She'd been to sea in a leaky sieve,

And a jovial storm had brew'd.

She call'd around the winged winds,
And raised a devilish rout;

And she laugh'd so loud, the peals were heard
Full fifteen leagues about.

She said there was a little bark

Upon the roaring wave,

And there was a woman there who'd been
To see her husband's grave.

And she had got a child in her arms,
It was her only child,

And oft its little infant pranks

Her heavy heart beguiled.

And there was too in that same bark,
A father and his son:

The lad was sickly, and the sire
Was old and wo-begone.

And when the tempest waxed strong,
And the bark could no more it 'bide,
She said it was jovial fun to hear

How the poor devils cried.

The mother clasp'd her orphan child
Unto her breast, and wept;

And sweetly folded in her arms

The careless baby slept.

And she told how, in the shape o' the wind,
As manfully it roar'd,

She twisted her hand in the infant's hair
And threw it overboard.

And to have seen the mother's pangs,
"T'was a glorious sight to see;

The crew could scarcely hold her down
From jumping in the sea.

The hag held a lock of the hair in her hand,
And it was soft and fair:

It must have been a lovely child,

To have had such lovely hair.

And she said, the father in his arms
He held his sickly son,

And his dying throes they fast arose,
His pains were nearly done.

And she throttled the youth with her sinewy
And his face grew deadly blue;

And his father he tore his thin gray hair,
And kiss'd the livid hue.

And then she told, how she bored a hole In the bark, and it fill'd away:

[hands,

And 'twas rare to hear, how some did swear,
And some did vow and pray.

The man and woman they soon were dead,
The sailors their strength did urge; [sheet,
But the billows that beat were their winding
And the winds sung their funeral dirge.

She threw the infant's hair in the fire,
The red flame flamed high,'

And round about the cauldron stout
They danced right merrily.

The second begun : She said she had done
The task that Queen Hecat' had set her,.
And that the devil, the father of evil,

Had never accomplish'd a better.

he said, there was an aged woman, And she had a daughter fair, Whose evil habits fill'd her heart" With misery and care.

The daughter had a paramour,
A wicked man was he,

And oft the woman him against

Did murmur grievously.

And the hag had work'd the daughter up To murder her old mother,

That then she might seize on all her goods, And wanton with her lover.

And one night as the old woman
Was sick and ill in bed,
And pondering sorely on the life
Her wicked daughter led,

She heard her footstep on the floor,
And she raised her pallid head,
And she saw her daughter, with a knife,
Approaching to her bed.

And said, My child, I'm very ill,
I have not long to live,

Now kiss my cheek, that ere I die
Thy sins I may forgive.

And the murderess bent to kiss her cheek,
And she lifted the sharp bright knife
And the mother saw her fell intent,
And hard she begg'd for life.

But prayers would nothing her avail,
And she scream'd aloud with fear,
But the house was lone, and the piercing screams
Could reach no human ear

And though that she was sick, and old,
She struggled hard and fought;
The murderess cut three fingers through
Ere she could reach her throat.

And the hag she held the fingers up,
The skin was mangled sore,

And they all agreed a nobler deed
Was never done before.

And she threw the fingers in the fire,
The red flame flamed high,

And round about the cauldron stout
They danced right merrily.

The third arose; She said she'd been
To Holy Palestine;

And seen more blood in one short day,
Than they had all seen in nine.

Now Gondoline, with fearful steps,
Drew nearer to the flame,
For much she dreaded now to hear
Her hapless lover's name.

The hag related then the sports
Of that eventful day,

When on the well-contested field
Full fifteen thousand lay.
She said that she in human gore
Above the knees did wade,
And that no tongue could truly tell
The tricks she there had play'd.

There was a gallant-featured youth,
Who like a hero fought;
He kiss'd a bracelet on his wrist,
And every danger sought.

And in a vassal's garb disguised,
Unto the knight she sues,
And tells him she from Britain comes,
And brings unwelcome news.

That three days ere she had embark'd,
His love had given her hand
Unto a wealthy Thane:-and thought
Him dead in holy land.

And to have seen how he did writhe.
When this her tale she told,
It would have made a wizard s blood
Within his heart run cold.

Then fierce he spurr'd his warrior steed,
And sought the battle's bed:
And soon all mangled o'er with wounds,
He on the cold turf bled.

And from his smoking corse she tore
His head, half clove in two.
She ceased, and from beneath her garb
The bloody trophy drew.

The eyes were starting from their socks,
The mouth it ghastly grinn'd.

