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Bidding a strange mysterious Pleasure brood
Over the wavy and tumultuous mind,
As the great Spirit erst with plastic sweep
Moved on the darkness of the unformed deep.



S late I lay in slumber's shadowy vale,

With wetted cheek and in a mourner's guise, I saw the sainted form of Freedom rise : She spake ! not sadder moans the autumnal gale

Great Son of Genius! sweet to me thy name, Ere in an evil hour with altered voice Thou bad'st Oppression's hireling crew rejoice Blasting with wizard spell my laurelled fame. Yet never, Burke! thou drank'st Corruption's bowl! Thee stormy Pity and the cherished lure Of Pomp, and proud Precipitance of soul Wildered with meteor fires. Ah, Spirit pure! That error's mist had left thy purged eye: So might I clasp thee with a Mother's joy !"

SONNET III THOUGH roused by that dark Vizir Riot rude

Have driven our Priestly o'er the ocean swell; Though Superstition and her wolfish brood Bay his mild radiance, impotent and fell; Calm in his halls of brightness he shall dwell! For lo! Religion at his strong behest Starts with mild anger from the Papal spell, And flings to earth her tinsel-glittering vest,

Her mitred state and cumbrous

pomp unholy;
And Justice wakes to bid the Oppressor wail
Insulting aye the wrongs of patient Folly:
And from her dark retreat by Wisdom won
Meek Nature slowly lifts her matron veil
To smile with fondness on her gazing son!


WHEN British Freedom for a happier land

Spread her broad wings, that fluttered with

Erskine ! thy voice she heard, and paused her flight
Sublime of Hope! For dreadless thou didst stand
(Thy censer glowing with the hallowed flame)
A hireless Priest before the insulted shrine,
And at her altar pour the stream divine
Of unmatched eloquence. Therefore thy name
Her sons shall venerate, and cheer thy breast
With blessings heaven-ward breathed. And when

the doom
Of Nature bids thee die, beyond the tomb
Thy light shall shine: as sunk beneath the West
Though the great Summer Sun eludes our gaze,
Still burns wide Heaven with his distended blaze.


IT was some Spirit, Sheridan! that breathed

O'er thy young mind such wildly various power ! My soul hath marked thee in her shaping hour, Thy temples with Hymettian flow'rets wreathed :

And sweet thy voice, as when o’er Laura's bier
Sad music trembled through Vauclusa's glade;
Sweet, as at dawn the love-lorn Serenade
That wafts soft dreams to Slumber's listening ear.
Now patriot rage and indignation high
Swell the full tones! And now thine eye-beams

Meanings of Scorn and Wit's quaint revelry !
Writhes inly from the bosom-probing glance
The Apostate by the brainless rout adored,
As erst that elder Fiend beneath great Michael's



O WHAT a loud and fearful shriek was there, As though a thousand souls one death.groan

poured! Ah me! they saw beneath a hireling's sword Their Kosciusko fall! Through the swart air (As pauses the tired Cossack's barbarous yell Of triumph) on the chill and midnight gale Rises with frantic burst or sadder swell The dirge of murdered Hope! while Freedom pale Bends in such anguish o'er her destined bier, As if from eldest time some Spirit meek Had gathered in a mystic urn each tear That ever on a Patriot's furrowed cheek Fit channel found, and she had drained the bowl In the mere wilfulness, and sick despair of soul!


S when far off the warbled strains are heard

That soar on Morning's wing the vales among, Within his cage the imprisoned matin bird Swells the full chorus with a generous song: He bathes no pinion in the dewy light, No Father's joy, no Lover's bliss he shares, Yet still the rising radiance cheers his sight: His fellows' freedom soothes the captive's cares! Thou, Fayette! who didst wake with startling voice Life's better sun from that long wintry night, Thus in thy Country's triumphs shalt rejoice, And mock with raptures high the dungeon's might: For lo! the morning strugyles into day, And Slavery's spectres shriek and vanish from the


THOU gentle look, that didst my soul beguile,
Why hast thou left me? Still in some fond

Revisit my sad heart, auspicious Smile!
As falls on closing flowers the lunar beam :
What time, in sickly mood, at parting day
I lay me down and think of happier years ;
Of Joys, that glimmered in Hope's twilight ray,
Then left me darkling in a vale of tears.
O pleasant days of Hope-for ever gone!-
Could I recall you !—But that thought is vain.
Availeth not Persuasion's sweetest tone
To lure the fleet-winged Travellers back again :

Yet fair, though faint, their images shall gleam
Like the bright Rainbow on a willowy stream.


PALE Roamer through the night! thou poor

Remorse that man on his death-bed

Who in the credulous hour of tenderness
Betrayed, then cast thee forth to want and scorn!
The world is pitiless: the chaste one's pride,
Mimic of Virtue scowls on thy distress :
Thy Loves and they that envied thee, deride :
And Vice alone will shelter wretchedness ?
0! I could weep to think, that there should be
Cold-bosomed lewd ones, who endure to place
Foul offerings on the shrine of misery,
And force from famine the caress of Love;
May He shed healing on thy sore disgrace,
He, the great Comforter that rules above !

WEET Mercy! how my very heart has bled

To see thee, poor Old Man and thy grey hairs
Hoar with the snowy blast: while no one cares
To clothe thy shrivelled limbs and palsied head.
My Father ! throw away this tattered vest
That mocks thy shivering ! take my garment-use

young man's arm ! I'll melt these frozen dews That hang from thy white beard and numb thy breast.

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