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Threre Pity's lute arrests his ear,

II. 2.
And draws the half-reluctant tear ;
And now at noon of night he roves

But human vows, how frail they be!
Along the embowering moonlight groves,

Fame brought Carlisle unto his view And as from many a cavern'd dell

And all amazed, he thought to see The hollow wind is heard to swell,

The Augustan age anew. He thinks some troubled spirit sighs;

Fill'd with wild rapture, up he rose, And as upon the turf he lies,

No more he ponders on his woes, Where sleeps the silent beam of night,

Which erst he felt that forward goes, He sees below the gliding sprite,

Regrets he'd sunk in impotence, And hears in Fancy's organs sound

And hails the ideal day of virtuous eminence. Aerial music warbling round.

III. 2.
Taste lastly comes and smoothes the whole, Ah! silly man, yet smarting sore,
And breathes her polish o'er his soul;

With ills which in the world he bore,
Glowing with wild, yet chasten'd neat,

Again on futile hope to rest, The wondrous work is now complete.

An unsubstantial prop at best,

And not to know one swallow makes no summer The Poet dreams :--The shadow flies,

Ah! soon he'll find the brilliant gleam, And fainting fast its image dies.

Which flash'd across the hemisphere, But lo! the Painter's magic force

Illumining the darkness there, Arrests the phantom's fleeting course;

Was but a single solitary beam, It lives it lives—the canvass glows,

While all around remaind in custom'd nigh And tenfold vigour o'er it flows.

Still leaden Ignorance reigns serene, The Bard beholds the work achieved,

In the false court's delusive height, And as he sees the shadow rise,

And only one Carlisle is seen, Sublime before his wondering eyes,

To illume the heavy gloom with pure and steady Starts at the image his own mind conceived.







I. 1.
RETIRED, remote from human noise,

An humble Poet dwelt serene;
His lot was lowly, yet hiş joys

Were manifold, I ween.
He laid him by the brawling brook
At eventide to ruminate,

He watch'd the swallow skimming round,

And mused, in reverie profound, On wayward man's unhappy state,

[date. And ponder'd much, and paused on deeds of ancient

II. 1. “Oh, 'twas not always thus," he cried,

“There was a time, when Genius claim'd Respect from even towering Pride,

Nor hung her head ashamed :
But now to Wealth alone we bow,

The titled and the rich alone
Are honour'd, while meek Merit pines,

On Penury's wretched couch reclines,
Unheeded in his dying moan,

[lenown. As overwhelm'd with want and wo, he sinks un

III. 1. " 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

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,
Ånd 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 hovel carts are wheelid,
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 ot' 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,

race !

I. 2.
Thus sang the minstrel :-still at eve

The upland's woody shades among
In broken measures did he grieve,

With solitary song.
And still his shame was aye the same,

Neglect had stung him to the core;
and he with pensive joy did love
To seek the still congenial grove,

And muse on all his sorrows o'er, (more And vow that he would join the abjured world no

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.


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,
Springe 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 mir'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 lone,
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 late, Invoking soft the sober suit Of dimmest darknessfitting well With love, or sorrow's pensive spell, (Sc erst did music's silver tone Wake slumbering Chaos on his throne.) And haply then, with sudden swell, Shall roar the distant curfew belt, 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 gloorn, 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 maidOr 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 Icre, 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.



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,

Thou, who in Plenty's lavish lap has rolrd, The midnight ghost was known to glide; And every year with new delight hast told, Or lay me in some lonely glade,

Thou, who recumbent on the lacquer'd barge, In native Sherwood's forest shade,

Has dropt down joy's gay stream of pleasant marge, Where Robin Hood, the outlaw bold,

Thou may'st extol life's calm

untroubled sea, Was wont his sylvan courts to hold;

The storms of misery never burst on thee.
And there, as musing deep I lay,
Would steal my little soul away,

Go to the mat, where squalid Want reclines, And all thy pictures represent,

Go to the shade obscure, where Merit pines; Of siege and solemn tournament;

Abide with him whom Penury's charms control, Or bear me to the magic scene,

And bind the rising yearnings of his soul, Where, clad in greaves and gaberdine,

Survey his sleepless couch, and standing there, The warrior knight of chivalry

Tell the poor pallid wretch that life is fair!
Made many a fierce enchanter flee;
And bore the high-born dame away,

Press thou the lonely pillow of his head,
Long held the fell magician's prey,

And ask why sleep his languid eyes has fled; Or oft would tell the shuddering tale

Mark his dew'd temples, and his half-shut eye, Of murders, and of goblins pale,

His trembling nostrils, and his deep-drawn sigh, Haunting the guilty baron's side,

His mattering mouth contorted with despair, (Whose floors with secret blood were dyed,) And ask if Genius could inhabit there. Which o'er the vaulted corridore, On stormy nights was heard to roar,

Oh, yes! that sunken eye with fire once gleamid, By old domestic, waken'd wide

And rays of light from its full circlet stream'd, By the angry winds that chide;

But now neglect has stung him to the core, Or else the mystic tale would tell,

And Hope's wild raptures thrill his breast no more; Of Greensleeve, or of Blue-Beard fell.

