Hugely terrific. But those times are o'er,

And the fond scene can charm mine eyes no more;

For thou art gone, and I am left below,

Alone to struggle thro' this world of woe.

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

210

And each revolve conducts me toward the goal;
Yet all is blank, without one soft relief,
One endless continuity of grief;

215

And the tir'd soul, now led to thoughts sublime,
Looks but for rest beyond the bounds of time.

pant

Toil on, toil on, ye busy crouds, that
For hoards of wealth which ye will never want;

And, lost to all but gain, with ease resign

220

The calms of peace and happiness divine!

Far other cares be mine-Men little crave

In this short journey to the silent grave;

And the poor peasant, bless'd with peace and health,
I envy more than Croesus with his wealth.

225

Yet grieve not I, that fate did not decree

I

Paternal acres to await on me;

She gave me more, she plac'd within my breast
A heart with little pleas'd-with little blest:

I look around me, where, on every side,
Extensive manors spread in wealthy pride;
And could my sight be born to either zone,
I should not find one foot of land my own.

But whither do I wander? shall the muse,
For golden baits, her simple theme refuse:

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935

Oh, no! but while the weary spirit greets
The fading scenes of Childhood's far-gone sweets,
It catches all the infant's wandering tongue,
And prattles on in desultory song.

That song must close-the gloomy mists of night
Obscure the pale stars' visionary light,

And ebon darkness, clad in vapoury wet,
Steals on the welkin in primæval jet.

The song must close. Once more my adverse lot
Leads me reluctant from this cherish'd spot;
Again compels to plunge in busy life,
And brave the hateful turbulence of strife.

Scenes of my youth-ere my unwilling feet
Are turn'd for ever from this lov'd retreat,
Ere on these fields, with plenty cover'd o'er,
My eyes are clos'd to ope on them no more,
Let me ejaculate to feeling due,
One long, one last, affectionate adieu.
Grant that, if ever Providence should please
To give me an old age of peace and ease,
Grant that in these sequester'd shades my days

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245

250

255

May wear away in gradual decays:

And oh, ye spirits, who unbodied play,

Unseen upon the pinions of the day,

Kind genii of my native fields benign,
Who were *

260

FRAGMENT

OF AN

ECCENTRIC DRAMA.

Written at a very early Age.

In a little volume which Henry had copied out, apparently for the press, before the publication of Clifton Grove, the song with which this fragment commences was inserted, under the title of "The Dance of the Consumptives, in imitation of Shakespeare, taken from an Eccentric Drama, written by H. K. W. when very young." The rest was discovered among his loose papers, in the first rude draught, having, to all appearance, never been transcribed. The song was extracted when he was sixteen, and must have been written at least a year before, probably more, by the hand-writing. There is something strikingly wild and and original in the fragment.

Over the heath, over the moor, and over the dale,
66 Swinging slow with sullen roar,"

Dance, dance away, the jocund roundelay!
Ding-dong, ding-dong, calls us away.

2.

Round the oak, and round the elm,
Merrily foot it o'er the ground!
The sentry ghost it stands aloof,
So merrily, merrily, foot it round.
Ding-dong! ding-dong!
Merry, merry, go the bells,
Swelling in the nightly gale.

And

The sentry ghost,

It keeps its post,

soon, and soon, our sports must fail:

But let us trip the nightly ground,

While the merry, merry bells ring round.

3.

Hark! hark! the death watch ticks!

See, see, the winding sheet!

Our dance is done,

Our race is run,

And we must lie at the alder's feet!

Ding-dong, ding-dong,

Merry, merry, go the bells, Swinging o'er the weltering wave!

And we must seek

Our death-beds bleak,

Where the

green sod grows upon the grave.

They vanish-The Goddess of Consumption descends, habited in a sky-blue Robe-Attended by mournful Music.

COME, Melancholy, sister mine!

Cold the dews, and chill the night:
Come from thy dreary shrine!

The wan moon climbs the heavenly height,

And underneath her sickly ray,

Troops of squalid spectres play,

And the dying mortals' groan

Startles the night on her dusky throne.

Come, come, sister mine!

Gliding on the pale moonshine:

We'll ride at ease,

On the tainted breeze,

And oh! our sport will be divine.

The Goddess of Melancholy advances out of a deep Glen in the rear, habited in Black, and covered with a thick Veil-She speaks.

Sister, from my dark abode,

Where nests the raven, sits the toad,

Hither I come, at thy command;

Sister, sister, join thy hand;

Sister, sister, join thy hand!

I will smooth the way for thee,

Thou shalt furnish food for me.

Come, let us speed our way

Where the troops of spectres play,