And gives a shadowy glimpse of future bliss.
Oh! what is man, when at ambition's height,
What even are kings, when balanced in the scale
Of these stupendous worlds! Almighty God!
Thou, the dread author of these wondrous works!
Say, canst thou cast on me, poor passing worm,
One look of kind benevolence?-Thou canst;
For Thou art full of universal love,
And in thy boundless goodness wilt impart
Thy beams as well to me as to the proud,
The pageant insects of a glittering hour.

Oh! when reflecting on these truths sublime,
How insignificant do all the joys,

The gaudes, and honours of the world appear! How vain ambition! Why has my wakeful lamp Outwatch'd the slow-paced night?-Why on the

page,

The schoolman's labour'd page, have I employ'd
The hours devoted by the world to rest,
And needful to recruit exhausted nature?
Say, can the voice of narrow Fame repay
The loss of health? or can the hope of glory
Lend a new throb unto my languid heart,
Cool, even now my feverish aching brow,
Relume the fires of this deep-sunken eye,
Or paint new colours on this pallid cheek?

Say, foolish one-can that unbodied fame,
For, which thou barterest health and happiness,
Say, can it soothe the slumbers of the grave?
Give a new zest to bliss, or chase the pangs
Of everlasting punishment condign?

Alas how vain are mortal man's desires!
How fruitless his pursuits! Eternal God!
Guide Thou my footsteps in the way of truth,
And oh! assist me so to live on earth,
That I may die in peace, and claim a place
In thy high dwelling.-All but this is folly,
The vain illusions of deceitful life.

LINES

WRITTEN ON A SURVEY OF THE HEAVENS,

In the Morning before Day-break.

YE many twinkling stars, who yet do hold
Your brilliant places in the sable vault

Of night's dominions!-Planets, and central orbs
Of other systems:-big as the burning sun
Which lights this nether globe,-yet to our eye
Small as the glow-worm's lamp!-To you I raise
My lowly orisons, while, all bewilder'd,
My vision strays o'er your ethereal hosts;
Too vast, too boundless for our narrow mind,
Warp'd with low prejudices, to unfold,
And sagely comprehend. Thence higher soaring,
Through ye I raise my solemn thoughts to Him,
The mighty Founder of this wondrous maze,
The great Creator! Him! who now sublime,
Wrapt in the solitary amplitude

Of boundless space, above the rolling spheres
Sits on his silent throne, and meditates.

The angelic hosts, in their inferior Heaven,
Hymn to the golden harps his praise sublime,
Repeating loud, "The Lord our God is great,'
In varied harmonies.-The glorious sounds
Roll o'er the air serene-The Eolian spheres,
Harping along their viewless boundaries,
Catch the full note, and cry, "The Lord is great,
Responding to the Seraphim -O'er all
From orb to orb, to the remotest verge
Of the created world, the sound is borne,
Till the whole universe is full of Him.

Oh! 'tis this heavenly harmony which now In fancy strikes upon my listening ear, And thrills my inmost soul. It bids me smile On the vain world, and all its bustling cares,

LINES,

SUPPOSED TO BE SPOKEN BY A LOVER AT THE GRAVE OF HIS MISTRESS.

Occasioned by a Situation in a Romance.

MARY, the moon is sleeping on thy grave,
And on the turf thy lover sad is kneeling,
The big tear in his eye.-Mary, awake,
From thy dark house arise, and bless his sight
On the pale moonbeam gliding. Soft, and low,
Pour on the silver ear of night thy tale,
Thy whisper'd tale of comfort and of love,
To soothe thy Edward's lorn, distracted soul,
And cheer his breaking heart.-Come, as thou

didst,

When o'er the barren moors the night wind howl'd,
And the deep thunders shook the ebon throne
Of the startled night.-O! then, as lone reclining,
I listen'd sadly to the dismal storm,

Though on the lambent lightnings wild careering
Didst strike my moody eye;-dead pale thou wert,
Yet passing lovely.-Thou didst smile upon me,
And oh! thy voice it rose so musical,
Betwixt the hollow pauses of the storm,
That at the sound the winds forgot to rave,
And the steri demon of the tempest, charm'd,
Sunk on his rocking throne to still repose,
Lock'd in the arms of silence.

Spirit of her

My only love!-O! now again arise,
And let once more thine aery accents fall
Soft on my listening ear. The night is calm,
The gloomy willows wave in sinking cadence
With the stream that sweeps below. Divinely swell.
ing

On the still air, the distant waterfall
Mingles its melody;-and, high above,
The pensive empress of the solemn night,
Fitful, emerging from the rapid clouds,
Shows her chaste face in the meridian sky.
No wicked elves upon the Warlock-knoll
Dare now assemble at their mystic revels;

It is a night, when from their primrose beds,
The gentle ghosts of injured innocents
Are known to rise, and wander on the breeze,
Or take their stand by the oppressor's couch,
And strike grim terror to his guilty soul.
The spirit of my love might now awake,
And hold its custom'd converse.