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 ware; OH! yonder is the well-known spot,

Behold the heart-wrung parent lay her head My dear, my long-lost native home!

On the cold turf, and ask to share his bed. Oh! welcome is yon little cot,

Go, child of Fortune, take thy lesson there,
Where I shall rest, no more to roam!

And tell us then that life is wondrous fair!
Oh! I have travelled far and wide,
W'er many a distant foreign land;

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

Each place, each province I have tried,
And sung and danced my saraband.

Tencourage genius, and to foster worth;
But all their charms could not prevail

On thee, the unhappy's firm, unfailing friend,
To steal my heart from yonder vale.

'Tis just that every blessing should descend;

'Tis just that life to thee should only show II.

Her fairer side but little mix'd with wo. 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.

WRITTEN The woody dell, the hanging rock,

The chamois skipping o'er the heights; The plain adorn'd with many a flock,

IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH. And, oh! a thousand more delights,

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

SAD solitary Thought, who keep'st thy vigils,

Thy solemn vigils, in the sick man's mind;

Communmg lonely with his sinking soul,
Now safe return'd, with wandering tired,

And musing on the dubious glooms that lie No more my little home I'll leave;

In dim obscurity before him,-thee, And many a tale of what I've seen

Wrapt in thy dark magnificence, I call Shall while away the winter's eve.

At this still midnight hour, this awful season, Oh! I have wander'd far and wide,

When on my bed, in wakeful restlessness, O'er many a distant foreign land;

I turn me wearisome; while all around, Each place, each province I have tried,

All, all, save me, sink in forgetfulness;
And sung and danced my saraband;

I only wake to watch the sickly taper
But all their charms could not prevail,

Which lights me to my tomb. Yea, 'tis the hand
To steal my heart from yonder vale.

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, Written impromptu, on reading the following pas

While meditate we may.--We have now

But a small portion of what men call time sage in Mr. Capel Lofft's beautiful and interest. To hold communion; for even now the knife, ing Preface to Nathaniel Bloomfield's Poems, The tender bond that binds my soul to earth.

The separating knife, I feel divide just published. “It has a mixture of the spor- Yes, I must die I feel that I must die tive, which deepens the impression of its melan. And though to me has life been dark and dreary,

Though Hope for me has smiled but to deceive, choly close. I could have wished as I have said

And Disappointment still pursued her blandish in a short note, the conclusion had been otherwise.

ments, The sours of life less offend my taste than its


do I feel my soul recoil within me

As I contemplate the dim gulf of death, sweets delight it."

The shuddering void, the awful blank--futurity.

Ay, I had plann'd full many a sanguine scheme Go to the raging sea, and say, " Be still !"

of earthly happiness-romantic schemes, Bid the wild lawless winds obey thy will ;

And fraught with loveliness; and it is hard. Preach to the storm, and reason with Despair, To feel the hand of Death arrest one's steps, But well not Misery's son that life is fair.

Throw a chill blight o'er all one's budding hopes,




And hurt 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 wil 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.

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!



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.

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.



Written at Midnight.

WHEN pride and envy, and the scom

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, Hurl in ten thousand shapes the snow.

HENCE away, vindictive Thought!

Thy pictures are of pain;
The visions through thy dark eye caught,
They with no gentle charms are fraught,
So pr'ythee back again..

I would not weep,

I wish to sleep, Then why, thou busy foe, with me thy vigils keep?

Why dost o'er bed and couch recline?

Is this thy new delight?
Pale visitant, it is not thine
To keep thy sentry through the mine,
The dark vault of the night:

'Tis thine to die,

While o'er the eye
The dews of slumber press, and waking sorrows fly

Go thou, and bide with him who guides

His bárk through lonely seas;
And as reclining on his helm,
Sadly he marks the starry realm,
To him thou may'st bring ease;

But thou to me

Art misery,
So priythee, prythee, plume thy wings, and from

my pillow flee.

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Lo! where dejected pale he lies,

Despair depicted in his eyes,
And, Memory, pray what art thou ?

He feels the vital flame decrease, Art thou of pleasure born ?

He sees the grave wide-yawning for its prey, Does bliss untainted from thee flow?

