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And art thou fled, thou welcome orb ?
So swiftly pleasure flies;
So to mankind, in darkness lost,

The beam of ardour dies.
Wan Moon, thy nightly task is done,
And now, encurtain'd in the main,
Thou sinkest into rest;
But I, in vain, on thorny bed

Shall woo the god of soft repose

FRAGMENT.

LOUD rage the winds without.-The wintry cloud
O'er the cold north star casts her flitting shroud;
And Silence, pausing in some snow-clad dale,
Starts as she hears, by fits, the shrieking gale;
Where now, shut out from every still retreat,
Her pine-clad summit, and her woodland seat,
Shall Meditation, in her saddest mood,
Retire o'er all her pensive stores to brood?
Shivering and blue the peasant eyes askance
The drifted fleeces that around him dance,
And hurries on his half-averted form,
Stemming the fury of the sidelong storm.
Him soon shall greet his snow-topp'd [cot of thatch,]
Soon shall his numb'd hand tremble on the latch,
Soon from his chimney's nook the cheerful flame
Diffuse a genial warmth throughout his frame;
Round the light fire, while roars the north wind
loud,

What merry groups of vacant faces crowd;
These hail his coming-these his meal prepare,
And boast in all that cot no lurking care.

What, though the social circle be denied,
Even Sadness brightens at her own fireside,
Loves, with fix'd eye, to watch the fluttering blaze,
While musing Memory dwells on former days;
Or Hope, bless'd spirit! smiles-and still forgiven,
Forgets the passport, while she points to Heaven."
Then heap the fire-shut out the biting air,
And from its station wheel the easy chair:
Thus fenced and warm, in silent fit, 'tis sweet
To hear without the bitter tempest beat.
All, all alone-to sit, and muse, and sigh,
The pensive tenant of obscurity.

SONNETS.

TO CAPEL LOFFT, ESQ.

LOFFT, unto thee one tributary song

The simple Muse, admiring, fain would bring; She longs to lisp thee to the listening throng, And with thy name to bid the woodlands ring. Fain would she blazon all thy virtues forth,

Thy warm philanthropy, thy justice mild, Would say how thou didst foster kindred worth And to thy bosom snatch'd Misfortune's child; Firm she would paint thee, with becoming zeal, Upright, and learned, as the Pylian sire, [lyre, Would say how sweetly thou couldst sweep the And show thy labours for the public weal.

Ten thousand virtues tell with joys supreme, But ah! she shrinks abash'd before the arduous theme.

TO THE MOON.

Written in November.

SUBLIME, emerging from the misty verge
Of the horizon dim, thee, Moon, I 'hail,
As sweeping o'er the leafless grove, the gale
Seems to repeat the year's funereal dirge.
Now Autumn sickens on the languid sight,
And leaves bestrew the wanderer's lonely way,
Now unto thee, pale arbitress of night,
With double joy my homage do I pay.
When clouds disguise the glories of the day,
And stern November sheds her boisterous blight,
How doubly sweet to mark the moony ray
Shoot through the mist from the ethereal height,
And, still unchanged, back to the memory bring
The smiles Favonian of life's earliest spring.

FRAGMENT.

OH! thou most fatal of Pandora's train,
Consumption! silent cheater of the eye;
Thou com'st not robed in agonizing pain,
Nor mark'st thy course with Death's delusive dye,
But silent and unnoticed thou dost lie;
O'er life's soft springs thy venom dost diffuse,

And, while thou giv'st new lustre to the eye, While o'er the cheek are spread health's ruddy hues, Even then life's little rest thy cruel power subdues.

Oft I've beheld thee, in the glow of youth

Hid 'neath the blushing roses which there bloom'd,

And dropp'd a tear, for then thy cankering tooth
I knew would never stay, till all consumed,
In the cold vault of death he were entomb'd.
But oh what sorrow did I feel, as swift,
Insidious ravager, I saw thee fly
Through fair Lucina's breast of whitest snow,
Preparing swift her passage to the sky.
Though still intelligence beam'd in the glance,
The liquid lustre of her fine blue eye;
Yet soon did languid listlessness advance,
And soon she calmly sunk in death's repugnant

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WRITTEN

AT THE GRAVE OF A FRIEND.

