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Now walks mute Midnight, darkling o'er the plain, These scenes of bliss, no more upbraid my fate,

Rest, and soft-footed Silence, in his train,
To bless the cottage, and renew the swain.
These all-asleep, me all-awake they find;
Nor rest, nor silence, charm the lover's mind.
Already, I a thousand torments prove,
The thousand torments of divided love:
The rolling thought, impatient in the breast;
The fluttering wish on wing, that will not rest;
Desire, whose kindled flames, undying, glow;
Knowledge of distant bliss, and present woe;
Unhush'd, unsleeping all, with me they dwell,
Children of absence, and of loving well!
These pale the cheek, and cloud the cheerless eye,
Swell the swift tear, and heave the frequent sigh:
These reach the heart, and bid the health decline;
And these, O Mira! these are truly mine.

She, whose sweet smile would gladden all the

grove,

Whose mind is music, and whose looks are love;
She, gentle power! victorious softness!-She,
Mira, is far from hence, from love, and me;
Yet, in my every thought, her form I find,
Her looks, her words-her world of charms com-
Sweetness is her's, and unaffected ease; [bin'd!
The native wit, that was not taught to please.
Whatever softly animates the face,
The eye's attemper'd fire, the winning grace,
Th' unstudy'd smile, the blush that nature warms,
And all the graceful negligence of charms!
Ha! while I gaze, a thousand ardours rise;
And my fir'd bosom flashes from my eyes,
Oh! melting mildness! miracle of charms!
Receive my soul within those folding arms!
On that dear bosom let my wishes rest-
Oh! softer than the turtle's downy breast!
And see! where Love himself is waiting near!
Here let me ever dwell-for Heaven is here!

Torture my pining thought, and rouze my hate.
The leaf-clad forest, and the tufted grove,
Erewhile the safe retreats of happy love,
Stript of their honours, naked, now appear;
This is my soul! the winter of their year!
The little, noisy songsters of the wing,
All, shivering on the bough, forget to sing.
Hail! reverend Silence! with thy awful brow!
Be Music's voice, for ever mute-as now :
Let no intrusive joy my dead repose
Disturb :-no pleasure disconcert my woes.

In this moss-cover'd cavern, hopeless laid,
On the cold cliff, I'll lean my aching head;
And, pleas'd with Winter's waste, unpitying, see
All nature in an agony with me!
Rough, rugged rocks, wet marshes, ruin'd towers,
Bare trees, brown brakes, bleak heaths, and rushy
Dead floods, huge cataracts, to my pleas'd eyes-
(Now I can smile!)-in wild disorder rise:
And now, the various dreadfulness combin'd,
Black Melancholy comes, to doze my mind.

moors,

See! Night's wish'd shades rise, spreading through the air,

And the lone, hollow gloom, for me prepare!
Hail! solitary ruler of the grave!

Parent of terrours! from thy dreary cave!
Let thy dumb silence midnight all the ground,
And spread a welcome horrour wide around.-
But hark! a sudden howl invades my ear!
The phantoms of the dreadful hour are near.
Shadows, from each dark cavern, now combine,
And stalk around, and mix their yells with mine.
Stop, flying Time! repose thy restless wing;
Fix here nor hasten to restore the spring:
Fix'd my ill fate, so fix'd let winter be-
Let never wanton season laugh at me!

A WINTER'S DAY.

WRITTEN IN A STATE OF MELANCHOLY.

Now, gloomy soul! look out-now comes thy turn;
With thee, behold all ravag'd nature mourn.
Hail the dim empire of thy darling night,
That spreads, slow-shadowing, o'er the vanquish'd
light.

Look out, with joy; the ruler of the day,
Faint, as thy hopes, emits a glimmering ray:
Already exil'd to the utmost sky,

Hither, oblique, he turn'd his clouded eye.
Lo! from the limits of the wintery pole,
Mountainous clouds, in rude confusion, roll:
In dismal pomp, now, hovering on their way,
To a sick twilight, they reduce the day.
And hark! imprison'd winds, broke loose, arise,
And roar their haughty triumph through the skies.
While the driven clouds, o'ercharg'd with floods of
rain,

And mingled lightning, burst upon the plain.
Now see sad Earth-like thine, her alter'd state,
Like thee, she mourns her sad reverse of Fate!
Her smile, her wanton looks-where are they now?
Faded her face, and wrapt in clouds her brow!

