There Pity's lute arrests his ear,

And draws the half-reluctant tear;
And now at noon of night he roves
Along the embowering moonlight groves,
And as from many a cavern'd dell
The hollow wind is heard to swell,
He thinks some troubled spirit sighs;
And as upon the turf he lies,

Where sleeps the silent beam of night,
He sees below the gliding sprite,
And hears in Fancy's organs sound
Aerial music warbling round.

Taste lastly comes and smoothes the whole,
And breathes her polish o'er his soul;
Glowing with wild, yet chasten'd neat,
The wondrous work is now complete.

The Poet dreams:-The shadow flies,
And fainting fast its image dies.
But lo! the Painter's magic force
Arrests the phantom's fleeting course;
It lives it lives-the canvass glows,
And tenfold vigour o'er it flows.
The Bard beholds the work achieved,
And as he sees the shadow rise,
Sublime before his wondering eyes,
Starts at the image his own mind conceived.

II. 2.

But human vows, how frail they be!
Fame brought Carlisle unto his view
And all amazed, he thought to see

The Augustan age anew.
Fill'd with wild rapture, up he rose,
No more he ponders on his woes,
Which erst he felt that forward goes,

Regrets he'd sunk in impotence,

And hails the ideal day of virtuous eminence.
III. 2.

Ah! silly man, yet smarting sore,
With ills which in the world he bore,
Again on futile hope to rest,

An unsubstantial prop at best,

And not to know one swallow makes no summer Ah! soon he'll find the brilliant gleam, Which flash'd across the hemisphere, Illumining the darkness there,

Was but a single solitary beam,

While all around remain'd in custom'd night. Still leaden Ignorance reigns serene,

In the false court's delusive height,

And only one Carlisle is seen,

To illume the heavy gloom with pure and steady light.

"Yet was the muse not always seen

In Poverty's dejected mien,

Not always did repining rue,

And misery her steps pursue.

Time was, when nobles thought their titles graced, By the sweet honours of poetic bays,

When Sidney sung his melting song, When Sheffield join'd the harmonious throng, And Lyttleton attuned to love his lays. Those days are gone-alas, for ever gone! No more our nobles love to grace Their brows with anadems, by genius won, But arrogantly deem the muse as base; How different thought the sires of this degenerate

race!

DESCRIPTION OF A

SUMMER'S EVE.

DOWN the sultry arc of day

The burning wheels have urged their way,
And eve along the western skies,
Spreads her intermingling dyes.
Down the deep, the miry lane,
Creeking comes the empty wain,
And driver on the shaft-horse sits,
Whistling now and then by fits;
And oft with his accustom'd call,
Urging on the sluggish Ball.

The barn is still, the master's gone,
And thresher puts his jacket on,
While Dick, upon the ladder tall,
Nails the dead kite to the wall.
Here comes shepherd Jack at last,
He has penn'd the sheep-cote fast,
For 'twas but two nights before,
A lamb was eaten on the moor:
His empty wallet Rover carries,

Now for Jack, when near home, tarr'es
With lolling tongue he runs to try,
If the horse-trough be not dry.
The milk is settled in the pans,
And supper messes in the cans;
In the novel carts are wheel'd,
And both the colts are drove a-field
The horses are all bedded up,
And the ewe is with the tup,
The snare for Mister Fox is set,
The leaven laid, the thatching wet,
And Bess has slink'd away to talk
With Roger in the holly-walk.

Now, on the settle all, but Bess,
Are set to eat their supper mess;
And little Tom and roguish Kate,
Are swinging on the meadow gate.
Now they chat of various things,
Of taxes, ministers, and kings,
Or else tell all the village news,
How madam did the squire refuse;
How parson on his tithes was bent,
And landlord oft distrain'd for rent
Thus do they talk, till in the sky
The pale-eyed moon is mounted high,
And from the alehouse drunken Ned
Has reel'd-then hasten all to bed.
The mistress sees that lazy Kate
The happing coal on kitchen grate
Has laid while master goes throughout,
Sees shutters fast, the mastiff out,

The candles safe, the hearths all clear,
And nought from thieves or fire to fear;
Then both to bed together creep,
And join the general troop of sleep.