FAST from the West the fading day-streaks fly, And ebon Night assumes her solemn sway, Yet here alone, unheeding time, I lie,

And o'er my friend still pour the plaintive lay. Oh! 'tis not long since, George, with thee I woo'd The maid of musings by yon moaning wave, And hail'd the moon's mild beam, which now renew'd,

Seems sweetly sleeping on thy silent grave! The busy world pursues its boisterous way The noise of revelry still echoes round,

Yet I am sad while all beside is gay;

Yet still I weep o'er thy deserted mound. Oh! that, like thee, I might bid sorrow cease, And 'neath the green-sward sleep the sleep of peace.

TO MISFORTUNE.

MISFORTUNE, I am young, my chin is bare,
And I have wonder'd much when men have told,
How youth was free from sorrow and from care,
That thou shouldst dwell with me, and leave the
old.

Sure dost not like me!-Shrivell'd hag of hate,
My phiz, and thanks to thee, is sadly long;
I am not either, Beldam, over strong;
Nor do I wish at all to be thy mate,
For thou, sweet Fury, art my utter hate.
Nay, shake not thus thy miserable pate,

I am yet young, and do not like thy face;

And, lest thou shouldst resume the wild-goose chase, I'll tell thee something all thy heat to assuage, -Thou wilt not hit my fancy in my age.

SONNET.

AS thus oppress'd with many a heavy care,
(Though young yet sorrowful,) I turn my feet
To the dark woodland, longing much to greet
The form of Peace, if chance she sojourn there;
Deep thought and dismal, verging to despair,

Fills my sad breast; and, tired with this vain coil,
I shrink dismay'd before life's upland toil.
And as amid the leaves the evening air
Whispers still melody,-I think ere long,

When I no more can hear, these woods will speak And then a sad smile plays upon my cheek, And mournful phantasies upon me throng, And I do ponder with most strange delight, On the calm slumbers of the dead man's night.

TO APRIL

EMBLEM of life! see changeful April sail
In varying vest along the shadowy skies,
Now bidding Summer's softest zephyrs rise,
Anon, recalling Winter's stormy gale,
And pouring from the cloud her sudden hail;
Then, smiling thro' the tear that dims her eyes,
While Iris with her braid the welkin dyes,
Promise of sunshine, not so prone to fail.
So, to us, sojourners in Life's low vale,

The smiles of Fortune flatter to deceive,
While still the Fates the web of Misery weave;
So Hope exultant spreads her aery sail.
And from the present gloom the soul conveys
To distant summers and far happier days.

SONNET.

YE unseen spirits, whose wild melodies,

At evening rising slow, yet sweetly clear,
Steal on the musing poet's pensive ear,
As by the wood-spring stretch'd supine he lies,
When he, who now invokes you low is laid,
His tired frame resting on the earth's cold bed,
Hold ye your nightly vigils o'er his head,

And chant a dirge to his reposing shade!
For he was wont to love your madrigals;

And often by the haunted stream that laves The dark sequester'd woodland's inmost caves Would sit and listen to the dying falls, Till the full tear would quiver in his eye, And his big heart would heave with mournful ecs

TO A TAPER.

[tacy.

'TIS midnight-On the globe dead slumber sits,
And all is silence-in the hour of sleep;
Save when the hollow gust, that swells by fits,
In the dark wood roars fearfully and deep.

I wake alone to listen and to weep,

To watch, my taper, thy pale beacon burn; And, as still Memory does her vigils keep, To think of days that never can return. By thy pale ray I raise my languid head, My eye surveys the solitary gloom; And the sad meaning tear, unmix'd with dread, Tells thou dost light me to the silent tomb. Like thee I wane,-like thine my life's last ray Will fade in loneliness, unwept, away.

TO MY MOTHER.

AND canst thon, Mother, for a moment think,
That we, thy children, when old age shall shed
Its blanching honours on thy weary head,
Could from our best of duties ever shrink?
Sooner the sun from his high sphere should sink
Than we, ungrateful, leave thee in that day,
To pine in solitude thy life away,

Or shun thee, tottering on the grave's cold brink.
Banish the thought!-where'er our steps may roam,
O'er smiling plains, or wastes without a tree,
Still will fond memory point our hearts to thee,
And paint the pleasures of thy peaceful home
While duty bids us all thy griefs assuage,
And smooth the pillow of thy sinking age.

SONNET.

