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Should the lone wanderer, fainting on his way,
TO THE MEMORY OF A YOUNG WOMAN AGED 19.
O thou! who sleep'st where hazel bands entwine
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,
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
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 !
Nymph of the rock! whose dauntless spirit braves
The beating storm, and bitter winds that howl
And the deep thunder with unshaken soul;
On my weak bosom-and how little worth
That still misleads the wanderers of the earth!
O’er ills that poor humanity must bear;
To leave regret, and fruitless anguish there :
While thus I wander, cheerless and unblest,
-O'er the cold waste, amid the freezing night,
TO THE AMERICAN NIGHT-HAWK, COMMONLY CALLED BY THE ANGLO-AMERICANS,
Ill-omenad bird ! whose cries portentous float
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,
Feed the green ear, and nurse the future sheaves.
of sorrow past, or coming dread, Bend his unconscious spirit down to earth,
Or chase calm slumbers from his careless head!
WRITTEN AT PENSHURST, IN AUTUMN,
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 :
To trace the walks obscured by matted fern,
But where now clamours the discordant hern!
These lofty battlements, and quite deface
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.