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Sweet flower! that requiem wild is mine,
It warns me to the lonely shrine.

The cold turf altar of the dead;
My grave shall be in that lone spot,
Where as I lie, by all forgot,

A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed.

TO THE MORNING.

Written during illness.

BEAMS of the day-break faint! I hail
Your dubious hues, as on the robe
Of night, which wraps the slumbering globe
I mark your traces pale.
Tired with the taper's sickly light,
And with the wearying, number'd night,

I hail the streaks of morn divine:
And lo! they break between the dewy wreaths
That round my rural casement twine:
The fresh gale o'er the green lawn breathes;
lt fans my feverish brow,-it calms the mental strife,
And cheerily re-illumes the lambent flame of life.

The lark has her gay song begun,
She leaves her grassy nest,

And soars till the unrisen sun

Gleams on her speckled breast,

Now let me leave my restless bed,
And o'er the spangled uplands tread;

Now through the custom'd wood-walk wend;

By many a green lane lies my way,

Where high o'er head the wild briars bend, Till on the mountain's summit gray,

I sit me down, and mark the glorious dawn of day,

H

Oh, Heaven! the soft refreshing gale,
It breathes into my breast!

My sunk eye gleams; my cheek, so pale,
Is with new colours dress'd.

Blithe Health! thou soul of life and ease!
Come thou too, on the balmy breeze,
Invigorate my frame:

I'll join with thee the buskin'd chase,
With thee the distant clime will trace,
Beyond those clouds of flame.

Above, below, what charms unfold
In all the varied view!
Before me all is burnis'd gold,

Behind the twilight's hue.

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The mists which on old Night await,
Far to the west they hold their state,
They shun the clear blue face of Morn;
Along the fine cerulean sky,

The fleecy clouds successive fly,

While bright prismatic beams their shadowy folds adorn.

And hark! the thatcher has begun

His whistle on the eaves,

And oft the hedger's bill is heard
Among the rustling leaves.
The slow team cracks upon the road,
The noisy whip resounds,

The driver's voice, his carol blithe,
The mower's stroke, his whetting scythe,

Mix with the morning's sounds

Who would not rather take his seat
Beneath these clumps of trees,
The early dawn of day to greet,
And catch the healthy breeze,

Than on the silken couch of Sloth
Luxurious to lie?

Who would not from life's dreary waste
Snatch, when he could, with eager haste
An interval of joy?

To him who simply thus recounts
The morning's pleasures o'er,

Fate dooms, ere long, the scene must close
To ope on him no more.

Yet, Morning! unrepining still

He'll greet thy beams awhile;
And surely thou, when o'er his grave
Solemn the whispering willows wave,
Wilt sweetly on him smile;

And the pale glow-worm's pensive light Will guide his ghostly walks in the drear moonless night.

MY OWN CHARACTER.

Addressed (during Illness) to a Lady.

A

DEAR Fanny, I mean, now I'm laid on the shelf,
To give you a sketch-ay, a sketch of myself,
'Tis a pitiful subject, I frankly confess,
And one it would puzzle a painter to dress;
But however, here goes, and as sure as a gun,
I'll tell all my faults like a penitent nun;
For I know, for my Fanny, before I address hér,
She wont be a cynical father confessor.

Come, come, 'twill not do! put that purling brow

down;

You can't, for the soul of you, learn how to frown.
Well, first I premise, it's my honest conviction,
That my breast is a chaos of all contradiction;
Religious-Deistic-now loyal and warm;
Then a dagger-drawn democrat hot for reform;
This moment a fop, that, sententious as Titus;
Democritus now, and anon Heraclitus;

Now laughing and pleased, like a child with a rattle;
Then vex'd to the soul with impertinent tattle
Now moody and sad, now unthinking and gay,
To all points of the compass I veer in a day.

I'm proud and disdainful to Fortune's gay child,
But to Poverty's offspring submissive and mild :
As rude as a boor, and as rough in dispute;
Then as for politeness-oh! dear-I'm a brute!
I shew no respect where I never can feel it ;
And as for contempt, take no pains to conceal it;
And so in the suite, by these laudable ends,
I've a hreat many foes, and a very few friends.
And yet, my dear Fanny, there are who can feel
That this proud heart of mine is not fashion'd like
steel.

It can love (can it not?)—it can hate, I am sure;
And it's friendly enough, though in friends it be poor
For itself though it bleed not, for others it bleeds;
If it have not ripe virtues, I'm sure it's the seeds:
And though far from faultless, or even so-∞,
I think it may pass as our worldly things go.
Well, I've told you my frailties without any gloss;
Then as to my virtues, I'm quite at a loss!
I think I'm devout, and yet I can't say,

But in process of time I may get the wrong way.
I'm a general lover, if that's commendation,

And yet can't withstand, you know whose fascination.
But I find that amidst all my tricks and devices,
In fishing for virtues, I'm pulling up vices;
So as for the good, why, if I possess it,
I am not yet learned enough to express it.
You yourself must examine the lovlier side,
And after your every art you have tried,
Whatever my faults, I may venture to say,
Hypocrisy never will come in your way.

I am upright I hope; I am downright, I'm clear!
And I think my worst foe must allow I'm sincere ;
And if ever sincerity glow'd in my breast,
"Tis now when I swear-

ODE

ON DISAPPOINTMENT.

I.

COME, Disappointment, come :
Not in thy terrors clad ;
Come in thy meekest, saddest guise;
Thy chastening rod but terrifies
The restless and the bad.

But I recline
Beneath thy shrine,

And round my brow resign'd, thy peaceful cypress twine.

II.

Though Fancy flies away

Before thy hollow tread,
Yet meditation, in her cell,

Hears with faint eye, the lingering knell,
That tells her hopes are dead;

And though the tear

By chance appear,

Yet she can smile, and say, My all was not laid here.

III.

Come, Disappointment come!

Though from Hope's summit hurl'd,

Still, rigid Nurse, thou art forgiven,

For thou severe were sent from heaven
To wean me from the world:

To turn my eye

From vanity,

And point to scenes of bliss that never, never die.

IV.

What is this passing scene?

A peevish April day!

A little sun---a little rain,

And then night sweeps along the plain,

And all things fade away.

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