TO CONTEMPLATION.

COME, pensive sage, who lov'st to dwell
In some retired Lapponian cell,
Where, far from noise and riot rude,
Resides sequester'd Solitude.
Come, and o'er my longing soul
Throw thy dark and russet stole,
And open to my duteous eyes,
The volume of thy mysteries.

I will meet thee on the hill,
Where, with printless footsteps still
The morning in her buskin gray,
Springs upon her eastern way;
While the frolic zephyrs stir,
Playing with the gossamer,
And, on ruder pinions borne,
Shake the dew-drops from the thorn.
There, as o'er the fields we pass,
Brushing with hasty feet the grass,
We will startle from her nest

The lively lark with speckled breast,
And hear the floating clouds among
Her gale transported matin song,
Or on the upland stile embower'd,
With fragrant hawthorn snowy flower'd,
Will sauntering sit, and listen still
To the herdsman's oaten quill,
Wafted from the plain below;
Or the heifer's frequent low;
Or the milkmaid in the grove,
Singing of one that died for love.

Or when the noontide heats oppress,

We will seek the dark recess,

Where, in th' embower'd translucent stream,
The cattle shun the sultry heam,

And o'er us on the marge reclined,
The drowsy fly her horn shall wind,
While Echo, from her ancient oak,
Shall answer to the woodman's stroke;
Or the little peasant's song,
Wandering lone the glens among,
His artless lip with berries dyed,
And feet through ragged shoes descried.

But oh when evening's virgin queen
Sits on her fringed throne serene,
And mingling whispers rising near
Still on the still reposing ear:
While distant brooks decaying round,
Augment the mix'd dissolving sound,
And the zephyr flitting by,
Whispers mystic harmony,
We will seek the woody lane,
By the hamlet, on the plain,
Where the weary rustic nigh,
Shall whistle his wild melody,
And the croaking wicket oft

Shall echo from the neighbouring croft;
And as we trace the green path fone,
With moss and rank weeds overgrown,
We will muse on pensive lore
Till the full soul brimming o'er,
Shall in our upturn'd eyes appear,
Embodied in a quivering tear.
Or else, serenely silent, set
By the brawling rivulet,

Which on its calm unruffled breast,
Bears the old mossy arch impress'd,
That clasps its secret stream of glass
Half hid in shrubs and waving grass,
The wood-nymph's lone secure retreat,
Unpress'd by fawn or sylvan's feet,
We'll watch in eve's ethereal braid,
The rich vermilion slowly fade;
Or catch, faint twinkling from afar,
The first glimpse of the eastern star,
Fair Vesper, mildest lamp of light,
That heralds in imperial night;
Meanwhile, upon our wandering ear,
Shall rise, though low, yet sweetly clear,

The distant sounds of pastoral lute,
Invoking soft the sober suit

Of dimmest darkness-fitting well
With love, or sorrow's pensive spell,
(Se erst did music's silver tone
Wake slumbering Chaos on his throne.)
And haply then, with sudden swell,
Shall roar the distant curfew bell,
While in the castle's mouldering tower,
The hooting owl is heard to pour
Her melancholy song, and scare
Dull Silence brooding in the air.
Meanwhile her dusk and slumbering car
Black-suited Night drives on from far,
And Cynthia, 'merging from her rear,
Arrests the waxing darkness drear,
And summons to her silent call,
Sweeping, in their airy pall,
The unshrived ghosts, in fairy trance,
To join her moonshine morrice-dance;
While around the mystic ring

The shadowy shapes elastic spring,
Then with a passing shriek they fly,
Wrapp'd in mists, along the sky,
And oft are by the shepherd seen,
In his lone night-watch on the green.

