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Beyond the stars, and all this passing scene,

But soon inured to alphabetic tolls, Where change shall cease, and Time shall be no Alert I met the dame with jocund smiles; more.

First at the form, my task for ever true,
A little favourite rapidly I grew :
And oft she stroked my head with fond delight,
Held me a pattern to the dunce's sight,
And as she gave iny diligenoe its praise,

Talk'd of the honours of my future days.

Oh! had the venerable matron thought

Of all the ills by talent often brought;

Could she have seen me when revolving years
Had brought me deeper in the vale of tears,
Then had she wept, and wish'd any wayward fate

Had been a lowlier, an unletter'd state;

Wish'd that, remote from worldly woes and strife,

Unknown, unheard, I might have pass'd thro' life. PICTURED in memory's mellowing glass how Our infant days, our infant joys to greet; (sweet Where, in the busy scene, by peace unbless'd, To roam in fancy in each cherish'd scene,

Shall the poor wanderer find a place of rest? The village church-yard, and the village-green, A lonely mariner on the stormy main, The woodland walk remote, the greenwood glade, Without a hope, the calms of peace to gain; The mossy seat beneath the hawihorn shade, Long toss'd by tempest o'er the world's wide shore, The white-wash'd cottage, where the woodbine When shall his spirit rest to toil no more?. grew,

Not till the light foam of the sea shall lave And all the favourite haunts our childhood knew! The sandy surface of his unwept grave. How sweet, while all the evil shuns the gaze, Childhood, to thee I turn, from life's alarms, To view th' unclouded skies of former days! Serenest season of perpetual calms,

Turn with delight, and bid the passions cease, Beloved age of innocence and smiles,

And joy to think with thee I tasted peace. When each wing'd hour some new delight beguiles. Sweet reign of innocence when no crime defiles, When the gay heart, to life's sweet day-spring true, But each new object brings attendant smiles; Still finds some insect pleasure to pursue.

When future evils never haunt the sight,
Bless'd Childhood, hail -Thee simply will I sing, But all is pregnant with unmix'd delight;
And from myself the artless picture bring ;

To thee I turn, from riot and from noise,
These long-lost scenes to me the past restore, Turn to partake of more congenial joys.
Each humble friend, each pleasure now no more,
And every stump familiar to my sight

'Neath yonder elm, that stands upon the moor, Recalls some fond idea of delight.

When the clock spoke the hour of labour o'er,

What clamorous throngs, what happy groups were This shrubby knoll was once my favourite seat;

seen, Here did I love at evening to retreat,

In various postures scattering o'er the green ! And muse alone, till in the vault of night,

Some shoot the marble, cthers join the chase Hesper, aspiring, show'd his golden light,

Of self-made stag, or run the emulous race; Here once again, remote from human noise, While others, seated on the dappled grass, I sit me down to think of former joys; [more,

With doleful tales the light-wing'd minutes pase. Pause on each scene, each treasured scene, once Well I remember how, with gesture starch'd, And once again each infant walk explore,

A band of soldiers, oft with pride we march'd; While as each grove and lawn I recognize,

For banners, to a tall ąsh we did bind My melted soul suffuses in my eyes.

Our handkerchiefs, flapping to the whistling wind;

And for our warlike arms we sought the mead, And oh ! thou Power, whose myriad trains resort And guns and spears we made of brittle reed; To distant scenes, and picture them to thought; Then, in uncouth array, our feats to crown, Whose mirror, held unto the mourner's eye, We storm'd some ruin'd pig-sty for a town. Flings to his soul a borrow'd gleam of joy; Bless'd memory, guide, with finger nicely true,

Pleased with our gay disports, the dame was Back to my youth my retrospective view;

wont Recall with faithful vigour to my mind,

To set her wheel before the cottage front, Each face familiar, each relation kind;

And o'er her spectacles would often peer, And all the finer traits of them afford,

To view our gambols, and our boyish geer. Whose general outline in my heart is stored. Still as she look'd, her wheel kept turning round,

