ODES.

TO MY LYRE.

Thou simple Lyre! thy music wild Has served to charm the weary hour, And many a lonely night has 'guiled, When even pain has own'd, and smiled, Its fascinating power.

Yet, O my Lyre! the busy crowd Will little heed thy simple tones; Them mightier minstrels harping loud Engross,—and thou and I must shroud Where dark oblivion 'thrones.

No hand, they diapason o'er, Well skill'd I throw with sweep sublime; For me, no academic lore Has taught the solemn strain to pour, Or build the polish'd rhyme.

Yet thou to sylvan themes canst soar; Thou know'st to charm the woodland train; The rustic swains believe thy power Can hush the wild winds when they roar, And still the billowy main.

These honours, Lyre, we yet may keep, I, still unknown, may live with thee, And gentle zephyr's wing will sweep Thy solemn string, where low I sleep, Beneath the alder tree.

This little dirge will please me more Than the full requiem's swelling peal; I'd rather than that crowds should sigh For me, that from some kindred eye The trickling tear should steal.

Yet dear to me the wreath of bay, Perhaps from me debarr'd; And dear to me the classic zone, Which, snatch'd from learning's labour'd throne, Adorns the accepted bard.

And O! if yet 'twere mine to dwell Where Cam or Isis winds along, Perchance, inspired with ardour chaste, I yet might call the ear of taste To listen to my song.

Oh! then, my little friend, thy style I'd change to happier lays, Oh! then the cloister'd glooms should smile, And through the long, the fretted aisle Should swell the note of praise.

TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE.

Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire! Whose modest form, so delicately fine, Was nursed in whirling storms, And cradled in the winds.

Thee when young spring first question'd winter's sway, And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight, Thee on this bank he threw To mark his victory.

In this low vale, the promise of the year, Serene thou openest to the nipping gale, Unnoticed and alone, Thy tender elegance.

So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms Of chill adversity, in some lone walk Of life she rears her head, Obscure and unobserved;

While every bleaching breeze that on her blows Chastens her spotless purity of breast, And hardens her to bear Serene the ills of life.

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 helmsman'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 Him1 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 him2 thy darling child who best Thy shuddering images expressed? 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, Again thy wildering forms salute our ravish'd eyes. Him didst thou cradle on the dizzy steep Where round his head the vollied lightnings flung, 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-sob, 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 call, She bore the boy to Odin's Hall, And set before his awe-struck sight The savage feast and spectred fight; And summoned 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, There pity's lute arrests his ear, And draws the half reluctant tear; And now at noon of night he roves Along the embowering moonlight groves, And as from many a cavern'd dell The hollow wind is heard to swell, He thinks some troubled spirit sighs, And as upon the turf he lies, Where sleeps the silent beam of night, He sees below the gliding sprite, And hears in Fancy's organs sound Aërial music warbling round.

Taste lastly comes and smooths the whole, And breathes her polish o'er his soul; Glowing with wild, yet chasten'd heat, The wondrous work is now complete.

The Poet dreams:—The shadow flies, And fainting fast its image dies. But lo! the Painter's magic force Arrests the phantom's fleeting course; It lives—it lives—the canvas glows, And tenfold vigour o'er it flows. The Bard beholds the work achieved, And as he sees the shadow rise Sublime before his wondering eyes, Starts at the image his own mind conceived.

TO THE EARL OF CARLISLE, K. G.

I. 1.

Retired, remote from human noise, An humble Poet dwelt serene; His lot was lowly, yet his joys Were manifold, I ween. He laid him by the brawling brook At eventide to ruminate, He watch'd the swallow skimming round, And mused, in reverie profound, On wayward man's unhappy state, And ponder'd much, and paused on deeds of ancient date.

II. 1.

"Oh, 'twas not always thus," he cried, "There was a time, when genius claim'd Respect from even towering pride, Nor hung her head ashamed: But now to wealth alone we bow, The titled and the rich alone Are honour'd, while meek merit pines, On penury's wretched couch reclines, Unheeded in his dying moan, As, overwhelmed with want and woe, he sinks unknown.

