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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!



FAINT gleams the evening radiance through the

sky, The sober twilight dimly darkens round; In short quick circles the shrill bat flits by,

And the slow vapour curls along the ground. Now the pleased eye from yon lone cottage sees

On the green mead the smoke long-shadowing The redbreast on the blossom'd spray [play ;

Warbles wild her latest lay,
And sleeps along the dale the silent breeze.
Calm Contemplation, 'tis thy favourite hour!
Come, fill my bosom, tranquillizing power !
Meek Power! I view thee on the calmy shore

When Ocean stills his waves to rest;
Or when, slow moving on, the surges hoar
Meet with deep hollow roar,

And whiten o'er his breast;
For lo! the moon with softer radiance gleams,
And lovelier heave the billows in her beams.

When the low gales of evening moan along,

I love with thee to feel the calm cool breeze, And roam the pathless forest wilds among,

Listening the mellow murmur of the trees Full foliaged, as they lift their arms on high, And wave their shadowy heads in wildest melody. Or lead me where, amid the tranquil vale,

The broken stream flows on in silver light,
And I will linger where the gale

O’er the bank of violets sighs,
Listening to hear its soften'd sounds arise ;

And hearken the dull beetle's drowsy flight:
And watch the horn-eyed snail
Creep o'er his long moon-glittering trail,

And mark where, radiant through the night, Moves in the grass-green hedge the glowworm's

living light. Thee, meekest Power! I love to meet, As oft with ever solitary pace

The scatter'd Abbey's hallow'd rounds I trace, And listen to the echoings of my feet.

Or on the half demolish'd tomb,
Whose warning texts anticipate my doom,

Mark the clear orb of night
Cast through the storying glass a faintly varied

light. Nor will I not in some more gloomy hour Invoke with fearless awe thine holier power, Wandering beneath the sainted pile When the blast moans along the darksome aisle, And clattering patters all around The midnight shower with dreary sound.

But sweeter 'tis to wander wild
By melancholy's dream beguiled,
While the summer moon's pale ray
Faintly guides me on my way
To the lone romantic glen
Far from all the haunts of men,
Where no noise of uproar rude
Breaks the calm of solitude,
But soothing Silence sleeps in all,
Save the neighbouring waterfall,
Whose hoarse waters falling near
Load with hollow sounds the ear,
And with down-dash'd torrent white
Gleam hoary through the shades of night.
Thus wandering silent on and slow
I'll nurse Reflection's sacred woe,
And muse upon the perish'd day
When Hope would weave her visions gay,
Ere Fancy chill'd by adverse fate
Left sad Reality my mate.

O Contemplation! when to Memory's eyes
The visions of the long past days arise,
Thy holy power imparts the best relief,
And the calm'd spirit loves the joy of grief.




WHEN howling winds and louring skies
The light untimber'd bark surprise

Near Orkney's boisterous seas,
The trembling crew forget to swear,
And bend the knees, unused to prayer,

To ask a little ease.

For ease the Turk ferocious, prays,
For ease the barbarous Russ, for ease

Which Palk could ne'er obtain ; Which Bedford lack'd amidst his store, And liberal Clive, with mines of ore,

Oft bade for-but in vain.

For not the liveried troop that wait
Around the mansions of the great

Can keep, my friend, aloof
Fear, that attacks the mind by fits,
And Care, that like a raven flits

Around the lordly roof.

• 0, well is he' to whom kind Heaven
A decent competence has given !

Rich in the blessing sent,
He grasps not anxiously at more,
Dreads not to use his little store,

And fattens on content.

• 0, well is he !' for life is lost,
Amidst a whirl of passions toss'd;

Then why, dear Jack, should man,
Magnanimous ephemera! stretch
His views beyond the narrow reach

Of his contracted span !

Why should he from his country run,
In hopes, beneath a foreign sun,

Serener hours to find ?
Was never man in this wild chase
Who changed his nature with his place,

And left himself behind.

For, wing'd with all the lightning's speed,
Care climbs the bark, Care mounts the steed,

An inmate of the breast:
Nor Barca's heat nor Zembla's cold
Can drive from that pernicious hold

The too tenacious guest.

They whom no anxious thoughts annoy,
Grateful, the present hours enjoy,

Nor seek the next to know;
To lighten every ill they strive,
Nor, ere misfortune's hand arrive,

Anticipate the blow.

Something must ever be amiss-
Man has his joys; but perfect bliss

Lives only in the brain :
We cannot all have what we want;
And Chance, unask'd, to this may grant

What that has bęgg'd in vain.

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