With its beloved monotony of sound. In yonder cot, along whose mouldering walls, When tired with play, we'd set us by her side, In many a fold the mantling woodbine falls, (For out of school she never knew to chide) -The village matron kept her little school,

And wonder at her skill-well known to fame-Gentle of heart, yet knowing well to rule;

For who could match in spinning with the dame? Staid was the dame, and modest was her mien; Her sheets, her linen, which she show'd with pride Her garb was coarse, yet whole, and nicely clean: To strangers, still her thriftness testified; Her neatly border'd cap, as lily fair,

Though we poor wights did wonder much in troth, Beneath her chin was pinn'd with decent care; How 'twas her spinning manufactured cloth. And pendent ruffles, of the whitest lawn, Of ancient make, hez elbows did ador.

Oft would we leave, though well-beloved, our play, Paint with old age, and dim were grown her eyes,

To chat at home the vacant hour away. A pair of spectacles their want supplies;

Many's the time I've scamper'd down the glade, These does she guard secure in leathern case, To ask the promised ditty from the maid, From thoughtless wights, in some unweeted place.

Which well she loved, as well she knew to sing,

While we around her form'd a little ring: Here first I enter'd, though with toil and pain,

She told of innocence foredoom'd to bleed, The low vestibule of learning's fane;

Of wicked guardians bent on bloody deed, Enter'd with pain, yet soon I found the way, Or little children murder'd as they slept; Though sometimes toilsome, many a sweet

display. While at each pause we wrung our hands and wept Much did I grieve, on that ill-fated morn,

Sad was such tale, and wonder much did we, While I was first to school reluctant borne:

Such hearts of stone there in the world could be. Severe I thought the dame, though' oft she tried Poor simple wights, ah ! little did we ween To soothe my swelling spirits when I sigh'd ;

The uls that wait on man in life's sad scene! And oft, when harshly she reproved, I wept, Ah, little thought that we ourselves should know, To my lone corner broken-hearted crept, [kept. This world's a world of weeping and of wo! And thought of tender home, where anger never

Beloved moment! then 'twas first I caught

The first foundation of romantic thought; • This appears to be one of the Author's earliest Then first I shed bold Fancy's thrilling tear, productions: written when about the age of 14. Then first that poesy charm'd mine intant ear.


Soon stored with much of legendary lore,

While sorrow and disease with anguish rife, The sports of Childhood charm'd my soul no more. Consume apace the ebbing springs of life.

Again I see his door against thee shut, Far from the scene of gayety and noise,

The unfeeling native turn thee from his hut: Far, far from turbulent and empty joys,

I see thee, spent with toil and worn with grief, I hied me to the thick o'er-arching shade,

Sit on the grass, and wish the long'd relief; And there, on mossy carpet, listless laid,

Then lie thee down, the stormy struggle o'er,
While at my feet the rippling runnel ran,

Thine on thy native land-and rise no more!
The days of wild romance antique I'd scan;
Soar on the wings of fancy through the air,

Oh! that thou couldst, from thine august abode To realms of light, and pierce the radiance there. Survey thy friend in life's dismaying road ;

That thou couldst see him at this moment here
Embalm thy memory with a pious tear,
And hover o'er him as he gazes round,

Where all the scenes of infant joys surround.

Yes! yes! his spirit's near |_The whispering

THERE are, who think that Childhood does not Conveys his voice sad sighing on the trees :
With age the cup, the bitter cup of care: [share And lo! his form transparent I perceive,
Alas! they know not this unhappy truth,

Borne on the gray mist of the sullen eve:
That every age, and rank, is born to ruth.

He hovers near, clad in the night's dim robe,

While deathly silence reigns upon the globe.
From the first dawn of reason in the mind, Yet ah! whence comes this visionary scene ?
Man is foredoom'd the thorns of grief to find; 'Tis Fancy's wild aerial dream I ween;
At every step has farther cause to know,

By her inspired, when reason takes its flight,
The draught of pleasure still is dash'd with wo. What fond illusions beam upon the sight!

