"Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep:
Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep!
Visit her, gentle sleep! with wings of healing,
And may this storm be but a mountain-birth,
May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling,
Silent as though they watch'd the sleeping earth!
With light heart may she rise,

Gay fancy, cheerful eyes,

Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice:
To her may all things live, from pole to pole,
Their life the eddying of her living soul!

O simple spirit, guided from above,
Dear lady friend devoutest of my choice,
Thus may'st thou ever, evermore rejoice.

ODE TO GEORGIANA, DUTCHESS OF
DEVONSHIRE,

ON THE TWENTY-FOURTH STANZA IN HER "PAS-
SAGE OVER MOUNT GOTHARD."

And hail the chapel! hail the platform wild!
Where Tell directed the avenging dart,
With well-strung arm, that first preserved his child,
Then aim'd the arrow at the tyrant's heart.

SPLENDOUR's fondly foster'd child!
And did you hail the platform wild,
Where once the Austrian fell
Beneath the shaft of Tell?

O lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure!
Whence learnt you that heroic measure?

Light as a dream your days their circlets ran,
From all that teaches brotherhood to man;
Far, far removed! from want, from hope, from
fear!

Enchanting music lull'd your infant ear,
Obeisance, praises soothed your infant heart:
Emblazonments and old ancestral crests
With many a bright obtrusive form of art,

Detain'd your eye from nature: stately vests,
That veiling strove to deck your charms divine,
Rich viands, and the pleasurable wine,

Were yours unearn'd by toil; nor could you see The unenjoying toiler's misery.

And yet, free nature's uncorrupted child,
You hail'd the chapel and the platform wild,
Where once the Austrian fell
Beneath the shaft of Tell!

O lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure!
Whence learnt you that heroic measure?
There crowd your finely-flbred frame,
All living faculties of bliss ;
And genius to your cradle came,
His forehead wreathed with lambent flame,
And bending low, with godlike kiss
Breathed in a more celestial life;

But boasts no many a fair compeer

A heart as sensitive to joy and fear;
And some, perchance, might wage an equal strife
Some few, to nobler being wrought,
Co-rivals in the nobler gift of thought.

Yet these delight to celebrate
Laurell'd war and plumy state;
Or in verse and music dress
Tales of rustic happiness-
Pernicious tales! insidious strains!
That steel the rich man's breast,
And mock the lot unblest,
The sordid vices and the abject pains,
Which evermore must be

The doom of ignorance and pentay!
But you, free nature's uncorrupted child,
You hail'd the chapel and the platform wild,
Where once the Austrian fell
Beneath the shaft of Tell!

O lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure!
Where learnt you that heroic measure?

You were a mother! That most holy name
Which heaven and nature bless,

I may not vilely prostitute to those
Whose infants owe them less
Than the poor caterpillar owes
Its gaudy parent fly.

You were a mother! at your bosom fed

The babes that loved you. You, with laughing eye
Each twilight thought, each nascent feeling read,
Which you yourself created. O! delight!
A second time to be a mother,

Without the mother's bitter groans:
Another thought, and yet another,

By touch or taste, by looks or tones
O'er the growing sense to roll,
The mother of your infant's soul!
The angel of the earth, who, while he guides
His chariot-planet round the goal of day,
All trembling gazes on the eye of God,

A moment turn'd his awful face away;
And as he view'd you, from his aspect sweet
New influences in your being rose,

Blest intuitions and communions fleet
With living nature, in her joys and woes!
Thenceforth your soul rejoiced see
The shrine of social liberty!

O beautiful! O nature's child!

'Twas thence you hail'd the platform wild,
Where once the Austrian fell
Beneath the shaft of Tell!

O lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure!
Thence learnt you that heroic measure.

ODE TO TRANQUILLITY.

TRANQUILLITY! thou better name
Than all the family of fame!
Thou ne'er wilt leave my riper age
To low intrigue, or factious rage;
For O! dear child of thoughtful truth,
To thee I gave my early youth,

And left the bark, and blest the steadfast shore,
Ere yet the tempest rose and scared me with its

roar.

