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TO POESY.

Should the lone wanderer, fainting on his way,
Rest for a moment of the sultry hours,
And though his path through thorns and roughness lay,
Pluck the wild rose, or woodbine's gadding flowers,
Weaving gay wreaths beneath some sheltering tree,
The sense of sorrow he awhile

may

lose;
So have I sought thy flowers, fair Poesy !
So charmed my way with Friendship and the Muse.
But darker now grows life's unhappy day,
Dark with new clouds of evil yet to come :
Her pencil sickening Fancy throws away,
And weary Hope reclines upon the tomb ;
And points my wishes to that tranquil shore,
Where the pale spectre Care pursues no more.

TO THE MEMORY OF A YOUNG WOMAN AGED 19.

O thou! who sleep'st where hazel bands entwine
The vernal grass, with paler violets drest;
I would, sweet girl! thy humble bed were mine,
And mine thy calm and enviable rest.
For never more, by humble ills opprest,
Shall thy soft spirit fruitlessly repine:
Thou canst not now thy fondest hope resign,
Even in the hour that should have made thee blest.
Light lies the turf upon thy gentle breast;
And lingering here, to love and sorrow true,
The youth who once thy simple heart possessed,
Shall mingle tears with April's early dew;
While still for him, shall faithful Memory save
Thy form and virtues from the silent grave.

WRITTEN ON THE SEA SHORE.—OCTOBER, 1784.

On some rude fragment of the rocky shore,

Where on the fractured cliff the billows break,

Musing, my solitary seat I take,
And listen to the deep and solemn roar.
O'er the dark waves the winds tempestuous howl ;

The screaming sea-bird quits the troubled sea :

But the wild gloomy scene has charms for me, And suits the mournful temper of my soul. Already shipwrecked by the storms of Fate,

Like the poor mariner methinks I stand,

Cast on a rock; who sees the distant land
From whence no succour comes—or comes too late ;
Faint and more faint are heard his feeble cries,
Till in the rising tide the exhausted sufferer dies.

Sighing I see yon little troop at play,

By sorrow yet untouched; unhurt by care ; While free and sportive they enjoy to-day,

“ Content and careless of to-morrow's fare !" O happy age! when hope's unclouded ray

Lights their green path, and prompts their simple mirth, Ere yet they feel the thorns that lurking lay

To wound the wretched pilgrims of the earth, Making them rue the hour that gave them birth,

And threw them on a world so full of pain, Where prosperous folly treads on patient worth,

And, to deaf pride, misfortune pleads in vain ! Ah !—for their future fate how many fears Oppress my heart--and fill mine eyes with tears !

TO FORTITUDE.

Nymph of the rock! whose dauntless spirit braves

The beating storm, and bitter winds that howl
Round thy cold breast; and hear’st the bursting waves,

And the deep thunder with unshaken soul;
Oh come and shew how vain the cares that press

On my weak bosom-and how little worth
Is the false fleeting meteor, Happiness,

That still misleads the wanderers of the earth!
Strengthened by thee, this heart shall cease to melt,

O’er ills that poor humanity must bear;
Nor friends estranged, or ties dissolved be felt,

To leave regret, and fruitless anguish there :
And when at length it heaves its latest sigh,
Thou and mild Hope shall teach me how to die !

While thus I wander, cheerless and unblest,
And find, in change of place, but change of pain ;
In tranquil sleep the village labourers rest,
And taste repose, that I pursue in vain.
Hushed is the hamlet now; and faintly gleam
The dying embers from the casement low
Of the thatched cottage ; while the moon's wan beam
Lends a new lustre to the dazzling snow.--

-O'er the cold waste, amid the freezing night,
Scarce heeding whither, desolate I stray:
For me! pale Eye of Evening ! thy soft light
Leads to no happy home; my weary way
Ends but in dark vicissitudes of care ;
I only fly from doubt-to meet despair.

TO THE AMERICAN NIGHT-HAWK, COMMONLY CALLED BY THE ANGLO-AMERICANS,

WHIP-POOR-WILL."

Ill-omenad bird ! whose cries portentous float
O'er yon savannah with the mournful wind,
While, as the Indian hears your piercing note,
Dark dread of future evil fills his mind-
Wherefore with early lamentations break
The dear delusive visions of repose ?
Why from so short felicity awake
My wounded senses to substantial woes?
O'er my sick soul, thus roused from transient rest,
Pale Superstition sheds her influence drear,
And to my shuddering fancy would suggest,
Thou comest to speak of every woe I fear-
But aid me, Heaven ! my real ills to bear,
Nor let my spirit yield to phantoms of despair.

WRITTEN ON THE SOUTH DOWNS, MAY, 1784.

Spring's dewy hand on this fair summit weaves

The downy grass, with tufts of Alpine flowers, And shades the beechen slopes with tender leaves,

And leads the shepherd to his upland bowers,
Strewn with wild thyme ; while slow descending showers

Feed the green ear, and nurse the future sheaves.
-Ah, blest the hind—whom no sad thought bereaves
Of the gay season's pleasures !-All his hours
To wholesome labour given, or thoughtless mirth;
No pangs

of sorrow past, or coming dread, Bend his unconscious spirit down to earth,

Or chase calm slumbers from his careless head!
Ah! what to me can those dear days restore,
When scenes would charm that now I taste no more!

WRITTEN AT PENSHURST, IN AUTUMN,

1788.

Ye towers sublime! deserted now and drear!

Ye woods ! deep sighing to the hollow blast, The musing wanderer loves to linger near,

While History points to all your glories past :
And startling from their haunts the timid deer,

To trace the walks obscured by matted fern,
Which Waller's soothing lyre were wont to hear,

But where now clamours the discordant hern!
The spoiling hand of Time may overturn

These lofty battlements, and quite deface
The fading canvass whence we love to learn
Sydney's keen look, and Sacharissa's grace;
But fame and beauty still defy decay,
Saved by the historic page—the poet's tender lay!

WRITTEN DURING A THUNDER-STORM, IN WHICH THE

MOON WAS PERFECTLY CLEAR.

What awful pageants crowd the evening sky!

The low horizon gathering vapours shroud,

Sudden, from many a deep, embattled cloud Terrific thunders burst, and lightnings flyWhile in serenest azure, beaming high,

Night's regent, of her calm pavilion proud, Gilds the dark shadows that beneath her lie,

Unvexed by all their conflicts fierce and loud. -So, in unsullied dignity elate,

A spirit conscious of superior worth, In placid elevation firmly great,

Scorns the vain cares that give Contention birth; And blest with peace above the shocks o Fate, Smiles at the tumult of the troubled earth.

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