A young man's arm! I'll melt these frozen dews That hang from thy white beard and numb thy breast. My Sara too shall tend thee, like a child : And thou shalt talk, in our fire-side's recess, Who met the lazars turned from rich men's doors, And called them friends, and healed their noisome sores! SONNET XI. THOU bleedest, my poor heart! and thy distress And probe thy sore wound sternly, though the while And nursed it with an agony of care, Even as a mother her sweet infant heir That wan and sickly droops upon her breast! SONNET XII. TO THE AUTHOR OF THE "ROBBERS." SCHILLER! that hour I would have wished to die, Could I behold thee in thy loftier mood Beneath some vast old tempest-swinging wood! LINES COMPOSED WHILE CLIMBING THE LEFT ASCENT OF BROCKLEY COOMB, SOMERSETSHIRE, MAY, 1795. WITH many a pause and oft reverted eye Far off the unvarying cuckoo soothes my ear. Up scour the startling stragglers of the flock The yew tree bursts! Beneath its dark green boughs (Mid which the May-thorn blends its blossoms white) Where broad smooth stones jut out in mossy seats, I rest:—and now have gained the topmost site. My gaze: Proud towers, and cots more dear to me, LINES IN THE MANNER OF SPENSER. O PEACE, that on a lilied bank dost love And fain to her some soothing song would write, Who vowed to meet her ere the morning light, But broke my plighted word-ah! false and recreant wight! Last night as I my weary head did pillow With thoughts of my dissevered fair engrost, Chill Fancy drooped wreathing herself with willow, As though my breast entombed a pining ghost. "From some blest couch, young Rapture's bridal boast, Rejected Slumber! hither wing thy way; My sad heart will expand, when I the maid survey." But Love, who heard the silence of my thought, And whispered to himself, with malice fraught— Sleep, softly-breathing god! his downy wing When twanged an arrow from Love's mystic string, Or did he strike my couch with wizard lance? That Sleep enamoured grew, nor moved from his sweet trance! My Sara came, with gentlest look divine; Bright shone her eye, yet tender was its beam: Whispering we went, and Love was all our themeLove pure and spotless, as at first, I deem, ['bide, He sprang from Heaven! Such joys with Sleep did Fondly forgot. Too late I woke, and sigh’d— IMITATED FROM OSSIAN. THE stream with languid murmur creeps, In Lumin's flowery vale : Beneath the dew the lily weeps Slow-waving to the gale. "Cease, restless gale! it seems to say, Nor wake me with thy sighing! The honours of my vernal day "To-morrow shall the traveller come His searching eye shall vainly roam |