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 heav'n's high realms we fly, every throne explore;

And

The soul entranc'd, on mighty wings
With all the poet's heat up springs,
And loses earthly woes;

Till all alarmed at the giddy height,
The Muse descends on gentler flight,

And lulls the wearied soul to soft repose.

TO THE MUSE.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN.

I.

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. Why to thy votaries dost thou give to feel So keenly all the scorns- the jeers of life? Why not endow them to endure the strife With apathy's invulnerable steel,

Or self-content and ease, each torturing wound to heal?

II.

Ah! who would taste your self-deluding joys,
That lure the unwary to a wretched doom,

That bid fair views and flattering hopes arise,
Then hurl them headlong to a lasting tomb?
What is the charm which leads thy victims on
To persevere in paths that lead to woe?
What can induce them in that route to go,
In which innumerous before have gone,
And died in misery, poor and woe-begone.

III.

Yet can I ask what charms in thee are found; I, who have drank from thine etherial rill,

And tasted all the pleasures that abound Upon Parnassus, lov'd Aonian hill?

aye thrill!

I, through whose soul the Muses' strains
Oh! I do feel the spell with which I'm tied;
And though our annals fearful stories tell,
How Savage languish'd, and how Otway died,
Yet must I persevere, let whate'er will betide.

TO LOVE.

I.

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?

II.

Why should I seek the thickest shade, Lest Love's dear secret be betrayed? Why the stern brow deceitful move,

When I am languishing with love?

III.

Is it weakness thus to dwell

On passion that I dare not tell?
Such weakness I would ever prove:

'Tis painful, though 'tis sweet, to love.

THE WANDERING BOY,

A SONG.

1.

WHEN the winter wind whistles along the wild moor, And the cottager shuts on the beggar his door; When the chilling tear stands in my comfortless eye, Oh, how hard is the lot of the Wandering Boy!

II.

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.

III.

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 tale.

IV.

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.

V.

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 boy.

FRAGMENT.

THE western gale,

Mild as the kisses of connubial love,

Plays round my languid limbs, as all dissolv'd,
Beneath the ancient elm's fantastic shade

I lie, exhausted with the noontide heat:
While rippling o'er its deep-worn pebble bed,
The rapid rivulet rushes at my feet,

Dispensing coolness. On the fringed marge

Or gaudy daffodil. - 'Tis here, at noon,

The buskin'd wood-nymphs from the heat retire,
And lave them in the fountain; here secure
From Pan, or savage satyr, they disport;
Or stretch'd supinely on the velvet turf,
Lull'd by the laden bee, or sultry fly,
Invoke the God of slumber.