No more, th' ungrateful verdure of the plain; No more, the wealth-crown'd labours of the swain;

PROLOGUE

ΤΟ

THE MASQUE OF BRITANNIA,

SPOKEN BY MR. GARRICK, 1755, IN THE CHARACTER OF A SAILOR, FUDDLED AND TALKING TO HIMSELF.

He enters, singing,

"How pleasant a sailor's life passes—” WELL, if thou art, my boy, a little mellow! A sailor, half seas o'er-'s a pretty fellow; What cheer ho? Do I carry too much sail? [To the pit. No-tight and trim-I scud before the gale[He staggers forward, then stops.

But softly though-the vessel seems to heel:
Steady! my boy-she must not show her keel.
And now, thus ballasted-what course to steer?
Shall I again to sea-and bang mounseer?
Or stay on shore, and toy with Sall and Sue-
Dost love 'em, boy?-By this right hand, I do!"
A well-rigg'd girl is surely most inviting:
There's nothing better, faith-save flip and fighting:
For shall we sons of beef and freedom stoop,
Or lower our flag to slavery and soup?

1 Some of the lines too were written by him.

What! shall these parly-vous make such a racket,
And we not lend a hand, to lace their jacket?
Still shall Old England be your Frenchman's butt?
Whene'er he shuffles, we should always cut.
I'll to 'em, faith-Avast-before I go-
Have I not promis'd Sall to see the show?

[Pulls out a play bill. From this same paper we shall understand What work's to-night-I'll read your printed hand! But, first refresh a bit-for faith I need itI'll take one sugar-plum-and then I'll read it, [Takes some tobacco. He reads the play-bill of Zara, which was acted that evening. At the The-atre-Royal-Drury-Lanewill be presenta-ted a tragedy called—

SARAH.

I'm glad 'tis Sarah-Then our Sall may see
Her namesake's tragedy: and as for me,
I'll sleep as sound, as if I were at sea.

To which will be added-a new Masque.
Zounds! why a Mask? We sailors hate grimaces:
Above-board all, we scorn to hide our faces.
But what is here, so very large and plain?
Bri-ta-nia-oh Britania!-good again-
Huzza, boys! by the Royal George I swear,
Tom Coxen, and the crew, shall straight be there.
All free-born souls must take Bri-ta-nia's part,
And give her three round cheers, with hand and
[Going off, he stops.
I wish you landmen, though, would leave your tricks,
Your factions, parties, and damn'd politics:
And, like us, honest tars, drink, fight, and sing!
True to yourselves, your country, and your king!

heart.

INSCRIPTION FOR A PICTURE.

WITH no one talent that deserves applause ;
With no one aukwardness that laughter draws;
Who thinks not, but just echoes what we say;
A clock, at morn, wound up, to run a day:
His larum goes in one smooth, simple strain;
He stops: and then, we wind him up again,
Still hovering round the fair at fifty-four,
Unfit to love, unable to give o'er;

A flesh-fly, that just flutters on the wing,
Awake to buz, but not alive to sting;

Brisk where he cannot, backward where he can;
The teazing ghost of the departed man.

SONG.

TO A SCOTCH TUNE, MARY SCOT.

WHERE Thames, along the daisy'd meads,
His wave, in lucid mazes, leads,
Silent, slow, serenely flowing,
Wealth on either shore bestowing:
There, in a safe, though small retreat,
Content and Love have fix'd their seat :
Love, that counts his duty, pleasure;
Content, that knows and hugs his treasure.

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CHARM'D, and instructed, by thy powerful song,
I have, unjust, withheld my thanks too long:
This debt of gratitude, at length, receive,
Warmly sincere, 'tis all thy friend can give.

Thy worth new lights the poet's darken'd name,
And shows it, blazing, in the brightest fame.
Through all thy various Winter, full are found
Magnificence of thought, and pomp of sound,
Clear depth of sense, expression's heightening grace,
And goodness, eminent in power, and place!
For this, the wise, the knowing few, commend
With zealous joy-for thou art Virtue's friend:
Ev'n Age, and Truth severe, in reading thee,
That Heaven inspires the Muse, convinc'd, agree.
Thus I dare sing of merit, faintly known,
Friendless-supported by itself alone:

For those, whose aided will could lift thee high
In fortune, see not with Discernment's eye.
Nor place, nor power, bestows the sight refin'd;
And wealth enlarges not the narrow mind,

How could'st thou think of such, and write so
well?