III. 1.

"Yet was the muse not always seen In poverty's dejected mien, Not always did repining rue, And misery her steps pursue. Time was, when nobles thought their titles graced By the sweet honours of poetic bays, When Sidney sung his melting song, When Sheffield join'd the harmonious throng, And Lyttelton attuned to love his lays. Those days are gone—alas, for ever gone! No more our nobles love to grace Their brows with anadems, by genius won, But arrogantly deem the muse as base; How differently thought the sires of this degenerate race!"

I. 2.

Thus sang the minstrel:—still at eve The upland's woody shades among In broken measures did he grieve, With solitary song. And still his shame was aye the same, Neglect had stung him to the core; And he with pensive joy did love To seek the still congenial grove, And muse on all his sorrows o'er, And vow that he would join the abjured world no more.

II. 2.

But human vows, how frail they be! Fame brought Carlisle unto his view, And all amazed, he thought to see The Augustan age anew. Fill'd with wild rapture, up he rose, No more he ponders on the woes Which erst he felt that forward goes, Regrets he'd sunk in impotence, And hails the ideal day of virtuous eminence.

III. 2.

Ah! silly man, yet smarting sore With ills which in the world he bore, Again on futile hope to rest, An unsubstantial prop at best, And not to know one swallow makes no summer! Ah! soon he'll find the brilliant gleam, Which flash'd across the hemisphere, Illumining the darkness there, Was but a single solitary beam, While all around remained in custom'd night. Still leaden ignorance reigns serene, In the false court's delusive height, And only one Carlisle is seen To illume the heavy gloom with pure and steady light.

TO CONTEMPLATION.

Come, pensive sage, who lovest to dwell In some retired Lapponian cell, Where, far from noise and riot rude, Besides sequester'd solitude. Come, and o'er my longing soul Throw thy dark and russet stole, And open to my duteous eyes The volume of thy mysteries.

I will meet thee on the hill, Where, with printless footsteps still, The morning in her buskin gray Springs upon her eastern way; While the frolic zephyrs stir, Playing with the gossamer, And, on ruder pinions borne, Shake the dewdrops from the thorn. There, as o'er the fields we pass, Brushing with hasty feet the grass, We will startle from her nest The lively lark with speckled breast, And hear the floating clouds among Her gale-transported matin song, Or on the upland stile, embower'd With fragrant hawthorn snowy flower'd, Will sauntering sit, and listen still To the herdsman's oaten quill, Wafted from the plain below; Or the heifer's frequent low; Or the milkmaid in the grove, Singing of one that died for love. Or when the noontide heats oppress, We will seek the dark recess, Where, in the embower'd translucent stream, The cattle shun the sultry beam, And o'er us on the marge reclined, The drowsy fly her horn shall wind, While echo, from her ancient oak, Shall answer to the woodman's stroke; Or the little peasant's song, Wandering lone the glens among, His artless lip with berries dyed, And feet through ragged shoes descried.