Then, hermit, let us turn our feet
To the low abbey's still retreat,
Embower'd in the distant glen,
Far from the haunts of busy men,
Where, as we sit upon the tomb,
The glow-worm's light may gild the gloom,
And show to Fancy's saddest eye,
Where some lost hero's ashes lie.
And oh, as through the mouldering arch,
With ivy fill'd and weeping larch,
The night-gale whispers sadly clear,
Speaking drear things to Fancy's ear,
We'll hold communion with the shade
Of some deep-wailing, ruin'd maid-
Or call the ghost of Spenser down,
To tell of wo and Fortune's frown;
And bid us cast the eye of hope
Beyond this bad world's narrow scope.
Or if these joys, to us denied,

To linger by the forest's side;
Or in the meadow, or the wood,

Or by the lone, romantic flood;

Let us in the busy town,

When sleep's dull streams the people drown, Far from drowsy pillows flee,

And turn the church's massy key;

Then, as through the painted glass

The moon's faint beams obscurely pass;
And darkly on the trophied wall,
Her faint, ambiguous shadows fall;
Let us, while the faint winds wail,
Through the long reluctant aisle,
As we pace with reverence meet,
Count the echoings of our feet;

While from the tombs, with confess'd breath,
Distinct responds the voice of death.
If thou, mild sage, wilt condescend,
Thus on my footsteps to attend,
To thee my lonely lamp shall burn
By fallen Genius' sainted urn,
As o'er the scroll of Time I pore,
And sagely spell of ancient lore,
Till I can rightly guess of all
That Plato could to memory call,
And scan the formless views of things,
Or with old Egypt's fetter'd kings,
Arrange the mystic trains that shine
In night's high philosophic mine;
And to thy name shall e'er belong
The honours of undying song.

ODE

TO THE GENIUS OF ROMANCE.

OH! thou who, in my early youth, When fancy wore the garb of truth, Were wont to win my infant feet, To some retired, deep-fabled seat,

Where, by the brooklet's secret tide,
The midnight ghost was known to glide;
Or lay me in some lonely glade,
In native Sherwood's forest shade,
Where Robin Hood, the outlaw bold,
Was wont his sylvan courts to hold;
And there, as musing deep I lay,
Would steal my little soul away,
And all thy pictures represent,
Of siege and solemn tournament;
Or bear me to the magic scene,
Where, clad in greaves and gaberdine,
The warrior knight of chivalry
Made many a fierce enchanter flee;
And bore the high-born dame away,
Long held the fell magician's prey;
Or oft would tell the shuddering tale
Of murders, and of goblins pale,
Haunting the guilty baron's side,
(Whose floors with secret blood were dyed,)
Which o'er the vaulted corridore,
On stormy nights was heard to roar,
By old domestic, waken'd wide
By the angry winds that chide;
Or else the mystic tale would tell,

Of Greensleeve, or of Blue-Beard fell.

THE SAVOYARD'S RETURN.

I.

OH! yonder is the well-known spot,
My dear, my long-lost native home!
Oh! welcome is yon little cot,

Where I shall rest, no more to roam!
Oh! I have travelled far and wide,

O'er many a distant foreign land;
Each place, each province I have tried,
And sung and danced my saraband.

But all their charms could not prevail
To steal my heart from yonder vale.
II.

Of distant climes the false report
It lured me from my native land;
It bade me rove-my sole support
My cymbals and my saraband.
The woody dell, the hanging rock,

The chamois skipping o'er the heights; The plain adorn'd with many a flock, And, oh! a thousand more delights,

That grace yon dear beloved retreat,
Have backward won my weary feet.
III.

Now safe return'd, with wandering tired,
No more my little home I'll leave ;
And many a tale of what I've seen
Shall while away the winter's eve.
Oh! I have wander'd far and wide,
O'er many a distant foreign land;
Each place, each province I have tried,
And sung and danced my saraband;"

But all their charms could not prevail,
To steal my heart from yonder vale.

LINES

Written impromptu, on reading the following passage in Mr. Capel Lofft's beautiful and interesting Preface to Nathaniel Bloomfield's Poems, just published." It has a mixture of the sportive, which deepens the impression of its melancholy close. I could have wished as I have said in a short note, the conclusion had been otherwise. The sours of life less offend my taste than its sweets delight it."

GO to the raging sea, and say, "Be still!"
Bid the wild lawless winds obey thy will;
Preach to the storm, and reason with Despair,
But vell not Misery's son that life is fair.

