III.

ON CHILDREN AT PLAY.

SIGHING I see yon little troop at play,

By sorrow yet untouched, unhurt by care, While free and sportive they enjoy to-day,

66 Content and careless of to-morrow's fare.” *

O, happy age! when Hope's unclouded ray

Lights their green path, and prompts their simple mirth, Ere yet they feel the thorns that lurking lay To wound the wretched pilgrims of the earth, Making them rue the hour that gave them birth, And threw them on a world so full of pain, Where prosperous folly treads on patient worth, And to deaf pride misfortune pleads in vain.

Ah! - for their future fate how many fears

Oppress my heart, and fill mine eyes with tears!

*Thomson.

IV.

TO THE MOON.

QUEEN of the silver bow! by thy pale beam,
Alone and pensive, I delight to stray,

And watch thy shadow trembling in the stream,

Or mark the floating clouds that cross thy way. And while I gaze, thy mild and placid light

Sheds a soft calm upon my troubled breast; And oft I think, fair planet of the night,

That in thy orb the wretched may have rest; The sufferers of the earth perhaps may go, Released by death, to thy benignant sphere, And the sad children of despair and woe

Forget in thee their cup of sorrow here, O that I soon may reach thy world serene, Poor wearied pilgrim in this toiling scene!

ས.

ON THE DEPARTURE OF THE NIGHTINGALE.

SWEET poet of the woods, a long adieu !

Farewell, soft minstrel of the early year!
Ah! 't will be long ere thou shalt sing anew,

And pour thy music on "the night's dull ear.”
Whether on Spring thy wandering flights await,
Or whether silent in our groves you dwell,
The pensive muse shall own you for her mate,

And still protect the song she loves so well.
With cautious step the love-lorn youth shall glide
Through the lone brake that shades thy mossy nest;
And shepherd girls from eyes profane shall hide
The gentle bird that sings of pity best:

For still thy voice shall soft affections move,
And still be dear to sorrow and to love.

VI.

"OUT OF DOORS WHILE THE HAMLET IS SLEEPING."

WHILE thus I wander, cheerless and unblest,
And find in change of place no change of pain,
In tranquil sleep the village laborers rest,
And taste repose that I pursue in vain.
Hushed is the hamlet now; and faintly gleam
The dying embers from the casement low
Of the thatched cottage, while the Moon's wan beam
Lends a new lustre to the dazzling snow.
O'er the cold waste, amid the freezing night,
Scarce heeding whither, desolate I stray.
For me, pale eye of evening! thy soft light
Leads to no happy home; my weary way
Ends but in dark vicissitude of care:

I only fly from doubt to meet despair.

ANNA SEWARD.*

I.

RISING EARLY TO READ, ON A WINTER'S MORNING.

I LOVE to rise ere gleams the tardy light

(Winter's pale dawn); and as warm fires illume, And cheerful tapers shine around the room, Through misty windows bend my musing sight, Where, round the dusky lawn, the mansions white With shutters closed, peer faintly through the gloom That slow recedes; while yon gray spires assume, Rising from their dark pile, an added height By indistinctness given: then to decree

The grateful thoughts to God, ere they unfold

To friendship or the Muse, or seek with glee Wisdom's rich page. O hours more worth than gold, By whose blest use we lengthen life, and, free From drear decays of age, outlive the old.

* "The Poetical Works of Anna Seward, edited by Walter Scott, Esq. Edinburgh, 1810."