But oh! when evening's virgin queen Sits on her fringed throne serene, And mingling whispers rising near Steal on the still reposing ear; While distant brooks decaying round, Augment the mix'd dissolving sound, And the zephyr flitting by Whispers mystic harmony, We will seek the woody lane, By the hamlet, on the plain, Where the weary rustic nigh Shall whistle his wild melody, And the croaking wicket oft Shall echo from the neighbouring croft; And as we trace the green path lone, With moss and rank weeds overgrown, We will muse on penbive lore? Till the full soul, brimming o'er, Shall in our upturn'd eyes appear, Embodied in a quivering tear. Or else, serenely silent, sit By the brawling rivulet, Which on its calm unruffled breast Rears the old mossy arch impressed, That clasps its secret stream of glass, Half hid in shrubs and waving grass, The wood-nymph's lone secure retreat, Unpress'd by fawn or sylvan's feet, We'll watch in eve's ethereal braid The rich vermilion slowly fade; Or catch, faint twinkling from afar The first glimpse of the eastern star; Fair vesper, mildest lamp of light, That heralds in imperial night: Meanwhile, upon our wondering ear, Shall rise, though low, yet sweetly clear, The distant sounds of pastoral lute, Invoking soft the sober suit Of dimmest darkness—fitting well With love, or sorrow's pensive spell, (So erst did music's silver tone Wake slumbering chaos on his throne). And haply then, with sudden swell, Shall roar the distant curfew bell, While in the castle's mouldering tower The hooting owl is heard to pour Her melancholy song, and scare Dull silence brooding in the air. Meanwhile her dusk and slumbering car Black-suited night drives on from far, And Cynthia, 'merging from her rear, Arrests the waxing darkness drear, And summons to her silent call, Sweeping, in their airy pall, The unshrived ghosts, in fairy trance, To join her moonshine morris-dance; While around the mystic ring The shadowy shapes elastic spring, Then with a passing shriek they fly, Wrapt in mists, along the sky, And oft are by the shepherd seen In his lone night-watch on the green.

Then, hermit, let us turn our feet To the low abbey's still retreat, Embower'd in the distant glen, Far from the haunts of busy men, Where as we sit upon the tomb, The glowworm's light may gild the gloom, And show to fancy's saddest eye Where some lost hero's ashes lie. And oh, as through the mouldering arch, With ivy fill'd and weeping larch, The night gale whispers sadly clear, Speaking dear things to fancy's ear, We'll hold communion with the shade Of some deep wailing, ruin'd maid— Or call the ghost of Spenser down, To tell of woe and fortune's frown; And bid us cast the eye of hope Beyond this bad world's narrow scope. Or if these joys, to us denied, To linger by the forest's side; Or in the meadow, or the wood, Or by the lone, romantic flood; Let us in the busy town, When sleep's dull streams the people drown, Far from drowsy pillows flee, And turn the church's massy key; Then, as through the painted glass The moon's faint beams obscurely pass, And darkly on the trophied wall Her faint, ambiguous shadows fall, Let us, while the faint winds wail Through the long reluctant aisle, As we pace with reverence meet, Count the echoings of our feet, While from the tombs, with confess'd breath, Distinct responds the voice of death. If thou, mild sage, wilt condescend Thus on my footsteps to attend, To thee my lonely lamp shall burn By fallen Genius' sainted urn, As o'er the scroll of Time I pore, And sagely spell of ancient lore, Till I can rightly guess of all That Plato could to memory call, And scan the formless views of things; Or, with old Egypt's fetter'd kings, Arrange the mystic trains that shine In night's high philosophic mine; And to thy name shall e'er belong The honours of undying song.

TO THE GENIUS OF ROMANCE.

Oh! thou who, in my early youth, When fancy wore the garb of truth, Wert wont to win my infant feet To some retired, deep fabled seat, Where, by the brooklet's secret tide, The midnight ghost was known to glide; Or lay me in some lonely glade, In native Sherwood's forest shade, Where Robin Hood, the outlaw bold, Was wont his sylvan courts to hold; And there, as musing deep I lay, Would steal my little soul away, And all my pictures represent, Of siege and solemn tournament; Or bear me to the magic scene, Where, clad in greaves and gabardine, The warrior knight of chivalry Made many a fierce enchanter flee; And bore the high-born dame away, Long held the fell magician's prey. Or oft would tell the shuddering tale Of murders, and of goblins pale, Haunting the guilty baron's side (Whose floors with secret blood were dyed), Which o'er the vaulted corridor On stormy nights was heard to roar, By old domestic, waken'd wide By the angry winds that chide: Or else the mystic tale would tell Of Greensleeve, or of Blue-Beard fell.

* * * * *

TO MIDNIGHT.