She waves her hand, and lo! what forms appear ! Yet in the youthful breast for ever caught What magic sounds salute the wondering ear! With some new object for romantic thought, Once more o'er distant regions do we tread, The impression of the moment quickly flies, And the cold grave yields up its cherish'd dead; And with the morrow every sorrow dies.

While present sorrow's banísh'd far away,

Unclouded azure gilds the placid day, How different manhood !-then does Thought's Or in the future's cloud-encircled face, control

Fair scenes of bliss to come we fondly trace, Sink every pang still deeper in the soul ;

And draw minutely every little wile, Then keen Affliction's sad unceasing smart

Which shall the feathery hours of time beguile Becomes a painful resident in the heart; And Care, whom not the gayest can out-brave, So when forlorn, and lonesome at her gate, Pursues its feeble victim to the grave.

The Royal Mary solitary sate, Then, as each long known friend is summon'a And view'd the moon-beam trembling on the wave, hence,

And heard the hollow surge her prison lave, We feel a void no joy can recompense,

Towards France's distant coast she bent her sight, And as we weep o'er every new-made tomb, For there her sunl had wing'd its longing flight; Wish that ourselves the next inay meet our doom. There did she form full many a scheme of joy,

Visions of bliss unclouded with alloy, Yes, Childhood, thee no rankling woes purue, Which bright thro' Hope's deceitful optics beam'd, No forms of future ill salute thy view,

And all became the surety which it seem'd; No pangs repentant bid thee wake to weep,

She wept, yet felt, while all within was calm, But halcyon peace protects thy downy sleep, In every tear a melancholy charm. And sanguine Hope, through every storm of life, Shoots her brighi beams, and calms the internal To yonder hill, whose sides, deform'd and steep, strife.

(shrine, Just yield a scanty sust'nance to the sheep, Yet even round childhood's heart, a thoughtless With thee, my friend, I oftentimes have sped, Affection's little thread will ever twine;

To see the sun rise from his healthy bed;
And though but frail may seem each tender tie, To watch the aspect of the summer mom,
The soul foregoes them but with many a sigh. Smiling upon the golden fields of corn,
Thus, when the long-expected moment came, And taste delighted of superior joys,
When forced to leave the gentle-hearted dame, Beheld through Sympathy's enchanted eyes :
Reluctant throbbings rose within my breast,

With silent adıniration oft we view'd
And a still tear my silent grief express'd.

The myriad hues o'er heaven's blue concave strevd; When to the public school compelld to go,

The fleecy clouds, of every tint and shade, What novel scenes did on my senses flow!

Round which the silvery sunbeam glancing play'd, There in each breast each active power dilates, And the round orb itself, in azure throne, Which broils whole nations, and convulses states; Just peeping o'er the blue hill's ridgy zone; There reigns by turns alternate, love and hate, We mark'd delighted, how with aspect gay, Ambition burns, and factious rebels prate;

Reviving Nature hail'd returning day; [heads, And in a smaller range, a smaller sphere,

Mark'd how the flowerets rear'd their drooping The dark deformities of man appear.

And the wild lambkins hounded o'er the meads, Yet there the gentler virtues kindred claim, While from each tree, in tones of sweet delight, There Friendship lights her pure untainted flame, The birds sung paans to the source of light: There mild Benevolence delights to dwell,

Oft have we watch'd the speckled lark arise, And sweet Contentment rests without her cell, Leave his grass bed, and soar to kindred skies, And there, mid many a stormy soul, we find And rise, and rise, till the pain'd sight no more The good of heart, the intelligent of mind.

Could trace him in his high aerial tour;

Though on the ear, at intervals, his song 'Twas there, o George! with thee I learn'd to join Came wafted slow the wavy breeze along; In Friendship's bands-in amity divine.

