Imatges de pàgina
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THE COMPLAINT OF NINATHOMA.

How long will ye round me be swelling,

O ye blue-tumbling waves of the sea ? Not always in caves was my dwelling,

Nor beneath the cold blast of the tree.

Through the high-sounding halls of Cathlóma

In the steps of my beauty I strayed; The warriors beheld Ninathoma,

And they blessed the white-bosomed Maid !

A Ghost! by my cavern it darted !

In moon-beams the Spirit was drest-
For lovely appear the departed
When they visit the dreams of

my

rest!

But disturbed by the tempest's commotion

Fleet the shadowy forms of delightAh

cease, thou shrill blast of the Ocean! To howl through my cavern by night.

TO A YOUNG ASS.

ITS MOTHER BEING TETHERED NEAR IT.

Poor little Foal of an oppressed Race!
I love the languid Patience of thy face :
And oft with gentle hand I give thee bread,
And clap thy ragged Coat, and pat thy head.
But what thy dulled Spirits hath dismayed,
That never thou dost sport along the glade ?
And (most unlike the nature of things young)
That earthward still thy moveless head is hung ?
Do thy prophetic Fears anticipate,
Meek Child of Misery! thy future fate?
The starving meal, and all the thousand aches
“Which patient Merit of the Unworthy takes?"
Or is thy sad heart thrilled with filial pain
To see thy wretched Mother's shortened Chain ?
And, truly very piteous is her Lot-
Chained to a Log within a narrow spot,
Where the close-eaten Grass is scarcely seen,
While sweet around her waves the tempting Green.
Poor Ass! thy master should have learnt to show
Pity—best taught by fellowship of Woe!
For much I fear me that He lives like thee,
Half famished in a land of Luxury !
How askingly its footsteps hither bend,
It seems to say, “ And have I then one Friend ?”
Innocent Foal! thou poor despised Forlorn!
I hail thee Brother--spite of the fool's scorn!

And fain would take thee with me, in the Dell
Of Peace and mild Equality to dwell,
Where Toil shall call the charmer Health his bride,
And Laughter tickle Plenty's ribless side!
How thou wouldst toss thy heels in gamesome play,
And frisk about, as lamb or kitten gay!
Yea! and more musically sweet to me
Thy dissonant harsh bray of joy would be,
Than warbled melodies that soothe to rest
The aching of pale Fashion's vacant breast !

December 1794.

TO AN INFANT.

Ah! cease thy tears and sobs, my little Life!
I did but snatch away the unclasped knife:
Some safer toy will soon arrest thine eye,
And to quick laughter change this peevish cry !
Poor stumbler on the rocky coast of woe,
Tutored by pain each source of pain to know !
Alike the foodful fruit and scorching fire
Awake thy eager grasp and young desire ;
Alike the Good, the Ill offend thy sight,
And rouse the stormy sense of shrill affright!
Untaught, yet wise! 'mid all thy brief alarms
Thou closely clingest to thy Mother's arms,
Nestling thy little face in that fond breast
Whose anxious beavings lull thee to thy rest !
Man's breathing Miniature! thou mak’st me sigh-
A Babe art thou—and such a Thing am I!

To anger rapid and as soon appeased,
For trifles mourning and by trifles pleased,
Break Friendship's mirror with a tetchy blow,
Yet snatch what coals of fire on Pleasure’s altar glow!

O thou that rearest with celestial aim
The future Seraph in my mortal frame,
Thrice holy Faith! whatever thorns I meet,
As on I totter with unpractised feet,
Still let me stretch my arms and cling to thee,
Meek nurse of souls through their long infancy!

IMITATED FROM THE WELSH.

IF, while my passion I impart,

You deem my words untrue,
O place your hand upon my heart-
Feel how it throbs for

you.

Ah no! reject the thoughtless claim

In pity to your Lover!
That thrilling touch would aid the flame,

It wishes to discover.

DOMESTIC PEACE.

TELL me, on what holy ground
May Domestic Peace be found-
Halcyon Daughter of the skies!
Far on fearful wings she flies,
From the pomp of sceptered State,
From the Rebel’s noisy hate,
In a cottaged vale She dwells
Listening to the Sabbath bells !
Still around her steps are seen
Spotless Honour's meeker mien,
Love, the sire of pleasing fears,
Sorrow smiling through her tears,
And conscious of the past employ
Memory, bosom-spring of joy.

1754.

LINES

WRITTEN AT THE KING'S ARMS, ROSS, FORMERLY THE HOUSE

OF THE “MAN OF ROSS.

RICHER than Miser o'er his countless hoards,
Nobler than Kings, or king-polluted Lords,
Here dwelt the Man of Ross! O Traveller, hear!
Departed Merit claims a reverent tear.
Friend to the friendless, to the sick man health,
With generous joy he viewed his modest wealth ;

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