Season of general rest, whose solemn still Strikes to the trembling heart a fearful chill, But speaks to philosophic souls delight; Thee do I hail, as at my casement high, My candle waning melancholy by, I sit and taste the holy calm of night.

Yon pensive orb, that through the ether sails, And gilds the misty shadows of the vales, Hanging in thy dull rear her vestal flame; To her, while all around in sleep recline, Wakeful I raise my orisons divine, And sing the gentle honours of her name;

While Fancy lone o'er me, her votary, bends, To lift my soul her fairy visions sends, And pours upon my ear her thrilling song, And Superstition's gentle terrors come,— See, see yon dim ghost gliding through the gloom! See round yon churchyard elm what spectres throng!

Meanwhile I tune, to some romantic lay, My flageolet—and as I pensive play, The sweet notes echo o'er the mountain scene: The traveller late journeying o'er the moors, Hears them aghast,—(while still the dull owl pours Her hollow screams each dreary pause between).

Till in the lonely tower he spies the light, Now faintly flashing on the glooms of night, Where I, poor muser, my lone vigils keep, And, 'mid the dreary solitude serene, Cast a much-meaning glance upon the scene, And raise my mournful eye to Heaven, and weep.

TO THOUGHT.

WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT.

Hence, away, vindictive thought; Thy pictures are of pain; The visions through thy dark eye caught, They with no gentle charms are fraught, So pr'y thee back again. I would not weep, I wish to sleep, Then why, thou busy foe, with me thy vigils keep?

Why dost o'er bed and couch recline? Is this thy new delight? Pale visitant, it is not thine To keep thy sentry through the mine, The dark vault of the night: 'Tis thine to die, While o'er the eye The dews of slumber press, and waking sorrows fly.

Go thou, and bide with him who guides His bark through lonely seas; And as reclining on his helm, Sadly he marks the starry realm, To him thou mayst bring ease: But thou to me Art misery, So pr'ythee, pr'ythee, plume thy wings, and from my pillow flee.

And, memory, pray what art thou? Art thou of pleasure born? Does bliss untainted from thee flow? The rose that gems thy pensive brow, Is it without a thorn? With all thy smiles, And witching wiles, Yet not unfrequent bitterness thy mournful sway defiles.

The drowsy night-watch has forgot To call the solemn hour; Lull'd by the winds, he slumbers deep, While I in vain, capricious sleep, Invoke thy tardy power; And restless lie, With unclosed eye, And count the tedious hours as slow they minute by.

GENIUS.

AN ODE.

I. 1.

Many there be, who, through the vale of life, With velvet pace, unnoticed, softly go, While jarring discord's inharmonious strife Awakes them not to woe. By them unheeded, carking care, Green-eyed grief and dull despair; Smoothly they pursue their way, With even tenor and with equal breath, Alike through cloudy and through sunny day, Then sink in peace to death.

II. 1.

But, ah! a few there be whom griefs devour, And weeping woe, and disappointment keen, Repining penury, and sorrow sour, And self-consuming spleen. And these are Genius' favourites: these Know the thought-throned mind to please, And from her fleshy seat to draw To realms where Fancy's golden orbits roll, Disdaining all but 'wildering rapture's law, The captivated soul.

III. 1.

Genius, from thy starry throne, High above the burning zone, In radiant robe of light array'd, Oh! hear the plaint by thy sad favourite made, His melancholy moan. He tells of scorn, he tells of broken vows, Of sleepless nights, of anguish-ridden days, Pangs that his sensibility uprouse To curse his being and his thirst for praise. Thou gavest to him with treble force to feel The sting of keen neglect, the rich man's scorn, And what o'er all does in his soul preside Predominant, and tempers him to steel, His high indignant pride.

I. 2.

Lament not ye, who humbly steal through life. That Genius visits not your lowly shed; For, ah, what woes and sorrows ever rife Distract his hapless head! For him awaits no balmy sleep, He wakes all night, and wakes to weep; Or by his lonely lamp he sits At solemn midnight, when the peasant sleeps, In feverish study, and in moody fits His mournful vigils keeps.

