watching, with wistful eye, the saddening tints of eve.
Here, far from men, amid this pathless grove,
In solemn thought the Minstrel wont to rove,