And we have thought how happy were our lot,
Oh, mournful thought!-Where is thy spirit now? Bless'd with some sweet, some solitary cot,
As here I sit on favourite Logar's brow,

Where, from the peep of day, till russet eve
And trace below each well-remember'd glade, Began in every dell her forms to weave,
Where arm in arm, erewhile with thee I stray'd. We might pursue our sports from day to day,
Where art thou laid-on what untrodden shore, And in each other's arms wear life away.
Where nought is heard save ocean's sullen roar,
Dost thou in lowly, unlamente state,

At sultry noon too, when our toils were done, At last repose from all the storms of fate?

We to the gloomy glen were wont to run;
Methinks I see thee struggling with the wave, There on the turf we lay, while at our feet
Without one aiding hand stretch'd out to save; The cooling rivulet rippled softly sweet :
See thee convulsed, thy looks to heaven bend, And mused on holy theme, and ancient lore,
And send thy parting sigh unto thy friend;

Of deeds, and days, and heroes now no more;
Or where immeasurable wilds dismay,

Heard, as his solemn harp Isaiah swept, Forlorn and sad thou bend'st thy weary way, Sung wo unto the wicked land—and wept;

Or, fancy-led-saw Jeremiah mourn

It catches all the infant's wandering tongue, In solemn sorrow o'er Judea's urn.

And prattles on in desultory song. Then to another shore perhaps would rove,

That song must close--the gloomy mists of night With Plato talk in his flyssian grove;

Obscure the pale stars' visionary light, Or, wandering where the Thespian palace rose,

And elion darkness, clad in vapoury wet, Weep once again o'er fair Jocasta's woes.

Steals on the welkin in primæval jet. Sweet then to us was that romantic band,

The song must close. Once more my adverse lot The ancient legends of our native land

Leads me reluctant from this cherish'd spot :
Chivalric Britomart, and Una fair,

Again compels to plunge in busy life,
And courteous Constance, doom'd' to dark despair, And brave the hateful turbulence of strife.
By turns our thoughts engaged ; and oft we talk'd,
Df times when monarch superstition stalkd,

Scenes of my youth-ere my unwilling feet
And when the blood-fraught galliots of Rome Are turn'd for ever from this loved retreat,
Brought the grand Druid fabric to its doom : Ere on these fields, with plenty cover'd o'er,
While, where the wood-hung Meinai's waters flow, My eyes are closed to ope on them na more,
The hoary harpers pour'd the strain of wo.

Let me ejaculate, to feeling due,

One long, one last affectionate adieu. While thus employ'd, to us how sad the bell Grant that, if ever Providence should please Which summond us to school! 'Twas Fancy's To give me an old age of peace and ease, And, sadly sounding on the sullen ear, [knell, Grant that, in these sequester'd shades, my days It spoke of study pale, and chilling fear.

May wear away in gradual decays;
Yet even then, ifor oh! what chains can bind, And oh! ye spirits, who unbodied play,
What powers control, the energies of mind!) Unseen upon the pinions of the day,
Even then we soard to many a height sublime, Kind genii of my native fields benign,
And many a day-dream charm'd the lazy time. Who were

At evening too, how pleasing was our walk,
Endear'd by Friendship's unrestrained talk,
When to the upland heights we bent our way,
To view the last beam of departing day;
How calm was all around! no playful breeze

Sigh'd mid the wavy foliage of the trees,
But all was still, save when, with drowsy song,
The gray-fly wound his sullen horn along;

And save when, heard in soft, yet merry glee,
The distant church-bells' mellow harmony;

The silver mirror of the lucid brook,
That mid the tufted broom its still course took ;
The rugged arch, that clasp'd its silent tides,

WRITTEN AT A VERY EARLY AGE. With moss and rank weeds hanging down its

sides : The craggy rock, that jutted on the sight; The shrieking bat, that took its heavy flight;

TIIE DANCE OF THE CONSUMPTIVES. All, all was pregnant with divine delighi. We loved to watch the swallow swimming high, In the bright azure of the vaulted sky;

1. Or gaze upon the clouds, whose colour'd pride

DING-DONG! ding-dong! Was scatter'd thinly o'er the welkin wide,

Merry, merry, go the bells, And tinged with such variety of shade,

Ding-dong! ding-dong! To the charm'd soul sublimest thoughts convey'd. Over the heath, over the moor, and over the dale, In these what forms romantic did we trace,