Mary, lo!

Thy Edward kneels upon thy verdant grave,
And calls upon thy name.-The breeze that blows
On his wan cheek will soon sweep over him
In solemn music, a funereal dirge,
Wild and most sorrowful.-His cheek is pale,
The worm that play'd upon thy youthful bloom,
It canker'd green on his.-Now lost he stands,
The ghost of what he was, and the cold dew
Which bathes his aching temples gives sure omen
Of speedy dissolution.-Mary, soon

Thy love will lay his pallid cheek to thine,
And sweetly will he sleep with thee in death.

MY STUDY,

A Letter in Hudibrastic Verse.

YOU bid me, Ned, describe the place
Where I, one of the rhyming race,
Pursue my studies con amore,
And wanton with the muse in glory.

Well, figure to your senses straight,
Upon the house's topmost height,
A closet, just six feet by four,

With white-wash'd walls and plaster floor,
So noble large, 'tis scarcely able

To admit a single chair and table:

And (lest the muse should die with cold)

A smoky grate my fire to hold:

So wondrous small, 'twould much it pose
To melt the ice-drop on one's nose;
And yet so big, it covers o'er

Full half the spacious room and more.

A window vainly stuff'd about,
To keep November's breezes out,
So crazy, that the panes proclaim,

That soon they mean to leave the frame.

My furniture I sure may crack-
A broken chair without a back;
A table wanting just two legs,
One end sustain'd by wooden pegs;

A desk-of that I am not fervent,

The work of, Sir, your humble servant;

(Who, though I say't, am no such fumbler ;) A glass decanter and a tumbler,

From which my night-parch'd throat I lave,
Luxurious, with the limpid wave.

A chest of drawers, in antique sections,
And saw'd by me in all directions;

So small, Sir, that whoever views 'em,

Swears nothing but a doll could use 'em.

To these, if you will add a store

Of oddities upon the floor,

A pair of globes, electric balls,

Scales, quadrants, prisms, and cobbler's awls,
And crowds of books, on rotten shelves,
Octavos, folios, quartos, twelves;

I think, dear Ned, you curious dog,
You'll have my earthly catalogue."
But stay, I nearly had left out
My bellows destitute of snout;

And on the walls,-Good Heaven's! why there
I've such a load of precious ware,

Of heads, and coins, and silver medals,

And organ works, and broken pedals;
(For I was once a-building music,
Though soon of that employ I grew sick;)
And skeletons of laws which shoot
All out of one primordial root;
That you, at such a sight, would swear
Confusion's self had settled there.
There stands, just by a broken sphere,
A Cicero without an ear,
A neck, on which, by logic good,
I know for sure a head once stood;

But who it was the able master
Had moulded in the mimic plaster,
Whether 'twas Pope, or Coke, or Burn,
I never yet could justly learn:
But knowing well, that any head
Is made to answer for the dead,
(And sculptors first their faces frame,
And after pitch upon a name,

Nor think it aught of a misnomer

To christen Chaucer's busto Homer,
Because they both have beards, which, you know,
Will mark them well from Joan, and Juno,)
For some great man, I could not tell
But Neck might answer just as well,
So perch'd it up, all in a row
With Chatham and with Cicero.

Then all around in just degree,
A range of portraits you may see,
Of mighty men and eke of women,
Who are no whit inferior to men.

With these fair dames, and heroes round,
I call my garret classic ground.

For though confined, t'will well contain
The ideal flights of Madam Brain.
No dungeon's walls, no cell confined,
Can cramp the energies of mind!
Thus, though my heart may seem so small,
I've friends, and 'twill contain them all;
And should it e'er become so cold
That these it will no longer hold,

Nor more may Heaven her blessings give,

I shall not then be fit to live.

ONCE more, O Trent! along thy pebbly marge
A pensive invalid, reduced and pale,
From the close sick-room newly let at large,
Wooes to his wan-worn cheek the pleasant gale.
O! to his ear how musical the tale

Which fills with joy the throstle's little throat: And all the sounds which on the fresh breeze sail, How wildly novel on his senses float!

It was on this that many a sleepless night,

As lone, he watch'd the taper's sickly gleam, And at his casement heard, with wild affright, The owl's dull wing and melancholy scream, On this he thought, this, this his sole desire, Thus once again to hear the warbling woodland

choir

SONNET II.

