LINES TO W. L.

WHILE HE SANG A SONG TO PURCELL'S MUSIC.

WHILE my young cheek retains its healthful hues,
And I have many friends who hold me dear;
L-! methinks, I would not often hear
Such melodies as thine, lest I should lose
All memory of the wrongs and sore distress,
For which my miserable brethren weep!
But should uncomforted misfortunes steep
My daily bread in tears and bitterness;
And if at death's dread moment I should lie
With no beloved face at my bed-side,
To fix the last glance of my closing eye,
Methinks, such strains, breathed by my angel guide,
Would make me pass the cup of anguish by,

Mix with the blest, nor know that I had died!

ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG MAN OF FORTUNE WHO ABANDONED HIMSELF TO AN INDOLENT

AND CAUSELESS MELANCHOLY.

HENCE that fantastic wantonness of woe,
O Youth to partial fortune vainly dear!
To plundered want's half-sheltered hovel go,
Go, and some hunger-bitten infant hear

Moan haply in a dying mother's ear:

Or when the cold and dismal fog-damps brood O'er the rank church-yard with sear elm-leaves strewed,

Pace round some widow's grave, whose dearer part Was slaughtered, where o'er his uncoffined limbs The flocking flesh-birds screamed! Then, while

thy heart

Groans, and thine eye a fiercer sorrow dims, Know (and the truth shall kindle thy young mind) What nature makes thee mourn, she bids thee heal! O abject! if, to sickly dreams resigned, All effortless thou leave life's commonweal A prey to tyrants, murderers of mankind.

SONNET TO THE RIVER OTTER.

DEAR native brook! wild streamlet of the west!
How many various-fated years have past,
What happy, and what mournful hours, since last
I skimmed the smooth thin stone along thy breast,
Numbering its light leaps! yet so deep imprest
Sink the sweet scenes of childhood, that mine eyes
I never shut amid the sunny ray,

But straight with all their tints thy waters rise,

Thy crossing plank, thy marge with willows gray, And bedded sand that, veined with various dyes,

Gleamed through thy bright transparence! On my

way,

Visions of childhood! oft have ye beguiled Lone manhood's cares, yet waking fondest sighs: Ah! that once more I were a careless child!

SONNET.

COMPOSED ON A JOURNEY HOMEWARD; THE AUTHOR HAVING RECEIVED INTELLIGENCE OF THE

BIRTH OF A SON, SEPT. 20, 1796.

OFT o'er my brain does that strange fancy roll
Which makes the present (while the flash doth

last)

Seem a mere semblance of some unknown past, Mixed with such feelings, as perplex the soul Self-questioned in her sleep; and some have said1 We lived, ere yet this robe of flesh we wore. O my sweet baby! when I reach my door, If heavy looks should tell me thou art dead, (As sometimes, through excess of hope, I fear) I think that I should struggle to believe

Thou wert a spirit, to this nether sphere Sentenced for some more venial crime to grieve; Did'st scream, then spring to meet heaven's quick reprieve,

While we wept idly o'er thy little bier!

15 Ην που ἡμῶν ἡ ψύχη πρὶν ἐν τῷδε τῷ ἀνθρωπίνῳ εἴδει yevioα.-Plat. in Phædon.

SONNET.

TO A FRIEND WHO ASKED, HOW I FELT WHEN THE

NURSE FIRST PRESENTED MY INFANT TO ME.

CHARLES! my slow heart was only sad, when first
I scanned that face of feeble infancy:
For dimly on my thoughtful spirit burst
All I had been, and all my child might be!
But when I saw it on its mother's arm,

And hanging at her bosom (she the while
Bent o'er its features with a tearful smile)
Then I was thrilled and melted, and most warm
Impressed a father's kiss: and all beguiled
Of dark remembrance and presageful fear,
I seemed to see an angel-form appear―
"Twas even thine, beloved woman mild!

So for the mother's sake the child was dear,
And dearer was the mother for the child.

THE VIRGIN'S CRADLE-HYMN.

COPIED FROM A PRINT OF THE VIRGIN, IN A ROMAN CATHOLIC VILLAGE IN GERMANY.

DORMI, Jesu! mater ridet

Quæ tam dulcem somnum videt,

Dormi, Jesu! blandule!
Si non dormis, mater plorat,

Inter fila cantans orat,

Blande, veni, somnule.

ENGLISH.

Sleep, sweet babe! my cares beguiling:
Mother sits beside thee smiling;

Sleep, my darling, tenderly!

If thou sleep not, mother mourneth,
Singing as her wheel she turneth:
Come, soft slumber, balmily!

EPITAPH ON AN INFANT.

Its balmy lips the infant blest
Relaxing from its mother's breast,
How sweet it heaves the happy sigh
Of innocent satiety !

And such my infant's latest sigh!
O tell, rude stone! the passer-by,
That here the pretty babe doth lie,
Death sang to sleep with lullaby.

MELANCHOLY

A FRAGMENT.

STRETCH'D on a mouldered abbey's broadest wall,
Where running ivies propped the ruins steep—
Her folded arms wrapping her tattered pall,
Had Melancholy mus'd herself to sleep.