II. 2.

And, oh! for what consumes his watchful oil? For what does thus he waste life's fleeting breath? 'T is for neglect and penury he doth toil, 'Tis for untimely death. Lo! where dejected pale he lies, Despair depicted in his eyes, He feels the vital flame decrease, He sees the grave wide yawning for its prey, Without a friend to soothe his soul to peace, And cheer the expiring ray.

III. 2.

By Sulmo's bard of mournful fame, By gentle Otway's magic name, By him, the youth, who smiled at death, And rashly dared to stop his vital breath, Will I thy pangs proclaim; For still to misery closely thou'rt allied, Though gaudy pageants glitter by thy side, And far resounding Fame. What though to thee the dazzled millions bow, And to thy posthumous merit bend them low; Though unto thee the monarch looks with awe, And thou at thy flash'd car dost nations draw, Yet, ah! unseen behind thee fly Corroding Anguish, soul-subduing Pain, And Discontent that clouds the fairest sky, A melancholy train.

Yes, Genius, thee a thousand cares await, Mocking thy derided state; Thee chill Adversity will still attend, Before whose face flies fast the summer's friend And leaves thee all forlorn; While leaden Ignorance rears her head and laughs, And fat Stupidity shakes his jolly sides, And while the cup of affluence he quaffs With bee-eyed Wisdom, Genius derides, Who toils, and every hardship doth outbrave, To gain the meed of praise when he is mouldering in his grave.

FRAGMENT OF AN ODE TO THE MOON.

Mild orb, who floatest through the realm of night, A pathless wanderer o'er a lonely wild, Welcome to me thy soft and pensive light, Which oft in childhood my lone thoughts beguiled. Now doubly dear as o'er my silent seat, Nocturnal study's still retreat, It casts a mournful melancholy gleam, And through my lofty casement weaves, Dim through the vine's encircling leaves, An intermingled beam.

These feverish dews that on my temples hang, This quivering lip, these eyes of dying flame; These the dread signs of many a secret pang, These are the meed of him who pants for fame! Pale Moon, from thoughts like these divert my soul; Lowly I kneel before thy shrine on high; My lamp expires;—beneath thy mild control These restless dreams are ever wont to fly.

Come, kindred mourner, in my breast Soothe these discordant tones to rest, And breathe the soul of peace; Mild visitor, I feel thee here, It is not pain that brings this tear, For thou hast bid it cease. Oh! many, a year has pass'd away Since I, beneath thy fairy ray, Attuned my infant reed; When wilt thou, Time, those days restore, Those happy moments now no more—

* * * * *

When on the lake's damp marge I lay, And mark'd the northern meteor's dance, Bland Hope and Fancy, ye were there To inspirate my trance. Twin sisters, faintly now ye deign Your magic sweets on me to shed, In vain your powers are now essay'd To chase superior pain.

And art thou fled, thou welcome orb! So swiftly pleasure flies, So to mankind, in darkness lost, The beam of ardour dies. Wan Moon, thy nightly task is done, And now, encurtain'd in the main, Thou sinkest into rest; But I, in vain, on thorny bed Shall woo the god of soft repose—

* * * * *

TO THE MUSE.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN.

Ill-fated maid, in whose unhappy train Chill poverty and misery are seen, Anguish and discontent, the unhappy bane Of life, and blackener of each brighter scene. Why to thy votaries dost thou give to feel So keenly all the scorns—the jeers of life? Why not endow them to endure the strife With apathy's invulnerable steel, Of self-content and ease, each torturing wound to heal?

Ah! who would taste your self-deluding joys, That lure the unwary to a wretched doom, That bid fair views and flattering hopes arise, Then hurl them headlong to a lasting tomb? What is the charm which leads thy victims on To persevere in paths that lead to woe? What can induce them in that route to go, In which innumerous before have gone, And died in misery poor and woe-begone?

