Imatges de pÓgina

Love lights her smile--in Joy's red nectar dips
His myrtle flower, and plants it on her lips.
She speaks! and hark that passion-warbled song-
Still, Fancy! still that voice, those notes prolong.
As sweet as when that voice with rapturous falls
Shall wake the softened echoes of Heaven's Halls!

O (have I sighed) were mine the wizard's rod, Or mine the power of Proteus, changeful God! A flower-entangled Arbour I would seem To shield my Love from Noontide's sultry beam : Or bloom a Myrtle, from whose odorous boughs My Love might weave gay garlands for her brows. When Twilight stole across the fading vale, To fan my Love I'd be the Evening Gale; Mourn in the soft folds of her swelling vest, And flutter my faint pinions on her breast ! On Seraph wing I'd float a Dream by night, To soothe my Love with shadows of delight:Or soar aloft to be the Spangled Skies, And gaze upon her with a thousand eyes !

As when the savage, who his drowsy frame Had basked beneath the Sun's unclouded flame, Awakes amid the troubles of the air, The skiey deluge, and white lightning's glareAghast he scours before the tempest's sweep, And sad recalls the sunny hour of sleep :So tossed by storms along Life's wildering way, Mine eye reverted views that cloudless day, When by my native brook I wont to rove, While Hope with kisses nursed the Infant Love.

Dear native brook ! like Peace, so placidly
Smoothing through fertile fields thy current meek!
Dear native brook! where first young Poesy
Stared wildly-eager in her noontide dream!
Where blameless pleasures dimple Quiet's cheek,
As water-lilies ripple thy slow stream!
Dear native haunts ! where Virtue still is gay,
Where Friendship’s fixed star sheds a mellowed ray,
Where Love a crown of thornless Roses wears,
Where softened Sorrow smiles within her tears ;
And Memory, with a Vestal's chaste employ,
Unceasing feeds the lambent flame of joy !
No more your sky-larks melting from the sight
Shall thrill the attuned heart-string with delight-
No more shall deck your pensive Pleasures sweet
With wreaths of sober hue my evening seat.
Yet dear to Fancy's eye your

varied scene
Of wood, hill, dale, and sparkling brook between!
Yet sweet to Fancy's ear the warbled song,
That soars on Morning's wing your vales among !

Scenes of my Hope! the aching eye ye

leave Like yon bright hues that paint the clouds of eve! Tearful and saddening with the saddened blaze Mine eye the gleam pursues with wistful gaze: Sees shades on shades with deeper tint impend, Till chill and damp the moonless night descend.



Much on my early youth I love to dwell,
Ere yet I bade that friendly dome farewell,
Where first, beneath the echoing cloisters pale,
I heard of guilt and wondered at the tale !
Yet though the hours flew by on careless wing,
Full heavily of Sorrow would I sing.
Aye as the star of evening flung its beam
In broken radiance on the wavy stream,
My soul amid the pensive twilight gloom
Mourned with the breeze, O Lee Boo!* o'er thy tomb.
Where'er I wandered, Pity still was near,
Breathed from the heart and glistened in the tear :
No knell that tolled, but filled my
And suffering Nature wept that one should die! +

anxious eye,

Thus to sad sympathies I soothed my breast, Calm, as the rainbow in the weeping West: When slumbering Freedom roused by high Disdain With giant fury burst her triple chain ! Fierce on her front the blasting Dog-star glowed ; Her banners, like a midnight meteor, flowed ; Amid the yelling of the storm-rent skies She came, and scattered battles from her eyes !

* Lee Boo, the son of Abba Thule, Prince of the Pelew Islands, came over to England with Captain Wilson, died of the small-pox, and is buried in Rotherhithe church-yard. See Keate's Account.

† Southey's Retrospect.

Then Exultation waked the patriot fire
And swept with wild hand the Tyrtæan lyre:
Red from the Tyrant's wound I shook the lance,
And strode in joy the reeking plains of France !

Fallen is the oppressor, friendless, ghastly, low, And my heart aches, though Mercy struck the blow. With wearied thought once more I seek the shade, Where peaceful Virtue weaves the myrtle braid. And 0 ! if Eyes whose holy glances roll, Swift messengers, and eloquent of soul; If Smiles more winning, and a gentler Mien Than the love-wildered Maniac's brain hath seen Shaping celestial forms in vacant air, If these demand the impassioned Poet's careIf Mirth and softened Sense and Wit refined, The blameless features of a lovely mind; Then haply shall my trembling hand assign No fading wreath to Beauty's saintly shrine. Nor, Sara! thou these early flowers refuseNe'er lurked the snake beneath their simple hues ; No purple bloom the Child of Nature brings From Flattery's night-shade: as he feels he sings.

September 1792.


The stream with languid murmur creeps,

In Lumin's flowery vale: Beneath the dew the Lily weeps

Slow-waving to the gale.

Cease, restless gale!” it seems to say,

“Nor wake me with thy sighing! The honours of my vernal day

On rapid wing are flying.

" To-morrow shall the Traveller come

Who late beheld me blooming : His searching eye shall vainly roam

The dreary vale of Lumin."

With eager gaze and wetted cheek

My wonted haunts along,
Thus, faithful Maiden! thou shalt seek

The Youth of simplest song.

But I along the breeze shall roll

The voice of feeble power;
And dwell, the Moon-beam of thy soul,

In Slumber's nightly hour.


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