Thou, who in Plenty's lavish lap has roll'd,
And every year with new delight hast told,
Thou, who recumbent on the lacquer'd barge,
Has dropt down joy's gay stream of pleasant marge,
Thou may'st extol life's calm untroubled sea,
The storms of misery never burst on thee.

Go to the mat, where squalid Want reclines,
Go to the shade obscure, where Merit pines;
Abide with him whom Penury's charms control,
And bind the rising yearnings of his soul,
Survey his sleepless couch, and standing there,
Tell the poor pallid wretch that life is fair!
Press thou the lonely pillow of his head,
And ask why sleep his languid eyes has fled;
Mark his dew'd temples, and his half-shut eye,
His trembling nostrils, and his deep-drawn sigh,
His mattering mouth contorted with despair,
And ask if Genius could inhabit there.

Oh, yes! that sunken eye with fire once gleam'd,
And rays of light from its full circlet stream'd,
But now neglect has stung him to the core,
And Hope's wild raptures thrill his breast no more;
Domestic Anguish winds his vitals round,
And added Grief compels him to the ground.
Lo! o'er his manly form, decay'd and wan,
The shades of death with gradual steps steal on,
And the pale mother, pining to decay,
Weeps for her boy her wretched life away.

Go, child of Fortune! to his early grave,

Where o'er his head obscure the rank weeds wave;
Behold the heart-wrung parent lay her head
On the cold turf, and ask to share his bed.
Go, child of Fortune, take thy lesson there,
And tell us then that life is wondrous fair!

Yet, Lofft, in thee, whose hand is still stretch'd forth,

T'encourage genius, and to foster worth;
On thee, the unhappy's firm, unfailing friend,
'Tis just that every blessing should descend;
'Tis just that life to thee should only show
Her fairer side but little mix'd with wo.

WRITTEN

IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH.

SAD solitary Thought, who keep'st thy vigils,
Thy solemn vigils, in the sick man's mind;
Communing lonely with his sinking soul,
And musing on the dubious glooms that lie
In dim obscurity before him,-thee,
Wrapt in thy dark magnificence, I call
At this still midnight hour, this awful season,
When on my bed, in wakeful restlessness,
I turn me wearisome; while all around,
All, all, save me, sink in forgetfulness;

I only wake to watch the sickly taper

Which lights me to my tomb.-Yea, 'tis the hand
Of Death I feel press heavy on my vitals,
Slow sapping the warm current of existence.
My moments now are few-the sand of life
Ebbs fastly to its finish.-Yet a little,
And the last fleeting particle will fall,
Silent, unseen, unnoticed, unlamented.
Come then, sad Thought, and let us meditate,
While meditate we may.-We have now
But a small portion of what men call time
To hold communion; for even now the knife,
The separating knife, I feel divide

The tender bond that binds my soul to earth.
Yes, I must die-I feel that I must die'
And though to me has life been dark and dreary,
Though Hope for me has smiled but to deceive,
And Disappointment still pursued her blandish

ments,

Yet do I feel my soul recoil within me
As I contemplate the dim gulf of death,
The shuddering void, the awful blank-futurity.
Ay, I had plann'd full many a sanguine scheme
Of earthly happiness-romantic schemes,
And fraught with loveliness; and it is hard
To feel the hand of Death arrest one's steps,
Throw a chill blight o'er all one's budding hopes,

And hurl one's soul untimely to the shades,
Lost in the gaping gulf of blank oblivion.
Fifty years hence, and who will hear of Henry?
Oh! none;-another busy brood of beings
Will shoot up in the interim, and none
Will hold him in remembrance. I shall sink,
As sinks a stranger in the crowded streets
Of busy London:-Some short bustle's caused,
A few enquiries, and the crowds close in,
And all's forgotten.-On my grassy grave
The men of future times will careless tread,
And read my name upon the sculptured stone;
Nor will the sound, familiar to their ears,
Recall my vanish'd memory.-I did hope
For better things!-I hoped I should not leave
The earth without a vestige;-Fate decrees
It shall be otherwise, and I submit.
Henceforth, oh, world, no more of thy desires!
No more of hope! the wanton vagrant Hope!
I abjure all. Now other cares engross me,
And my tired soul, with emulative haste,

Looks to its God, and prunes its wings for Heaven.