Yet can I ask what charms in thee are found; I, who have drunk from thine ethereal rill, And tasted all the pleasures that abound Upon Parnassus' loved Aonian hill? I, through whose soul the Muse's strains aye thrill! Oh! I do feel the spell with which I'm tied; And though our annals fearful stories tell, How Savage languish'd, and how Otway died, Yet must I persevere, let whate'er will betide.

TO LOVE.

Why should I blush to own I love? 'Tis Love that rules the realms above. Why should I blush to say to all, That Virtue holds my heart in thrall?

Why should I seek the thickest shade, Lest Love's dear secret be betray'd? Why the stern brow deceitful move, When I am languishing with love?

Is it weakness thus to dwell On passion that I dare not tell? Such weakness I would ever prove; 'Tis painful, though 'tis sweet to love.

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.

Wafted in varying cadence, by the shore Of the still twinkling river, they bespeak A day of jubilee, An ancient holiday.

And lo! the rural revels are begun, And gaily echoing to the laughing sky, On the smooth shaven green Resounds the voice of Mirth.

Alas! regardless of the tongue of Fate, That tells them 'tis but as an hour since they Who now are in their graves Kept up the Whitsun dance.

And that another hour, and they must fall Like those who went before, and sleep as still Beneath the silent sod, A cold and cheerless sleep.

Yet why should thoughts like these intrude to scare The vagrant Happiness, when she will deign To smile upon us here, A transient visitor?

Mortals! be gladsome while ye have the power, And laugh and seize the glittering lapse of joy; In time the bell will toll That warns ye to your graves.

I to the woodland solitude will bend My lonesome way—where Mirth's obstreperous shout Shall not intrude to break The meditative hour.

There will I ponder on the state of man, Joyless and sad of heart, and consecrate This day of jubilee To sad reflection's shrine;

And I will cast my fond eye far beyond This world of care, to where the steeple loud Shall rock above the sod, Where I shall sleep in peace.

TO THE WIND, AT MIDNIGHT.

Not unfamiliar to mine ear, Blasts of the night! ye howl as now My shuddering casement loud With fitful force ye beat.

Mine ear has dwelt in silent awe, The howling sweep, the sudden rush; And when the passing gale Pour'd deep the hollow dirge.

* * * * *

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 gladd'st with joy the rustic throng, Promptest the tripping dance, the 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 deep-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.

Sons of luxury, to you Leave I sleep's dull power to woo; Press ye still the downy bed, While feverish dreams surround your head; I will seek the woodland glade, Penetrate the thickest shade, Wrapp'd in contemplation's dreams, Musing high on holy themes, While on the gale Shall softly sail The nightingale's enchanting tune, And oft my eyes Shall grateful rise To thee, the modest Harvest Moon!

TO THE HERB ROSEMARY.1

Sweet scented flower! who art wont to bloom On January's front severe, And o'er the wintry desert drear To waft thy waste perfume! Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now, And I will bind thee round my brow; And as I twine the mournful wreath, I'll weave a melancholy song; And sweet the strain shall be, and long, The melody of death.

Come, funeral flower! who lovest 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.

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.

TO THE MORNING.

WRITTEN DURING ILLNESS.

Beams of the daybreak 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 lane lies my way, Where high o'er head the wild briers 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 successive 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. The slow team creaks upon the road, The noisy whip resounds, The driver's voice, his carol blithe, The mower's stroke, his whetting scythe Mix with the morning's sounds.

Who would not rather take his seat Beneath these clumps of trees, The early dawn of day to greet, And catch the healthy breeze, Than on the silken couch of Sloth Luxurious to lie; Who would not from life's dreary waste Snatch, when he could, with eager haste, An interval of joy!