Or hope reward, by daring to excell?
Unskilful of the age! untaught to gain
Those favours, which the fawning base obtain!
A thousand shameful arts, to thee unknown,
Falsehood, and flattery, must be first thy own.
If thy lov'd country lingers in thy breast,,
Thou must drive out th' unprofitable guest:
Extinguish each bright aim, that kindles there,
And centre in thyself thy every care.

But hence that vileness-pleas'd to charm mankind,

Cast each low thought of interest far behind:
Neglected into noble scorn-away
From that worn path, where vulgar poets stray:
Inglorious herd! profuse of venal lays!

And by the pride despis'd, they stoop to praise!
Thou, careless of the statesman's smile or frown,
Tread that straight way, that leads to fair renown.
By Virtue guided, and by Glory fir'd,
And, by reluctant Envy, slow admir'd,
Dare to do well, and in thy boundless mind,
Embrace the general welfare of thy kind :
Enrich them with the treasures of thy thought,
What Heaven approves, and what the Muse has
taught.

Where thy power fails, unable to go on,
Ambitious, greatly will the good undone.
So shall thy name, through ages, brightening shine,
And distant praise, from worth unborn, be thine;
So shalt thou, happy! merit Heaven's regard,
And find a glorious, though a late reward.

WILLIAM AND MARGARET.

'Twas at the silent, solemn hour When night and morning meet; In glided Margaret's grimly ghost, And stood at William's feet.

Her face was like an April-morn,
Clad in a wintry cloud;
And clay-cold was her lily-hand,
That held her sable shroud.

So shall the fairest face appear,

When youth and years are flown: Such is the robe that kings must wear, When Death has reft their crown.

Her bloom was like the springing flower,
That sips the silver dew;

The rose was budded in her cheek,
Just opening to the view.

But, love had, like the canker-worm,
Consum'd her early prime:

The rose grew pale, and left her cheek;
She dy'd before her time.

"Awake!" she cry'd, "thy true-love calls,
Come from her midnight-grave;
Now let thy pity hear the maid,
Thy love refus'd to save.

"This is the dumb and dreary hour,
When injur'd ghosts complain;
When yawning graves give up their dead,
To haunt the faithless swain.

"Bethink thee, William, of thy fault,
Thy pledge and broken oath!
And give me back my maiden-vow,
And give me back my troth.

"Why did you promise love to me, And not that promise keep?

Why did you swear my eyes were bright, Yet leave those eyes to weep?

"How could you say my face was fair,
And yet that face forsake?
How could you win my virgin-heart,
Yet leave that heart to break?

"Why did you say, my lip was sweet,
And made the scarlet pale?
And why did I, young witless maid!
Believe the flattering tale?

"That face, alas! no more is fair,

Those lips no longer red:

Dark are my eyes, now clos'd in death, And every charm is fled.

"The hungry worm my sister is; This winding-sheet I wear:

And cold and weary lasts our night, Till that last morn appear.

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N. B. In a comedy of Fletcher, called the Knight of the Burning Pestle, old Merry-Thought euters repeating the following verses:

When it was grown to dark midnight,
And all were fast asleep,

In came Margaret's grimly ghost,

And stood at William's feet.

This was probably the beginning of some ballad, commonly known, at the time when that author wrote; and is all of it, I believe, that is any where to be met with. These lines, naked of ornament, and simple as they are, struck my fancy: and, bringing fresh into my mind an unhappy adventure, much talked of formerly, gave birth to the foregoing poem; which was written many years ago. Mallet.

An elegant Latin imitation of this ballad is printed in the works of Vincent Bourne. N.

EPITAPH,

ON MR. AIKMAN, AND HIS ONLY SON; WHO WERE BOTH INTERRED IN THE SAME GRAVE.

DEAR to the wise and good, disprais'd by none,
Here sleep in peace the father and the son:
By virtue, as by nature, close ally'd,
The painter's genius, but without the pride;
Worth unambitious, wit afraid to shine,
Honour's clear light, and Friendship's warmth divine.
The son, fair-rising, knew too short a date;
But oh, how more severe the parent's fate!
He saw him torn, untimely, from his side,
Felt all a father's anguish, wept and dy'd!

EPITAPH ON A YOUNG LADY.

THIS humble grave though no proud structures

grace,

Yet Truth and Goodness sanctify the place: Yet blameless Virture that adorn'd thy bloom, Lamented maid! now weeps upon thy tomb.

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