A PASTORAL SONG.

COME, Anna! come, the morning dawns,
Faint streaks of radiance tinge the skies;
Come, let us seek the dewy lawns,
And watch the early lark arise;

While Nature, clad in vesture gay,
Hails the loved return of day,

Our flocks, that nip the scanty blade
Upon the moor, shall seek the vale;
And then secure beneath the shade,
We'll listen to the throstle's tale;

And watch the silver clouds above,
As o'er the azure vault they rove.

Come, Anna! come, and bring thy lute,
That with its tones, so softly sweet,
In cadence with my mellow flute,
We may beguile the noontide heat;
While near the mellow bee shall join,
To raise a harmony divine.

And then at eve, when silence reigns,
Except when heard the beetle's hum,
We'll leave the sober-tinted plains,
To these sweet heights again we'll come;
And thou to thy soft lute shalt play
A solemn vesper to departing day.

EPIGRAM

ON

ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.

BLOOMFIELD, thy happy-omen'd name Ensures continuance to thy fame;

Both sense and truth this verdict give, While fields shall bloom, thy name shall live:

ODE TO MIDNIGHT

SEASON of general rest, whose solemn still,
Strikes to the trembling heart a fearful chill,
But speaks to philosophic souls delight,
Thee do I hail, as at my casement high,
My candle waning melancholy by,

I sit and taste the holy calm of night.

Yon pensive orb, that through the ether sails,
And gilds the misty shadows of the vales,

Hanging in thy dull rear her vestal flame,
To her, while all around in sleep recline,
Wakeful I raise my orisons divine,

And sing the gentle honours of her name While Fancy lone o'er me her votary bends, To lift my soul her fairy vision sends,

And pours upon my ear her thrilling song, And Superstition's gentle terrors come,

See, see yon dim ghost gliding through the gloom' See round yon church-yard elm what spectres throng!

Meanwhile I tune, to some romantic lay,
My flagelet-and, as I pensive play,

The sweet notes echo o'er the mountain scene:
The traveller late journeying o'er the moors
Hears them aghast,- (while still the dull owl pours
Her hollow screams each dreary pause between,)

Till in the lonely tower he spies the light
Now faintly flashing on the glooms of night.
Where I, poor muser, my lone vigils keep,
And, 'mid the dreary solitude serene,
Cast a much-meaning glance upon the scene,
And raise my mournful eye to Heaven, and weep.

VERSES.

WHEN pride and envy, and the scorn
Of wealth my heart with gall embued,
I thought how pleasant were the morn
Of silence, in the solitude;
To hear the forest bee on wing,
Or by the stream, or woodland spring,
To lie and muse alone-alone,
While the tinkling waters moan,
Or such wild sounds arise, as say,
Man and noise are far away.

Now, surely, thought I, there's enow
To fill life's dusty way;
And who will miss a poet's feet,
Or wonder where he stray:
So to the woods and waste I'll go,
And I will build an osier bower;
And sweetly there to me shall flow
The meditative hour.

And when the Autumn's withering hand
Shall strew with leaves the sylvan land,
I'll to the forest caverns hie:
And in the dark and stormy nights
I'll listen to the shrieking sprites,
Who, in the wintry wolds and floods,
Keep jubilee, and shred the woods;
Or as it drifted soft and slow,

Huri in ten thousand shapes the snow.

These feverish dews that on my temples hang,
This quivering lip, these eyes of dying flame:
These the dread signs of many a secret pang
These are the meed of him who pants for fame;
Pale Moon, from thoughts like these divert my soul!
Lowly I kneel before thy shrine on high;
My lamp expires;-beneath thy mild control,
These restless dreams are ever wont to fly.

Come, kindred mourner, in my breast
Soothe these discordant tones to rest,
And breathe the soul of peace;
Mild visitor, I feel thee here,
It is not pain that brings this tear,
For thou hast bid it cease.

Oh! many a year has pass'd away
Since I, beneath thy fairy ray,
Attuned my infant reed;
When wilt thou, Time, those days restore,
Those happy moments now no more-