GIVE me a cottage on some Cambrian wild, Where, far from cities, I may spend my days, And, by the beauties of the scene beguiled,

May pity man's pursuits, and shun his ways. While on the rock I mark the browsing goat, List to the mountain-torrent's distant noise, Or the hoarse bittern's solitary note,

I shall not want the world's delusive joys; But with my little scrip, my book, my lyre,

Shall think my lot complete, nor covet more; And when, with time, shall wane the vital fire, I'll raise my pillow on the desert shore, And lay me down to rest where the wild wave Shall make sweet music o'er my lonely grave.

SONNET III.

Supposed to have been addressed by a female lunatic to a Lady.

LADY, thou weepest for the Maniac's wo,

And thou art fair, and thou, like me, art young; Oh! may thy bosom never, never know

The pangs with which my wretched heart is wrung.

I had a mother once-a brother too

(Beneath yon yew my father rests his head: I had a lover once,-and kind, and true,

But mother, brother, lover, all are fled! Yet, whence the tear which dims thy lovely eye? Oh! gentle lady-not for me thus weep, The green sod soon upon my breast will fie,

And soft and sound will be my peaceful sleep. Go thou and pluck the roses while they bloom My hopes lie buried in the silent tomb.

Will often ring appalling-I portend

A dismal night-and on my wakeful bed Thoughts, Traveller, of thee will fill my head, And him who rides where winds and waves contend, And strives, rude cradled on the seas, to guide His lonely bark through the tempestuous tide.

SONNET VI.

BY CAPEL LOFFT, ESQ.

This Sonnet was addressed to the Author of this Volume, and was occasioned by several little Quatorzains, misnomered Sonnets, which he published in the Monthly Mirror. He begs leave to return his thanks to the much respected writer, for the permission so politely granted to insert it here, and for the good opinion he has been pleased to express of his productions.

YE, whose aspirings court the muse of lays,
"Severest of those orders which belong,
Distinct and separate,
Delphic song,"

Why shun the Sonnet's undulating maze?
And why its name, boast of Petrarchian days,
Assume,its rules disown'd? whom from the throng
The muse selects, their ear the charm obeys
Of its full harmony:-they fear to wrong
The Sonnet, by adorning with a name

Of that distinguish'd import, lays, though sweet,
Yet not in magic texture taught to meet
Of that so varied and peculiar frame.

O think! to vindicate its genuine praise [sways. Those it beseems, whose Lyre a favouring impulse

SONNET IV.

Supposed to be written by the unhappy Poet Dermody, in a Storm, while on board a Ship in his Majesty's Service.

LO! o'er the welkin the tempestuous clouds
Successive fly, and the loud-piping wind
Rocks the poor sea-boy on the dripping shrouds,
While the pale pilot, o'er the helm reclined,
Lists to the changeful storm: and as he plies
His wakeful task, he oft bethinks him sad,
Of wife and little home, and chubby lad,
And the half strangled tear bedews his eyes;
I, on the deck musing on themes forlorn,

View the drear tempest, and the yawning deep,
Nought dreading in the green sea's caves to sleep,
For not for me shall wife or children mourn,
And the wild winds will ring my funeral knell
Sweetly, as solemn peal of pious passing-bell.

SONNET V.

THE WINTER TRAVELLER.

GOD help thee, Traveller, on thy journey far;
The wind is bitter keen,-the snow o'erlays
The hidden pits, and dangerous hollow ways,
And darkness will involve thee.-No kind star
To-night will guide thee, Traveller, and the war
Of winds and elements on thy head will break,
And in thy agonizing ear the shriek
Of spirits howling on their stormy car,

This Quatorzain had its rise from an elegant Sonnet, occasioned by seeing a young Female Lunatic," written by Mrs. Lofft, and published in the Monthly Mirror.

SONNET VIII.

On hearing the Sounds of an Eolian Harp.

So ravishingly soft upon the tide

Of the infuriate gust, it did career,
It might have sooth'd its rugged charioteer,
And sunk him to a zephyr;-then it died,
Melting in melody; and I descried,

Borne to some wizard stream, the form appear
Of druid sage, who on the far-off' ear
Pour'd his lone song, to which the surge replied;
Or thought I heard the hapless pilgrim's knell,

Lost in some wild enchanted forest's bounds, By unseen beings sung; or are these sounds Such, as 'tis said, at night are known to swell By startled shepherd on the lonely heat, Keeping his night-watch sad portending death?

BE hush'd, be hush'd, ye bitter winds,
Ye pelting rains a little rest:
Lie still, lie still, ye busy thoughts,

That wring with grief my aching breast.