Who late and lingering seeks thy shrine,
On him but seldom, power divine,
Thy spirit rests! Satiety

And sloth, poor counterfeits of thee,
Mock the tired worldling. Idle hope
And dire remembrance interlope,

To vex the feverish slumbers of the mind:
The bubble floats before, the spectre stalks behind.

But me thy gentle hand will lead

At morning through th' accustom'd mead
And in the sultry summer's heat
Will build me up a mossy seat;
And when the gust of autumn crowds

And breaks the busy noonlight clouds,
Thou best the thought canst raise, the heart attune,
Light as the busy clouds, calm as the gliding moon.

The feeling heart, the searching soul,
To thee I dedicate the whole !
And while within myself I trace
The greatness of some future race,
Aloof with hermit eye I scan

The present works of present man

A wild and dreamlike trade of blood and guile, Too foolish for a tear, too wicked for a smile!

TO A YOUNG FRIEND,

ON HIS PROPOSING TO DOMESTICATE WITH THE

AUTHOR. COMPOSED IN 1796.

A MOUNT, not wearisome and bare and steep,
But a green mountain variously up-piled,
Where o'er the jutting rocks soft mosses creep,
Or colour'd lichens with slow oozing weep;
Where cypress and the darker yew start wild;
And 'mid the summer torrent's gentle dash
Dance brighten'd the red clusters of the ash;
Beneath whose boughs, by those still sounds be-
guiled,

Calm pensiveness might muse herself to sleep;
'Till haply startled by some fleecy dam,
That rustling on the bushy clift above,
With melancholy bleat of anxious love,

Made meek inquiry for her wandering lamb. Such a green mountain 'twere most sweet to climb,

E'en while the bosorn ached with lonelinessHow more than sweet, if some dear friend should bless

Th' adventurous toil, and up the path sublime

Now lead, now follow: the glad landscape round, Wide and more wide, increasing without bound!

O then 'twere loveliest sympathy, to mark The berries of the half uprooted ash Dripping and bright; and list the torrent's dash,-Beneath the cypress, or the yew more dark, Seated at ease, on some smooth mossy rock; In social silence now, and now t' unlock The treasured heart; arm link'd in friendly arm, Save if the one, his muse's witching charm Muttering brow-bent, at unwatch'd distance lag; Till high o'erhead his beckoning friend appears And from the forehead of the topmost crag

Shouts eagerly for haply there uprears That shadowing pine its old romantic limbs, Which latest shall detain th' enamour'd sight Seen from below, when eve the valley dims, Tinged yellow with the rich departing light; And haply, basin'd in some unsunn'd cleft, A beauteous spring, the rock's collected tears, Sleeps shelter'd there, scarce wrinkled by the gale! Together thus, the world's vain turmoil left, Stretch'd on the crag, and shadow'd by the pine, And bending o'er the clear delicious fount, Ah! dearest youth! it were a lot divine To cheat our noons in moralizing mood, While west winds fann'd our temples toil-bedew'd: Then downwards slope, oft pausing, from the mount,

To some lone mansion, in some woody dale, Where smiling with blue eye, domestic bliss Gives this the husband's, that the brother's kiss!

Thus rudely versed in allegoric lore, The hill of knowledge I essay'd to trace; That verdurous hill with many a resting-place, And many a stream, whose warbling waters pour To glad and fertilize the subject plains; That hill with secret springs, and nooks untrod, And many a fancy-blest and holy sod,

Where inspiration, his diviner strains Low murmuring, lay; and starting from the rocks Stiff evergreens, whose spreading foliage mocks Want's barren soil, and the bleak frosts of age, And bigotry's mad fire-invoking rage!

O meek retiring spirit! we will climb,
Cheering and cheer'd, this lovely hill sublime;
And from the stirring world uplifted high,
(Whose noises, faintly wafted on the wind,
To quiet musings shall attune the mind,

And oft the melancholy theme supply,)
There, while the prospect through the gazing

eye

Pours all its healthful greenness on the soul, We'll smile at wealth, and learn to smile at fame, Our hopes, our knowledge, and our joys the same, As neighbouring fountains image, each the

whole :

Then, when the mind hath drunk its fill of truth,
We'll discipline the heart to pure delight,
Rekindling sober joy's domestic flame.
They whom I love shall love thee. Honour'd
youth!