YES, 'twill be over soon.-This sickly dream
Of life will vanish from my feverish brain;
And death my wearied spirit will redeem
From this wild region of unvaried pain.
Yon brook will glide as softly as before,-
Yon landscape smile,-yon golden harvest grow,-
Yon sprightly fark on mounting wing will soar
When Henry's name is heard no more below.
I sigh when all my youthful friends caress,

They laugh in health, and future evils brave;
Them shall a wife and smiling children bless,
While I am mouldering in my silent grave.
God of the just-Thou gavest the bitter cup;
I bow to thy behest, and drink it up.

TO CONSUMPTION.

GENTLY, most gently, on thy victim's head,
Consumption, lay thine hand!-let me decay,
Like the expiring lamp, unseen, away,
And softly go to slumber with the dead.
And if 'tis true, what holy men have said,

That strains angelic oft foretell the day
Of death, to those good men who fall thy prey,
O let the aerial music round my bed,
Dissolving sad in dying symphony,

Whisper the solemn warning in mine ear That I may bid my weeping friends good by

Ere I depart upon my journey drear: And, smiling faintly on the painful past, Compose my decent head, and breathe my last.

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH

OF

M. DESBARREAUX

THY judgments, Lord, are just; thou lov'st to wear
The face of pity and of love divine;

But mine is guilt-thou must not, canst not spare,
While Heaven is true, and equity is thine.
Yes, oh my God!-such crimes as mine, so dread,
Leave but the choice of punishment to thee;
Thy interest calls for judgment on my head,
And even thy mercy dares not plead for me!
Thy will be done-since 'tis thy glory's due,

Bid from mine eyes the endless torrents flow;
Smite-it is time-though endless death ensue,
I bless the avenging hand that lays me low.
But on what spot shall fall thine anger's flood,
That has not first been drench'd in Christ's atoning
blood?

ΤΟ

A FRIEND IN DISTRESS,

Who, when Henry reasoned with him calmly,asked, "If he did not feel for him ?"

"DO I not feel?" The doubt is keen as steel.
Yea, I do feel-most exquisitely feel;
My heart can weep, when from my downcast eye,
I chase the tear, and stem the rising sigh:
Deep buried there I close the rankling dart,
And smile the most when heaviest is my heart.
On this I act-whatever pangs surround,
'Tis magnanimity to hide the mound!
When all was new, and life was in its spring,
I lived an unloved solitary thing;
Even then I learn'd to bury deep from day,
The piercing cares that wore my youth away:
Even then I learn'd for others cares to feel;
Even then I wept I had not power to heal :

The 13 Poems which follow are of a later date than the preceding.

Even then, deep-sounding thro' the nightly gloom,,
I heard the wretched's groan, and mourn'd the
wretched's doom,
[fire-
Who were my friends in youth ?-The midnight
The silent moon-beam, or the starry choir;
To these I 'plained, or turn'd from outer sight,
To bless my lonely taper's friendly light;
I never yet could ask, howe'er forlorn,
For vulgar pity mix'd with vulgar scorn;
The sacred source of wo I never ope;

My breast's my coffer, and my God's my hope.
But that I do feel, Time, my friend, will show,
Though the cold crowd the secret never know;
With them I laugh-yet, when no eye can see,
thee.

I weep for nature, and I weep for I fondly thought,

Yes, thou didst wrong me,
In thee I'd found the friend my heart had sought!
I fondly thought, that thou couldst pierce the guise
And read the truth that in my bosom lies;

I fondly thought ere Time's last days were gone,
Thy heart and mine had mingled into one!
Yes-and they yet will mingle. Days and years
Will fly, and leave us partners in our tears:
We then shall feel that friendship has a power
To sooth affliction in her darkest hour;
Time's trial o'er, shall clasp each other's hand,
And wait the passport to a better land.