Without a friend to soothe his soul to peace, The rose that gems thy pensive brow,

And cheer the expiring ray.
Is it without a thorn

III. 2.
With all thy smiles,
And witching wiles,

By Sulmo's bard of mournful fame Yet not unfrequent bitterness thy mournful sway Ry gentle Otway's magic name, defiles.

By him, the youth, who smiled at death,

And rashly dared to stop his vital breath,

Will I thy pangs proclaim;
The drowsy night-watch has forgot

For still to misery closely thou'rt allied, To call the solemn hour;

Though gaudy pageants glitter by thy side, Lulld by the winds he slumbers deep,

And far-resounding Fame. While I in vain, capricious Sleep,

What though to thee the dazzled millions bow, Invoke thy tardy power;

And to thy posthumous merit bend them low; And restless lie,

Though unto thee the monarch looks with With unclosed eye,

awe, And count the tedious hours as slow they minute And thou at thy flash'd car dost nations draw, by.

Yet, ah! unseen behind thee fly

Corroding Anguish, soul-subduing Pain,
And Discontent that clouds the fairest sky:

A melancholy train.
Yes, Genius, thee a thousand cares await,

Mocking thy derided state;

Thee chill Adversity will still attend,
Before whose face flies fast the summer's


And leaves thee all forlorn; [laughe AN ODE.

While leaden Ignorance rears her head and

And fat Stupidity shakes his jolly sides,

And while the cup of affluence he quaffs
I. 1.

With bee-eyed Wisdom, Genius derides, MANY there be, who, through the vale of life, Who toils, and every hardship doth outbrave, With velvet pace, unnoticed, softly go,

To gain the meed of praise, when he is mouldering While jarring Discord's inharmonious strise

in his grave.
Awakes them not to wo.
By them unheeded, carking Care,

Green-eyed Grief, and dull Despair;
Smoothly they pursue their way,
With even tenor and with equal breath,

FRAGMENT OF AN ODE TO THE like through cloudy and through sunny day, Then sink in peace to death.

II. 1.
But, ah ! a few there be whom griefs devour,

And weeping Wo, and Disappointment keen,
Repining Penury, and Sorrow sour,

MILD orb, who floatest through the realm of night, And self-consuming Spleen.

A pathless wanderer o'er a lonely wild, And these are Genius' favourites: these

Welcome to me thy soft and pensive light, Know the thought-throned mind to please,

Which oft in childhood my lone thoughts beAnd from her fleshy seat to draw

guiled. To realms where Fancy's golden orbits roll

Now doubly dear as o'er my silent seat, Disdaining all but 'wildering Rapture's law,

Nocturnal Study's still retreat,
The captivated soul.

It casts a mournful melancholy gleam,
IIL. 1.

And through my lofty casement Weaves,

Dinu through the vine's encircling leaves,
Genius, from thy starry throne,

An intermingled beam.
High above the burning zone,
In radiant robe of light array'd,

Oh! hear the plaint by thy sad favourite made, These feverish dews that on my temples hang,
His melancholy moan.

This quivering lip, these eyes of dying flame: He tells of scorn, he tells of broken vows,

These the dread signs of many a secret pang, Of sleepless nights, of anguish-ridden days, These are the meed of him who pants for fame; Pangs that his sensibility uprouse

Pale Moon, from thoughts like these divert my soul! To curse his being and his thirst for praise. Lowly I kneel before thy shrine on high; Thou gav'st to him with treble force to feel

My lamp expires ;-beneath thy mild control, The sting of keen neglect, the rich man's These restless dreams are ever wont to fly.

scor; And what o'er all does in his soul preside

Come, kindred mourner, in my breast Predominant, and tempers him to steel, Soothe these discordant tones to rest, His high indignant pride.

And breathe the soul of peace;

Mild visitor, I feel thee here,
I. 2.

It is not pain that brings this tear,
Lament not ye, who humbly steal through life,

For thou hast bid it cease.
That Génius visits not your lowly shed;
For, ah, what woes and sorrows ever rife

Oh! many a year has pass'd away
Distract his hapless head!

Since I, beneath thy fairy ray, For him awaits no balmy sleep,

Attuned my infant reed; He wakes all night, and wakes to weep;

When wilt thou, Time, those days restore,
Or by his lonely lamp he sits

Those happy moments now no more-
At solemn midnight when the peasant sleeps,
In feveris study, and in moody fits
His inournful vigils keeps.

When on the lake's damp marge I lay,

And mark'd the northern meteor's dance,
II. 2.

Bland Hope and Fancy, ye were there
And, oh! for what consumes his watchful oil ? To inspirate my trance.
For what does thus he waste life's fleeting Twin sisters, faintly now ye deign

Your magic sweets on me to shed,
Tis for negleet and penury he doth toil,

In vain your powers are now essay'd 'Tis for untimely death.

To chase superior pain.

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