Now may Heaven realize this vision bright!

LINES TO W. L., ESQ.,

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 w>
O youth to partial fortune vainly dear!
To plunder'd want's half-shelter'd hovel go,
Go, and some hunger-bitten infant hear
Moan haply in a lying mother's ear:
Or when the cold and dismal fog-damps brood
O'er the rank churchyard with sere elm leaves
strew'd,

Pace round some widow's grave, whose dearer part
Was slaughter'd, where o'er his uncoffin'd limbs
The flocking flesh-birds scream'd! 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 resign'd, All effortless thou leave life's commonweal A prey to tyrants, murderers of mankind.

SONNET.

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

OF A SON, SEPTEMBER 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, Mix'd with such feelings, as perplex the soul Self-question'd in her sleep; and some have said

We lived ere yet this robe of flesh we wore. O my sweet baby! when I reach my door, If heavy looks shall tell me thou art dead, (As sometimes, through excess of hope, I fear,) think that I should struggle to believe Thou wert a spirit, to this nether sphere Sentenced for some more venial crime to grieve; Didst scream, then spring to meet Heaven's quick reprieve,

While we wept idly o'er thy little bier!

SONNET.

TO A FRIEND WH) ASKED, HOW I FELT WHEN THE
NURSE FIRST PRESENTED MY INFANT TO ME.

CHARLES! my slow heart was only sad, when first
I scann'd 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 thrill'd and melted, and most warm
Impress'd a father's kiss: and all beguiled
Of dark remembrance and presageful fear,
I seem'd 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.

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 skimm❜d 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 vein'd with various dyes Gleam'd 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!

THE VIRGIN'S CRADLE HYMN.

COPIED FROM A PRINT OF THE VIRGIN IN A
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!

* Ην που ημων η ψυχη πριν εν τωός τω ανθρωπινω είδει γενέσθαι. PLAT. in Phadon

MELANCHOLY.

A FRAGMENT.

STRETCH'D or a moulder'd abbey's broadest wall,
Where running ivies propp'd the ruins steep-
Her folded arms wrapping her tatter'd pall,
Had melancholy mused herself to sleep.

The fern was press'd beneath her hair,
The dark green adder's tongue* was there;
And still as past the flagging sea-gale weak,
The long lank leaf bow'd fluttering o'er her cheek.

That pallid cheek was flush'd: her eager look
Beam'd eloquent in slumber! Inly wrought,
Imperfect sounds her moving lips forsook,

And her bent forehead work'd with troubled thought.

Strange was the dream

A CHRISTMAS CAROL.

THE shepherds went their hasty way,
And found the lowly stable-shed
Where the virgin mother lay:

And now they check'd their eager tread,
For to the babe, that at her bosom clung,
A mother's song the virgin-mother sung.

They told her how a glorious light,
Streaming from a heavenly throng,
Around them shone, suspending night.

While, sweeter than a mother's song,
Blest angels heralded the Saviour's birth,
Glory to God on high! and peace on earth.

She listen'd to the tale divine,

And closer still the babe she press'd;
And while she cried, the babe is mine!
The milk rush'd faster to her breast:
Joy rose within her, like a summer morn;
Peace, peace on earth! the Prince of peace is born.

Thou mother of the Prince of peace,
Poor, simple, and of low estate !
That strife should vanish, battle cease,

O why should this thy soul elate?

Sweet music's loudest note, the poet's story,-
Didst thou ne'er love to hear of fame and glory?

And is not war a youthful king,
A stately hero clad in mail?
Beneath his footsteps laurels spring;

Him. earth's majestic monarchs hail

Their friend, their playmate! and his bold bright eye
Compels the maiden's love-confessing sigh.

"Tell this in some more courtly scene,
To maids and youths in robes of state!

I am a woman poor and mean,

And therefore is my soul elate.

War is a run, all with guilt defiled,
That from e aged father tears his child!