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YET once more, and once more, awake my Harp,
From silence and neglect-one lofty strain,
Lofty, yet wilder than the winds of Heaven,
And speaking mysteries more than words can tell,
I ask of thee, for I, with hymnings high,
Would join the dirge of the departing year.
Yet with no wintry garland from the woods,
Wrought of the leafless branch, or ivy sear,
Wreathe I thy tresses, dark December! now;
Me higher quarrel calls, with loudest song,
And fearful joy, to celebrate the day

Of the Redeemer.-Near two thousand suns
Have set their seals upon the rolling lapse
Of generations, since the day-spring first
Beam'd from on high!-Now to the mighty mass
Of that increasing aggregate we add
One unit more. Space, in comparison,
How small, yet mark'd with how much misery;
Wars, famine, and the fury, Pestilence,
Over the nations hanging her dread scourge;
The oppressed, too, in silent bitterness,
Weeping their sufferance; and the arm of wrong,
Forcing the scanty portion from the weak,
And steeping the lone widow's couch with tears.

So has the year been character'd with wo
In Christian land, and mark'd with wrongs and

crimes,

Yet 'twas not thus He taught-not thus He lived,
Whose birth we this day celebrate with prayer
And much thanksgiving.-He, a man of woes,
Went on the way appointed,-path, though rude,
Yet borne with patience still:He came to cheer
The broken-hearted, to raise up the sick,
And on the wandering and benighted mind
To pour the light of truth.-O task divine!
O more than angel teacher! He had words

To soothe the barking waves, and hush the winds;
And when the soul was toss'd in troubled seas,
Wrapp'd in thick darkness and the howling storm,
He, pointing to the star of peace on high,
Arm'd it with holy fortitude, and bade it smile,
At the surrounding wreck.

When with deep agony his heart was rack'd,
Not for himself the tear-drop dew'd his cheek,

For them He wept, for them to Heaven he pray'd,
His persecutors Father, pardon them,
They know not what they do."

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Angels of Heaven,

Ye who beheld Him fainting on the cross.
And did him homage, say, may mortal join
The hallelujahs of the risen God?

Will the faint voice and grovelling song be heard
Amid the seraphim in light divine?

Yes, He will deign, the Prince of Peace will deign,
For mercy, to accept the hymn of faith,
Low though it be and humble.-Lord of life,
The Christ, the Comforter, thine advent now
Fills my uprising soul.-I mount, I fly
Far o'er the skies, beyond the rolling orbs;
The bonds of flesh dissolve, and earth recedes,
And care, and pain, and sorrow are no more.

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YET once again, my Harp, yet once again,
One ditty more, and on the mountain ash
I will again suspend thee. I have felt
The warm tear frequent on my cheek, since last,
At eventide, when all the winds were hush'd,
I woke to thee the melancholy song.

Since then with Thoughtfulness, a maid severe,
I've journey'd, and have learn'd to shape the freaks
Of frolic fancy to the line of truth;

Not unrepining, for my froward heart,

Still turns to thee, mine Harp, and to the flow

Of spring-gales past-the woods and storied haunts

Of my not songless boyhood.-Yet once more, Not fearless, I will wake thy tremulous tones, My long-neglected Harp.-He must not sink; The good, the brave-he must not, shall not sink Without the meed of some melodious tear.

Though from the Muse's chalice I may pour
No precious dews of Aganippe's well,
Or Castaly, though from the morning cloud
I fetch no hues to scatter on his hearse:
Yet will I wreathe a garland for his brows,
Of simple flowers, such as the hedge-rows scent
Of Britain, my loved country; and with tears
Most eloquent, yet silent, I will bathe
Thy honour'd corse, my Nelson, tears as warm
And honest as the ebbing blood that flow'd
Fast from thy honest heart.-Thou, Pity, too,
If ever I have loved, with faltering step,
To follow thee in the cold and starless night,
To the top crag of some rain-beaten cliff;
And as I heard the deep gun bursting loud
Amid the pauses of the storm, have pour'd
Wild strains, and mournful, to the hurrying winds,
The dying soul's viaticum; if oft

Amid the carnage of the field I've sate
With thee upon the moonlight throne, and sung
To cheer the fainting soldier's dying soul,
With mercy and forgiveness-visitant
Of Heaven-sit thou upon my harp,
And give it feeling, which were else too cold
For argument so great, for theme so high.
How dimly on that morn the sun arose,
'Kerchief'd in mists, and tearful, when-

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III.

"Tis he, the Lamb, to him we fly,
While the dread tempest passes by;
God sees his Well-beloved's face,
And spares us in our hiding-place.
IV.

Thus while we dwell in this low scene,
The Lamb is our unfailing screen;
To him, though guilty, still we run,
And God still spares us for his Son.
V

While yet we sojourn here below,
Pollutions still our hearts o'erflow;
Fallen, abject, mean, a sentenced race,
We deeply need a hiding-place.