Swinging slow with sullen roar,' While Fancy led us o'er the realms of space! Dance, dance away the jocund roundelay! Now we espied the Thunder er in his car,

Ding-dong, ding-uong, calls us away, Leading the embattled seraphim to war,

2. Then stately towers descried, sublimely high, In Gothic grandeur frowning on the sky

Round the oak, and round the elm, Or saw, wide stretching o'er the azure height, Merrily foot it o'er the ground! A ridge of glaciers in mural white,

The sentry ghost it stands aloof,
Hugely terrific. But those times are o'er,

So merrily, merrily foot it round.
And the fond scene can charm mine eyes no more Ding-dong! ding-dong!
For thou art gone, and I am left below,

Merry, merry go the bells, alone to struggle through this world of wo.

Swelling in the nightly gale,

The sentry ghost,
The scene is o'er-still seasons onward roll,

It keeps its post,
And each revolve conducts me toward the goal; And soon, and soon our sports must fails
Yet all is blank, without one soft relief,

But let us trip the nightly ground,
One endless continuity of grief;

While the merry, merry bells ring round. And the tired soul, now led to thoughts sublime,

3. Looks but for rest beyond the bounds of time.

Hark!, hark! the death-watch ticks! Toil on, toil on, ye busy crowds, that pant

See, see, the winding-sheet For hoards of wealth which ye will never want:

Our dance is done, And, lost to all but gain, with ease resign

Our race is run, The calms of peace and happiness divine!

And we must lie at the alder's feet! Far other cares be mine-Men little crave

Ding-dong, ding.dong, In this short journey to the silent grave,

Merry, merry go the bells, And the poor peasant, bless'd with peace and health, Swinging o'er the weltering wave! I envy more than Croesus with his wealth.

And we must seek Yet grieve not I, that Fate did not decree

Our death-beds bleak, Paternal acres to await on mé;

Where the green sod grows upon the grave. She gave me more, she placed within my breast A heart with little pleased-with little bless'd. They vanishThe Goddess of Consumption descends, I look around me, where, on every side,

habited in a sky-blue Robe, attended by mournful Extensive manors spread in wealthy pride;

And could my sight be borne to either zone,
I should not find one foot of land my own.

Come, Melancholy, sister mine!

Cold the dews, and chil the night!
But whither do I wander ? shall the muse, Come from thy dreary shrine!
For golden baits, her simple theme refuse?

The wan moon climbs the heavenly height, Oh, no! but while the weary spirit greets

And underneath the sickly ray, The fading scenes of childhood's far-gone sweets, Troops of squalid spectres play,

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And the dying mortals' groan

Thou dost pursue thy solitary course ? Startles the night on her dusky throne.

Has thy Endymion, smooth-faced boy, forsook Come, come, sister mine!

Thy widow'd breast-on which the spoiler oft
Gliding on the pale moon-shine:

Has nestled fondly, while the silver clouds
We'll ride at ease,

Fantastic pillow'd thee, and the dim night,
On the tainted breeze,

Obsequious to thy will, encurtain'd round
Ana oh! our sport will be divine.

With its thick friuge thy couch ?-Wan traveller,

How like thy fate to mine !-Yet I have still
The Goddess of Melancholy advances out of a deep One heavenly hope remaining, which thou lack'st,

Glen in the rear, habited in Black, and covered My woes will soon be buried in the grave
with a thick Veil-She speaks

of kind forgetfulness:-my journey here,

Though it be darksome, joyless, and forlorn, Sister, from my dark abode,

Is yet but short, and soon my weary feet Where nests the raven, sits the toad,

will greet the peaceful inn of lasting rest. Hither I come, at thy command :

But thou, unhappy Queen! art doom'd to trace Sister, sister, join thy hand!

Thy lonely walk in the drear realms of night, Sister, sister, join thy hand!

While many a lagging age sball sweep beneath I will smooth the way for thee,

The leaden pinions of unshak

time; Thou shalt furnish food for me.