* A botanical mistake. The plant which the post hes describes is called the hart's tongue,

"A murderous fiend, by fiends adored, He kills the sire and starves the son; The husband kills, and from her board Steals all his widow's toil had won; Plunders God's world of beauty; rends away All safety from the night, all comfort from the day.

"Then wisely is my soul elate,

That strife should vanish, battle cease:

I'm poor and of a low estate,

The mother of the Prince of peace.

Joy rises in me, like a summer's morn:

Which, as she gazed on some nigh-finish'd vase, Retreating slow, with meditative pause,

She form'd with restless hands unconsciously! Blank accident! nothing's anomaly!

If rootless thus, thus substanceless thy state, Go, weigh thy dreams, and be thy hopes, thy fears The counter-weights!-Thy laughter and thy tear Mean but themselves, each fittest to create, And to repay the other! Why rejoices Thy heart with hollow joy for hollow good? Why cowl thy face beneath the mourner's hood,

TELL'S BIRTHPLACE.

IMITATED FROM STOLBERG.

MARK this holy chapel well!

The birthplace, this, of William Tell.
Here, where stands God's altar dread,
Stood his parents' marriage bed.

Here first, an infant to her breast,
Him his loving mother prest;
And kiss'd the babe, and bless'd the day,
And pray'd as mothers used to pray:
"Vouchsafe him health, O God, and give
The child, thy servant, still to live!"
But God has destined to do more
Through him, than through an armed power.

God gave him reverence of laws,
Yet stirring blood in freedom's cause-
A spirit to his rocks akin,

The eye of the hawk, and the fire therein!

To nature and to holy writ
Alone did God the boy commit:
Where flash'd and roar'd the torrent, oft
His soul found wings, and soar'd aloft!

The straining oar and chamois chase
Had form'd his limbs to strength and grace:
On wave and wind the boy would toss,
Was great, nor knew how great he was!
He knew not that his chosen hand,
Made strong by God, his native land
Would rescue from the shameful yoke
Of slavery—the which he broke !

HUMAN LIFE.

ON THE DENIAL OF IMMORTALITY.

Ir dead, we cease to be; if total gloom

Swallow up life's brief flash for aye, we fare As summer gusts, of sudden birth and doom, Whose sound and motion not alone declare, But are their whole of being! If the breath Be life itself, and not its task and tent, If e'en a soul like Milton's can know death,

O man! thou vessel, purposeless, unmeant, Yet drone-hive strange of phantom purposes! Surplus of nature's dread activity,

Image of image, ghost of ghostly elf,

That such a thing as thou feel'st warm or cold!
Yet what and whence thy gain if thou withhold
These costless shadows of thy shadowy self?
Be sad! be glad! be neither! seek, or shun!
Thou hast no reason why! Thou canst have none:
Thy being's being is a contradiction.

ELEGY,

IMITATED FROM ONE OF AKENSIDE'S BLANK VERSE INSCRIPTIONS.

NEAR the lone pile with ivy overspread,

Fast by the rivulet's sleep-persuading sound, Where "sleeps the moonlight" on yon verdan! bed

O humbly press that consecrated ground!
For there does Edmund rest, the learned swain!
And there his spirit most delights to rove:
Young Edmund! famed for each harmonious strain,
And the sore wounds of ill-requited love.

Like some tall tree that spreads its branches wide,
And loads the west wind with its soft perfume,
His manhood blossom'd: till the faithless pride
Of fair Matilda sank him to the tomb.

But soon did righteous Heaven her guilt pursue! Where'er with wilder'd steps she wander'd pale Still Edmund's image rose to blast her view,

Still Edmund's voice accused her in each gale.

With keen regret, and conscious guilt's alarms,
Amid the pomp of affluence she pined:
Nor all that lured her faith from Edmund's arms
Could lull the wakeful horror of her mind.

Go, traveller! tell the tale with sorrow fraught:
Some tearful maid, perchance, or blooming yout!
May hold it in remembrance; and be taught
That riches cannot pay for love or truth.

THE VISIT OF THE GODS.

IMITATED FROM SCHILLER.

NEVER, believe me,

Appear the immortals,

Never alone:

Scarce had I welcomed the sorrow-beguiler, Iacchus! but in came boy Cupid the smiler;