VI.

Yet courage-days and years will glide, And we shall lay these clods aside, Shall be baptized in Jordan's flood, And wash'd in Jesus' cleansing blood.

VII.

Then pure, immortal, sinless, freed,
We through the Lamb shall be decreed ;
Shall meet the Father face to face,
And need no more a hiding-place.

II.

Hark! hark! to God the chorus breaks,
From every host, from every gem;
But one alone the Saviour speaks,
It is the Star of Bethlehem.
III.

Once on the raging seas I rode,

The storm was loud,-the night was dark, The ocean yawn'd-and rudely blow'd

The wind that toss'd my foundering bark.
IV

Deep horror then my vitals froze,

Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem When suddenly a star arose,

It was the Star of Bethlehem.

V.

It was my guide, my light, my all,
It bade my dark forebodings cease;
And through the storm and dangers' thrall,
It led me to the port of peace.

VI.

Now safely moor'd-my perils o'er,
I'll sing, first in night's diadem,

For ever, and for evermore,

The star-The Star of Bethlehem.

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VI.

Then whence it is I cannot tell,
But there is some mysterious spel!

That holds me when I'm glad ; And so the tear-drop fills my eye, When yet in truth I know not why, Or wherefore I am sad.

SOLITUDE.

IT is not that my lot is low,
That bids this silent tear to flow;
It is not grief that bids me moan,
It is that I am all alone.

In woods and glens I love to roam,
When the tired hedger hies him home;
Or by the woodland pool to rest;
When pale the star looks on its breast.

Yet when the silent evening sighs,
With hallow'd airs and symphonies,
My spirit takes another tone,
And sighs that it is all alone.

The autumn leaf is sear and dead,
It floats upon the water's bed;
I would not be a leaf, to die
Without recording sorrow's sigh!

The woods and winds, with sudden wail,
Tell all the same unvaried tale;
I've none to smile when I am free,
And when I sigh, to sigh with me.

Yet in my dreams a form I view,
That thinks on me, and loves me too;
I start, and when the vision's flown,
I weep that I am all alone.

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But though impressions calm and sweet
Thrill round my heart a holy heat,
And I am inly glad,

The tear-drop stands in either eye,
And yet I cannot tell thee why,
I'm pleased, and yet I'm sad.
III.

The silvery rack that flies away
Like mortal life or pleasure's ray,
Does that disturb my breast?
Nay, what have I, a studious man,
To do with life's unstable plan,
Or pleasure's fading vest?
IV.

Is it that here I must not stop,
But o'er yon blue hill's woody top,
Must bend my lonely way?
No, surely no! for give but me
My own fire-side, and I shall be
At home where'er I stray.
V.

Then is it that yon steeple there,
With music sweet shall fill the air,

When thou no more canst hear?
Oh, no! oh, no! for then forgiven
I shall be with my God in Heaven,
Released from every fear.

IF far from me the Fates remove
Domestic peace, connubial love,
The prattling ring, the social cheer,
Affection's voice, affection's tear,
Ye sterner powers, that bind the heart,
To me your iron aid impart !

O teach me, when the nights are chill,
And my fire-side is lone and still;
When to the blaze that crackles near,
I turn a tired and pensive ear,
And Nature conquering bids me sigh,
For love's soft accents whispering nigh;
O teach me, on that heavenly road,
That leads to Truth's occult abode,
To wrap my soul in dreams divine,
Till earth and care no more be mine.
Let bless'd Philosophy impart
Her soothing measures to my heart;
And while with Plato's ravish'd ears
I list the music of the spheres,
Or on the mystic symbols pore,
That hide the Chald's sublimer lore,
I shall not brood on summers gone,
Nor think that I am all alone.

FANNY! upon thy breast I may not lie!
Fanny! thou dost not hear me when I speak!
Where art thou, love ?-Around I turn my eye,
And as I turn, the tear is on my cheek.

Was it a dream? or did my love behold
Indeed my lonely couch ?-Methought the breath
Fann'd not her bloodless lip; her eye was cold
And hollow, and the livery of death
Invested her pale forehead.-Sainted maid

My thoughts oft rest with thee in thy cold grave,
Through the long wintry night, when wind and

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