So Nature mourned, when sunk the First Day's light, With stars, unseen before, spangling her robe of night. Still soar, my Friend, those richer views among, Strong, rapid, fervent, flashing Fancy's beam ! Virtue and Truth shall love your gentler song, But Poesy demands the impassioned theme; Waked by Heaven's silent dews at Eve's mild gleam What balmy sweets Pomona breathes around ! But if the vext air rush a stormy stream, Or Autumn's shrill gust moan in plaintive sound, With fruits and flowers she loads the tempest honoured ground. . LINES WRITTEN AT SHURTON BARS, NEAR BRIDGEWATER, SEPTEMBER, 1795, IN ANSWER TO A LETTER FROM BRISTOL. “Good verse most good, and bad verse then seems better, ANON. Nor now with curious sight I mark the glow-worm, as I pass, , Move with " green radiance” through the grass, An emerald of light. O ever present to my view ! And soothes your boding fears : Ah me! You are in tears ! Beloved Woman! did you fly Or Mirth's untimely din ? With cruel weight these trifles press When aches the Void within. But why with sable wand unblest breast And hovers round my head ! I felt it prompt the tender dream, You roused each gentler sense, With viewless influence. And hark, my Love! The sea-breeze moans In bold ambitious sweep, With mimic thunders deep. Dark reddening from the channelled Isle * (Where stands one solitary pile Unslated by the blast) * The Holmes, in the Bristol Channel. The watchfire, like a sullen star, Rude cradled on the mast. Even there-beneath that light-house tower- I should have thought it sweet And watch the storm-vexed flame. Time was, And there in black soul-jaundiced fit, And listen to the roar: Plunged foaming on the shore. Then by the lightning's blaze to mark Her vain distress-guns hear; To see no vessel there! But Fancy now more gaily sings ; As sky-larks ’mid the corn, Nods, till returning morn. O mark those smiling tears, that swell And with the sun-beam blend. Fostering the heart they bend ! When stormy Midnight howling round To me your arms you'll stretch : The houseless, friendless wretch ! The tears that tremble down your cheek, In Pity's dew divine; The answering swell of mine! How oft, my Love! with shapings sweet With eager speed I dart press you to my heart ! 'