FRAGMENT.

The western gale,
Mild as the kisses of connubial love,
Plays round my languid limbs, as all dissolved,
Beneath the ancient elm's fantastic shade
I lie, exhausted with the noontide heat :
While rippling o'er his deep-worn pebble bed,
The rapid rivulet rushes at my feet,
Dispensing coolness.-On the fringed marge
Full many a floweret rears its head,-or pink,
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, on sultry fly,
Invoke the god of slumber.

And, hark! how merrily, from distant tower,
Ring round the village bells! now on the gale
They rise with gradual swell, distinct and loud;
Anon they die upon the pensive ear,
Melting in faintest music.-They bespeak
A day of jubilee, and oft they bear,
Commix'd along the unfrequented shore,
The sound of village dance and tabor loud,
Startling the musing ear of Solitude.

Such is the jocund wake of Whitsuntide,
When happy Superstition, gabbling eld!
Holds her unhurtful gambols.-All the day
The rustic revellers ply the mazy dance
On the smooth-shaven green, and then at eve
Commence the harmless rites and auguries,
And many a tale of ancient days goes round.
They tell of wizard seer, whose potent spells
Could hold in dreadful thrall the labouring moon,
Or draw the fix'd stars from their eminence,
And still the midnight tempest.-Then anon
Tell of uncharnell'd spectres, seen to glide
Along the lone wood's unfrequented path,
Startling the 'nighted traveller; while the sound
Of undistinguish'd murmurs, heard to come
From the dark centre of the deep'ning glen,
Struck on his frozen ear.

ODE.

WRITTEN ON WHIT-MONDAY.

HARK! how the merry bells ring jocund round
And now they die upon the veering breeze;
Anon they thunder loud
Full on the musing ear.

COMMENCEMENT OF A POEM

ON DESPAIR.

SOME to Aonian lyres of silver sound
With winning elegance attune their song,
Form'd to sink lightly on the soothed sense,
And charm the soul with softest harmony:
"Tis then that Hope with sanguine eye is seen
Roving through Fancy's gay futurity;

Her heart light dancing to the sounds of pleasure,
Pleasure of days to come.-Memory, too, then
Comes with her sister, Melancholy sad,

Pensively musing on the scenes of youth,

Scenes never to return.

Such subjects merit poets used to raise The attic verse harmonious; but for me

A dreadlier theme demands my backward hand, And bids me strike the strings of dissonance With frantic energy.

Tis wan Despair I sing; if sing I can

Of him before whose blast the voice of Song,
And Mirth, and Hope, and Happiness all fly,
Nor ever dare return. His notes are heard
At noon of night, where on the coast of blood,
The lacerated son of Angola

Howls forth his sufferings to the moaning wind;
And, when the awful silence of the night

Strikes the chill death dew to the murderer's heart,
He speaks in every conscience-prompted word
Half utter'd, half suppress'd-

Tis him I sing-Despair-terrific name,
Striking unsteadily the tremulous chord
Of timorous terror-discord in the sound:
For to a theme revolting as is this,
Dare not I woo the maids of harmony,
Who love to sit and catch the soothing sound
Of lyre Eolian, or the martial bugle,
Calling the hero to the field of glory,
And firing him with deeds of high emprise,
And warlike triumph: but from scenes like mine
Shrink they affrighted, and detest the bard
Who dares to sound the hollow tones of horror.
Hence, then, soft maids,
And woo the silken zephyr in the bowers
By Heliconia's sleep-inviting stream:
For aid like yours I seek not: 'tis for powers
Of darker hue to inspire a verse like mine!
Tis work for wizards, sorcerers, and fiends!

Hither, ye furious imps of Acheron,
Nurslings of hell, and beings shunning light,
And all the myriads of the burning concave;
Souls of the damned:-Hither, oh! come and join
The infernal chorus. 'Tis Lespair I sing!
He, whose sole tooth inflicts a deadlier pang
Than all your tortures join'd. Sing, sing Despair!
Repeat the sound, and celebrate his power;
Unite shouts, screams, and agonizing shrieks,
Till the loud paan ring through hell's high vault,
And the remotest spirits of the deep

Leap from the lake, and join the dreadful song.

OH! who would cherish life,
And cling unto this heavy clog of clay,
Love this rude world of strife,

Where glooms and tempests cloud the fairest day;
And where, 'neath outward smiles,
Conceal'd, the snake lies feeding on its prey,
Where pitfalls lie in every flowery way,

And sirens lure the wanderer to their wiles! Hateful it is to me,

Its riotous railings and revengeful strife;

I'm tired with all its screams and brutal shouts
Dinning the ear;-away-away with life!
And welcome, oh! thou silent maid,

Who in some foggy vault art laid,
Where never day-light's dazzling ray
Comes to disturb thy dismal sway;

And there amid unwholesome damps dost sleep

In such forgetful slumbers deep,

That all thy senses stupified,
Are to marble petrified.
Sleepy Death, I welcome thee!
Sweet are thy calms to misery.
Poppies I will ask no more,
Nor the fatal hellebore;
Death is the best, the only cure,
His are slumbers ever sure.
Lay me in the Gothic tomb,
In whose solemn fretted gloom
I may lie in mouldering state,

With all the grandeur of the great:
Over me, magnificent,

Carve a stately monument:

Then thereon my statue lay,

With hands in attitude to pray,

And angels serve to hold my head,

Weeping o'er the father dead.

Duly too at close of day,
Let the pealing organ play;

And while the harmonious thunders

Chant a vesper to my soul:

Thus how sweet my sleep will be,
Shut out from thoughtful misery!

ATHANATOS.

AWAY with Death-away

With all her sluggish sleeps and chilling damps, Impervious to the day,

Where Nature sinks into inanity.

How can the soul desire

Such hateful nothingness to crave,
And yield with joy the vital fire,

To mouider in the grave!

Yet mortal life is sad,

Eternal storms molest its sullen sky;
And sorrows ever rife

Drain the sacred fountain dry-
Away with mortal life!

But, hail the calm reality,
The seraph Immortality!
Hail the Heavenly bowers of peace!
Where all the storms of passion cease.
Wild Life's dismaying struggle o'er,
The wearied spirit weeps no more;
But wears the eternal smile of joy,
Tasting bliss without alloy.
Welcome, welcome, happy bowers,
Where no passing ternpest lowers;
But the azure heavens display
The everlasting smile of day;
Where the choral seraph choir

Strike to praise the harmonious lyre;
And the spirit sinks to ease,

Lull'd by distant symphonies.
Oh! to think of meeting there

The friends whose graves received our tear,
The daughter loved, the wife adored,

To our widow'd armis restored;

And all the joys which death did sever,
Given to us again for ever!
Who would cling to wretched life,
And hug the poison'd thorn of strife;
Who would not long from earth to fly,
A sluggish senseiess lump to lie,
When the glorious prospect lies
Full before his raptured eyes?

MUSIC.

Written between the ages of Fourteen and Fifteen, with a few subsequent verbal alterations.

MUSIC, all powerful o'er the human mind,

Can still each mental storm, each tumult calm, Soothe anxious Care on sleepless couch reclined, And even fierce Anger's furious rage disarm.

At her command the various passions lie;
She stirs to battle, or she lulls to peace;
Melts the charm'd soul to thrilling ecstacy,
And bids the jarring world's harsh clangour cease.
Her martial sounds can fainting troops inspire
With strength unwonted, and enthusiasm raise;
Infuse new ardour, and with youthful fire

Urge on the warrior gray with length of days.

Far better she, when, with her soothing lyre,
She charms the falchion from the savage grasp,
And melting into pity vengeful Ire,

Looses the bloody breastplate's iron clasp.

With her in pensive mood I long to roam,

At midnight's hour, or evening's calm decline, And thoughtful o'er the falling streamlet's foam, In calm Seclusion's hermit-walks recline.

Whilst mellow sounds from distant copse arise,
Of suftest flute or reeds harmonic join'd,
With rapture thrill'd each worldly passion dies,
And pleased Attention claims the passive mind.

Soft through the dell the dying strains retire,
Then burst majestic in the varied swell;
Now breathe melodious as the Grecian lyre,
Or on the ear in sinking cadence dwell.

Romantic sounds! such is the bliss ye give,
That heaven's bright scenes seem bursting on
the soul,

With joy I'd yield each sensual wish, to live
For ever 'neath your undefiled control.

Oh! surely melody from heaven was sent,

To cheer the soul when tired with human strife, To soothe the wayward heart by sorrow rent, And soften down the rugged road of life.

ODE,

TO THE HARVEST MOON.

Cum ruit imbriferum ver:

Spicea jam campis cum messis inhorruit, et cum
Frumenta in viridi stipula lactentia turgent

Cuncta tibi Cererem pubes agrestis adoret.
Virgil.

MOON of Harvest, herald mild
Of plenty, rustic labour's child,
Hail! oh hail! I greet thy beam,
As soft it trembles o'er the stream,
And gilds the straw-thatch'd hamlet wide,
Where Innocence and Peace reside;

'Tis thou that glad'st with joy the rustic throng, Promptest the tripping dance, th' exhilarating song

Moon of Harvest, I do love

O'er the uplands now to rove,
While thy modest ray serene
Gilds the wide surrounding scene;
And to watch thee riding high
In the blue vault of the sky,

Where no thin vapour intercepts thy ray,

But in unclouded majesty thou walkest on thy way.

Pleasing 'tis, oh! modest Moon!
Now the Night is at her noon,
'Neath thy sway to musing lie,

While around the zephyrs sigh,

Fanning soft the sun-tann'd wheat,

Ripen'd by the summer's heat;

Picturing all the rustic's joy

When boundless plenty greets his eye,

And thinking soon,
Oh, modest Moon!

How many a female eye will roam
Along the road,

To see the load,

The last dear load of harvest-home.

Storms and tempests, floods and rains,
Stern despoilers of the plains,

Hence away, the season flee,
Foes to light-heart jollity:

May no winds careering high,
Drive the clouds along the sky,

But may all nature smile with aspect boon,
When in the heavens thou show'st thy face, oh,
Harvest Moon!

'Neath yon lowly roof he lies,

The husbandman, with sleep-seal'd eyes;
He dreams of crowded barns, and round
The yard he hears the flail resound;
Oh! may no hurricane destroy

His visionary views of joy!

God of the Winds! oh, hear his humble prayer, And while the moon of harvest shines, thy blustering whirlwind spare.

My love is asleep,
He lies by the deep,

All along where the salt waves sigh.

II.

I have cover'd him with rushes,
Water-flags, and branches dry.
Edwy, long have been thy slumbers;
Edwy, Edwy, ope thine eye!
My love is asleep,
He lies by the deep,

All along where the salt waves sigh.
III.

Still he sleeps; he will not waken,
Fastly closed is his eye;
Paler is his cheek, and chiller
Than the icy moon on high.
Alas! he is dead,

He has chose his death-bed

All along where the salt waves sigh.
IV.

Is it, is it so, my Edwy?

Will thy slumbers never fly?

Couldst thou think I would survive thee?
No, my love, thou bidd'st me die.
Thou bidd'st me seek

Thy death-bed bleak

All along where the salt waves sigh.

The winds are whistling o'er the wolds,
The distant main is moaning low;
Come, let us sit and weave a song-
A melancholy song!

Sweet is the scented gale of morn,
And sweet the noontide's fervid beam,
But sweeter far the solemn calm,

That marks thy mournful reign.

I've pass'd here many a lonely year,
And never human voice have heard;
I've pass'd here many a lonely year
A solitary man.

And I have linger'd in the shade,
From sultry noon's hot beam; and I
Have knelt before my wicker door,

To sing my evening song.

And I have hail'd the gray morn high,
On the blue mountain's misty brow,"
And tried to tune my little reed

To hymns of harmony.

But never could I tune my reed,
At morn, or noon, or eve, so sweet,
As when upon the ocean shore

I hail'd thy star-beam mild.

The day-spring brings not joy to me,
The moon it whispers not of peace;
But oh! when darkness robes the heavens,
My woes are mix'd with joy.

And then I talk, and often think
Aerial voices answer me;

And oh! I am not then alone-
A solitary man.

And when the blustering winter winds
Howl in the woods that clothe my cave,
I lay me on my lonely mat,

And pleasant are my dream

And Fancy gives me back my wife;
And Fancy gives me back my child;
She gives me back my little home,
And all its placid joys.

Then hateful is the morning hour,
That calls me from the dream of bliss,
To find myself still lone, and hear
The same dull sounds again.

The deep-toned winds, the moaning sea,
The whispering of the boding trees,
The brooks eternal flow, and oft
The Condor's hollow scream.

SONNET.

SWEET to the gay of heart is Summer's smile,
Sweet the wild music of the laughing Spring;
But ah! my soul far other scenes beguile,
Where gloomy storms their sullen shadows fling.
Is it for me to strike the Idalian string-
Raise the soft music of the warbling wire,
While in my ears the howls of furies ring,
And melancholy wastes the vital fire?"

Away with thoughts like these-To some lone cave Where howls the shrill blast, and where sweeps the wave,

Direct my steps; there, in the lonely drear,
I'll sit remote from worldly noise, and muse
Till through my soul shall Peace her balm infuse
And whisper sounds of comfort in mine ear.

ON

BEING CONFINED TO SCHOOL

ONE PLEASANT MORNING IN SPRING.

Written at the age of Thirteen.

THE morning sun's enchanting rays
Now call forth every songster's praise;
Now the lark, with upward flight,
Gayly ushers in the light;
While wildly warbling from each tree,
The birds sing songs to Liberty,

But for me no songster sings,,
For me no joyous lark up-springs;
For I, confined in gloomy school,
Must own the pedant's iron rule,
And, far from sylvan shades and bowers,
In durance vile must pass the hours;
There con the scholiast's dreary lines,
Where no bright ray of genius shines,
And close to rugged learning cling,
While laughs around the jocund spring.

How gladly would my soul forego
All that arithmeticians know,
Or stiff grammarians quaintly teach,
Or all that industry can reach,
To taste each morn of all the joys
That with the laughing sun arise
And unconstrain'd to rove along
The bushy brakes and glens among ;
And woo the muse's gentle power,
In unfrequented rural bower!

But, ah! such heaven-approaching joys
Will never greet my longing eyes;
Still will they cheat in vision fine,
Yet never but in fancy shine.

Oh, that I were the little wrer
That shrilly chirps from yonder glen!
Oh, far away I then would rove,
To some secluded bushy grove;
There hop and sing with careless glee,
Hop and sing at liberty;

And till death should stop my lays,
Far from men would spend my days.

TO

CONTEMPLATION.

THEE do I own, the prompter of my joys,
The soother of my cares, inspiring peace;
And I will ne'er forsake thee.-Men may rave,
And blame and censure me, that I don't tie
My every thought down to the desk, and spend
The morning of my life in adding figures
With accurate monotony: that so

The good things of the world may be my lot,
And I might taste the blessedness of wealth:
But, oh! I was not made for money-getting;
For me no much-respected plum awaits,
Nor civic honour, envied.-For as still
I tried to cast with school dexterity

The interesting sums, my vagrant thoughts
Would quick revert to many a woodland haunt,
Which fond remembrance cherish'd, and the pen
Dropp'd from my senseless fingers as I pictured,
In my mind's eye, how on the shores of Trent
I erewhile wander'd with my early friends
In social intercourse. And then I'd think
How contrary pursuits had thrown us wide,
One from the other, scatter'd o'er the globe;
They were set down with sober steadiness,
Each to his occupation. I alone,

A wayward youth, misled by Fancy's vagaries,
Remain'd unsettled, insecure, and veering
With every wind to every point o' th' compass.
Yes, in the counting-house I could indulge
In fits of close abstraction; yea, amid
The busy bustling crowds could meditate,
And send my thoughts ten thousand leagues away
Beyond the Atlantic, resting on my friend.
Ay, Contemplation, even in earliest youth
I woo'd thy heavenly influence! I would walk
A weary way when all my toils were done,
To lay myself at night in some lone wood,
And hear the sweet song of the nightingale.
Oh, those were times of happiness, and still
To memory doubly dear; for growing years
Had not then taught me man was made to mourn;
And a short hour of solitary pleasure,
Stolen from sleep, was ample recompense
For all the hateful bustles of the day.

My opening mind was ductile then, and plastic,
And soon the marks of care were worn away,
While I was sway'd by every novel impulse,
Yielding to all the fancies of the hour."
But it has now assumed its character;
Mark'd by strong lineaments, its haughty tone,
Like the firm oak, would sooner break than bend.
Yet still, oh, Contemplation! I do love

To indulge thy solemn musings; still the same
With thee alone I know to melt and weep,
In thee alone delighting. Why along
The dusky tract of commerce should I toil,
When, with an easy competence content,
I can alone be happy; where with thee
I may enjoy the loveliness of Nature,
And loose the wings of Fancy ?-Thus alone
Can I partake of happiness on earth;
And to be happy here is man's chief end,
For to be happy he must needs be good.

TO

THE HERB ROSEMARY.

1.

SWEET scented flower! who are wont to bloon

On January's front severe,

And o'er the wintry desert drear

To waft thy waste perfume!

The Rosemary buds in January. It is the flower commonly put in the coffins of the dead.

Come, thou shalt form my nosɛgay now, And I will bind thee round my brow;

And as 1 twine the mournful wreath, I'll weave a melancholy song: And sweet the strain shall be and long, The melody of death.

2.

Come, funeral flower! who lov'st to dwell
With the pale corse in lonely tomb,
And throw across the desert gloom
A sweet decaying smell.

Come, press my lips, and lie with me
Beneath the lowly alder tree,

And we will sleep a pleasant sleep,
And not a care shall dare intrude,
To break the marble solitude

So peaceful and so deep.

3.

And hark! the wind-god, as he flies,
Moans hollow in the forest trees,
And sailing on the gusty breeze,
Mysterious music dies.

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 yon lone spot
Where as I lie, by all forgot,

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

ΤΟ

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;

It 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 land 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.

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 burnish'd gold,

Behind the twilight's hue.

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 succesive 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.