Though not a hope shall spread its glittering hue Come, let us speed our way

To cheat thy steps along the weary way. Where the troops of spectres play.

o that the sum of human happiness To charnel-houses, church-yards drear,

Should be so trifling, and so frail withal, Where Death sits with a horrible leer,

That when possessid, it is but lessen'd grief; A lasting grin, on a throne of bones,

And even then there's scarce a sudden gust
And skim along the blue tomb-stones.

That blows across the dismal waste of life,
Come, let us speed away,

But bears it from the view.-Oh! who would Lay our snares, and spread our tether!

shun I will smooth the way for thec,

The hour that cuts from earth, and fear to press
Thou shalt furnish food for me:

The calm and peaceful pillows of the grave,
And the grass shall wave

And yet endure the various ills of life.
O'er many a grave,

And dark vicissitudes !--Soon, I hope, I feel,
Where youth and beauty sleep together. And am assured, that I shall lay my head,

My weary aching head, on its last rest,

And on my lowly bed the grass-green sod

Will flourish sweetly.-And then they will weep Come, let us speed our way!

That one so young, and what they're pleased to Join our hands, and spread our tether!

call I will furnish food for thee,

So beautiful, should die so soon-And tell
Thou shalt smooth the way for me ;

How painful Disappointment's canker'd fang
And the grass shall wave

Wither'd the rose upon my maiden cheek.
O'er many a grave,

Oh, foolish ones! why, I shall sleep so sweetly,
Where youth and beauty sleep together. Laid in my darksome grave, that they themselves

Might envy me iny rest –And as for them,

Who, on the score of former intimacy,

May thus remembrance me--they must themselves Hist, sister, hist! who comes here?

Successive fall. Oh! I know her by that tear,

Around the winter fire By that blue eye's languid glare,

(When out-a-doors the biting frost congeals, By her skin, and by her hair

And shrill the skater's irons on the pool
She is mine,

Ring loud, as by the moonlight he performs
And she is thine,

His graceful evolutions, they not long,
Now the deadliest draught prepare.

Shall sit and chat of older times, and feats

Of early youth, but silent, one by one,

Shall drop into their shrouds.-Some, in their age,

Ripe for the sickle; others young, like me, In the dismal nignt air dress'd,

and falling green beneath th' untimely stroke I will creep into her breast :

Thus, in short time, in the church-yard forlorn, Flush her cheek, and bleach her skin,

Where I shall lie, my friends will lay them down, And feed on the vital fire within.

And dwell with me, a happy family. Lover, do not trust her eyes,

And oh! thou cruel, yet beloved youth, When they sparkle most, she dies !

Who now hast left me hopeless here to nourn, Mother, do not trust her breath,

Do thou but shed one tear upon my corse, Comfort she will breathe in death!

And say that I was gentle, and deserved Father, do not strive to save her,

A better lover, and I shall forgive She is mine, and I must have her!

All, all thy wrongs;- and then do thou forget The coffin must be her bridal bed;

The hapless Margaret, and be as bless'd The winding-sheet must wrap her head ;

As wish can make thee-Laugh, and play, and The whispering winds must o'er her sigh,

sing, For soon in the grave the maid must lie,

With thy dear choice, and never think of me.
The worm it will riot
On heavenly diet,

Yet hist, I hear a step. In this dark wood-
When death has deflower'd her eye.

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Forsake the loved Aonian maids,

Why to thy votaries dost thou give to feel For all the petty tricks of trades,

So keenly all the scorns—the jeers of life? I never, either now, or long since,

Why not endow them to endure the strife Have heard of such a piece of nonsense;

With apathy's invulnerable steel, That one who learning's joys hath felt,

Of self-content and ease, each torturing wound And at the Muse's altar knelt,

to heal ?
Should leave a life of sacred leisure,
To taste the accumulating pleasure;
And, metamorphosed to an alley duck,

Ah! who would taste your self-deluding joys, Grovel in loads of kindred muck.

That lure the unwary to a wretched doom, Oh! 'tis beyond my comprehension !