To him who simply thus recounts The morning's pleasures o'er, Fate dooms, ere long, the scene must close To ope on him no more. Yet Morning! unrepining still, He'll greet thy beams awhile; And surely thou, when o'er his grave Solemn the whispering willows wave, Wilt sweetly on him smile: And the pale glowworm's pensive light Will guide his ghostly walks in the drear moonless night.

ON DISAPPOINTMENT.

Come, Disappointment, come! Not in thy terrors clad: Come, in thy meekest, saddest guise; Thy chastening rod but terrifies The restless and the bad. But I recline Beneath thy shrine, And round my brow resign'd thy peaceful cypress twine.

Though Fancy flies away Before thy hollow tread, Yet Meditation, in her cell, Hears with faint eye the lingering knell That tells her hopes are dead; And though the tear By chance appear, Yet she can smile, and say, My all was not laid here.

Come, Disappointment, come! Though from Hope's summit hurl'd, Still, rigid Nurse, thou art forgiven, For thou severe wert sent from heaven To wean me from the world; To turn my eye From vanity, And point to scenes of bliss that never, never die.

What is this passing scene? A peevish April day! A little sun—a little rain, And then night sweeps along the plain. And all things fade away. Man (soon discuss'd) Yields up his trust, And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust.

Oh, what is Beauty's power? It flourishes and dies; Will the cold earth its silence break, To tell how soft, how smooth a cheek Beneath its surface lies? Mute, mute is all O'er Beauty's fall; Her praise resounds no more when mantled in her pall.

The most beloved on earth Not long survives to-day; So music past is obsolete, And yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet, But now 'tis gone away. Thus does the shade In memory fade, When in forsaken tomb the form beloved is laid.

Then since this world is vain, And volatile, and fleet, Why should I lay up earthly joys, Where rust corrupts, and moth destroys, And cares and sorrows eat? Why fly from ill With anxious skill, When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing heart be still.

Come, Disappointment, come! Thou art not stern to me; Sad Monitress! I own thy sway, A votary sad in early day, I bend my knee to thee. From sun to sun My race will run, I only bow, and say, My God, thy will be done!

On another paper are a few lines, written probably in the freshness of his disappointment.

I dream no more—the vision flies away, And Disappointment.... There fell my hopes—I lost my all in this, My cherish'd all of visionary bliss. Now hope farewell, farewell all joys below; Now welcome sorrow, and now welcome woe. Plunge me in glooms....

ON THE DEATH OF DERMODY THE POET.

Child of Misfortune! Offspring of the Muse! Mark like the meteor's gleam his mad career; With hollow cheeks and haggard eye, Behold he shrieking passes by: I see, I see him near: That hollow scream, that deepening groan; It rings upon mine ear.

Oh come, ye thoughtless, ye deluded youth, Who clasp the syren pleasure to your breast, Behold the wreck of genius here, And drop, oh drop the silent tear For Dermody at rest: His fate is yours, then from your loins Tear quick the silken vest.

Saw'st thou his dying bed! Saw'st thou his eye, Once flashing fire, despair's dim tear distil; How ghastly did it seem; And then his dying scream: Oh God! I hear it still: It sounds upon my fainting sense, It strikes with deathly chill.

Say, didst thou mark the brilliant poet's death; Saw'st thou an anxious father by his bed, Or pitying friends around him stand: Or didst thou see a mother's hand Support his languid head: Oh none of these—no friend o'er him The balm of pity shed.

Now come around, ye flippant sons of wealth, Sarcastic smile on genius fallen low; Now come around who pant for fame, And learn from hence, a poet's name Is purchased but by woe: And when ambition prompts to rise, Oh think of him below.

For me, poor moralizer, I will run, Dejected, to some solitary state: The muse has set her seal on me, She set her seal on Dermody, It is the seal of fate: In some lone spot my bones may lie, Secure from human hate.

Yet ere I go I'll drop one silent tear, Where lies unwept the poet's fallen head: May peace her banners o'er him wave; For me in my deserted grave No friend a tear shall shed: Yet may the lily and the rose Bloom on my grassy bed.