Oh! cruel was my faithless love,

To triumph o'er an artless maid; Oh! cruel was my faithless love,

To leave the breast by him betray'd.

When exiled from my native home,

He should have wiped the bitter tear; Nor left me faint and lone to roam,

A heart-sick weary wanderer here.

My child moans sadly in my arms,
The winds they will not let it sleep:
Ah, little knows the hapless babe

What makes its wretched mother weep!

Now lie thee still, my infant dear,
I cannot bear thy sobs to see,
Harsh is thy father, little one,

And never will he shelter thee.

Oh, that I were but in my grave,

Ánd winds were piping o'er me loud, And thou, my poor, my orphan babe, Were nestling in thy mother's shroud!

THE LULLABY

ОРА

FEMALE CONVICT TO HER CHILD, THE NIGHT PREVIOUS TO EXECUTION.

SLEEP, baby mine, enkerchieft on my bosom, Thy cries they pierce again my bleeding breast; Sleep, baby mine, not long thou'lt have a mother To lull thee fondly in her arms to rest.

Baby, why dost thou keep this sad complaining, Long from mine eyes have kindly slumbers fled; Hush, hush, my babe, the night is quickly waning, And I would fain compose my aching head.

Poor wayward wretch! and who will heed thy weeping,

When soon an outcast on the world thou'lt be: Who then will soothe thee, when thy mother's sleeping

In her low grave of shame and infamy!

Sleep, baby mine-To-morrow I must leave thee,
And I would snatch an interval of rest:
Sleep these last moments, ere the laws bereave thee,
For never more thou'lt press a mother's breast.

ODE,

ADDRESSED TO H. FUSELI, ESQ. R. A

On seeing Engravings from his Designs.

MIGHTY magician! who on Torneo's brow, When sullen tempests, wrap the throne of night, Art wont to sit and catch the gleam of light," That shoots athwart the gloom opaque below; And listen to the distant death-shriek long

From lonely mariner foundering in the deep,
Which rises slowly up the rocky steep,
While the weird sisters weave the horrid song:
Or when along the liquid sky

Serenely chant the orbs on high,
Dost love to sit in musing trance,
And mark the northern meteor's dance,
(While far below the fitful oar

Flings its faint pauses on the steepy shore,)
And list the music of the breeze,

That sweeps by fits the bending seas;
And often bears with sudden swell

The shipwreck'd sailor's funeral knell,
By the spirits sung, who keep

Their night-watch on the treacherous deep,
And guide the wakeful helms-man's eye
To Helice in northern sky:

And there upon the rock reclined
With mighty visions fill'st the mind,
Such as bound in magic spell

Him who grasp'd the gates of Hell,
And bursting Pluto's dark domain,
Held to the day the terrors of his reign.

Genius of Horror and romantic awe,

Whose eye explores the secrets of the deep,
Whose power can bid the rebel fluids creep,
Can force the inmost soul to own its law;
Who shall now, sublimest spirit,
Who shall now thy wand inherit,
From him thy darling child who best
Thy shuddering images express'd?
Sullen of soul, and stern and proud,
His gloomy spirit spurn'd the crowd,
And now he lays his aching head
In the dark mansion of the silent dead.

Mighty magician! long thy wand has lain

Buried beneath the unfathomable deep; And oh! for ever must its efforts sleep, May none the mystic sceptre e'er regain? Oh yes, 'tis his!-Thy other son;

He throws thy dark-wrought tunic on, Fuesslin waves thy wand,-again they rise, [eyes, Again thy wildering forms salute our ravish'd Him didst thou cradle on the dizzy steep

[flung,

Where round his head the vollied lightnings And the loud winds that round his pillow rung, Woo'd the stern infant to the arms of sleep;

Or on the highest top of Teneriffe Seated the fearless boy, and bade him look Where far below the weather-beaten skiff On the gulf bottom of the ocean strook. Thou mark'dst him drink with ruthless ear The death-soo, and, disdaining rest, Thou saw'st how danger fired his breast, And in his young hand couch'd the visionary spear. Then, Superstition, at thy eall, She bore the boy to Odin's Hall, And set before his awe-struck sight The savage feast and spectred fight

And summon'd from his mountain tomb

The ghastly warrior son of gloom,
His fabled Runic rhymes to sing,
While fierce Hresvelger flapp'd his wing;
Thou show'dst the trains the shepherd sees,
Laid on the stormy Hebrides,

Which on the mists of evening gleam,
Or crowd the foaming desert stream;
Lastly her storied hand she waves,
And lays him in Florentian caves;
There milder fables, lovelier themes,
Enwrap his soul in heavenly dreams,

The following 17 Poems were written during,
Ibid.

+ Dante.