That bid fair views and flattering hopes arise, A courtier throwing up his pension,

Then hurl them headlong to a lasting tomb ? A lawyer working without a fee,

What is the charm which leads thy victims on A parson giving charity,

To persevere in paths that lead to wo? A truly pious methodist preacher,

What can induce them in that rout to go, Are not, egad, so out of nature.

In which innumerous before have gone, Had nature made thee half a fool,

And died in misery, poor wo-begone.
But given thee wit to keep a school,

I had not stared at thy backsliding:
But when thy wit I can confide in,

Yet can I ask what charms in thee are found; When well I know thy just pretence

I, who have drank from thine ethereal rill, To solid and exalted sense;

And tasted all the pleasures that abound When well I know that on thy head

Upon Parnassus' loved Aonian hill ? [thrill! Philosophy her lights hath shed,

I, through whose soul the Muses' strains aye I stand aghast! thy virtues sum too,

Oh! I do feel the spell with which I'm tied ; And wonder what this world will come to !

And though our annals fearful stories tell,

How Savage languish'd, and how Otway died, Yet, whence this strain ? shall I repine

Yet must I persevere, let whate'er will betide. That thou alone dost singly shine ? Shall I lament that thou alone, Of men of parts, hast prudence known?




WHY should I blush to own I love?
'Tis Love that rules the realms above.
Why should I blush to say to all,
That Virtue holds my heart in thrall ?

Age Fourteen.


Why should I seek the thickest shade,
Lest Love's dear secret be betray'd ?
Why the stern brow deceitful move,
When I am languishing with love ?

Is it weakness thus to dwell
On passion that I dare not tell ?
Such weakness I would ever prove;
'Tis painful, though 'tis sweei to love.



OH, Warton! to thy soothing shell,
Stretch'd remote in hermit cell,
Where the brook runs babbling by
For ever I could listening lie;
And, catching all the Muse's fire,
Hold converse with the tuneful quire.
What pleasing themes thy page adorn,
The ruddy streaks of cheerful morn,
The pastoral pipe, the ode sublime,
And Melancholy's mournful chime!
Each with unwonted graces shines
In thy ever lovely lines.
Thy Muse deserves the lasting meed;
Attuning sweet the Dorian reed,
Now the love-lorn swain complains,
And sings his sorrows to the plains;
Now the sylvan scenes appear
Through all the changes of the year ;
Or the elegiac strain
Softly sings of mental pain,
And mournful diapasons sail
On the faintly-dying gale.

But, ah ! the soothing scene is o'er

On middle flight we cease to soar,
For now the muse assumes a bolder sweep,
Strikes on the lyric string her sorrows deep,

In strains unheard before.
Now, now the rising fire thrills high,
now, now to heaven's high realms we fly,

And every throne explore;
The soul entranced, on mighty wings
With all the poet's heat up springs,

And loses earthly woes;
Till all alarm'd at the giddy height,
The Muse descends on gentler flight,

And lulls the wearied soul to soft repose.

WHEN the winter wind whistles along the wild

And the cottager shuts on the beggar his door ;
When the chilling tear stands in my comfortless

Oh, how hard is the lot of the Wandering Boy!

The winter is cold, and I have no vest,
And my heart it is cold as it beats in my breast;
No father, no mother, no kindred have I
For I am a parentless Wandering Boy.

Yet I had a home, and I once had a sire,
A mother who granted each infant desire;
Our cottage it stood in a wood embower'd vale
Where the ring-dove would warble its sorrowful

But my father and mother were summon'd away,
And they left me to hard-hearted strangers a prey;
I fled from their rigour with many a sigh,
And now I'm a poor little Wandering Boy.



ILL-FATED maid, in whose unhappy train
Chill poverty and misery are seen,

Anguish and discontent, the unhappy bane
Of life, and blackener of each brighter scene.

The wind it is keen and the snow loads the gale,
And no one will list to my innocent tale;
I'll go to the grave where my parents both lie,
And death shall befriend the poor Wandering Bo7

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