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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!
+ TIME, REAL AND IMAGINARY.
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;
For he, alas! is blind !
Friend to the friendless, to the Sufferer health,
Sweet Flower of Hope! free Nature's genial child !
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,
See, see her breast's convulsive throe,
Her silent agony of woe!
And thou had'st dashed it, at her soft command,
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,
Like star-beam on the slow sequestered tide
And here, in Inspiration's eager hour,
These wilds, these caverns roaming o'er,
Round which the screaming sea-gulls soar,
Poor Chatterton! he sorrows for thy fate
Hence, gloomy thoughts! no more my soul shall
dwell On joys that were ! No more endure to weigh The shame and anguish of the evil day, Wisely forgetful! O’er the ocean swell Sublime of Hope I seek the cottaged dell Where Virtue calm with careless step may stray; And, dancing to the moon-light roundelay, The wizard passions weave a holy spell !
O Chatterton! that thou wert yet alive!
SONGS OF THE PIXIES.
The Pixies, in the superstition of Devonshire, are race of beings invisibly small, and harmless or friendly to
At a small distance from a village in that county, half way up a wood.covered hill, is an excavation called the Pixies' Parlor. The roots of old trees form its ceiling ; and on its sides are innumerable cyphers, among which the author discovered his own and those of his brothers, cut by the hand of their childhood. At the foot of the hill flows the river Otter.
To this place the author, during the summer months of the year 1793, conducted a party of young ladies; one of whom, of stature elegantly small, and of complexion colorless yet clear, was proclaimed the Faery Queen. On which occasion the following Irregular Ode was written.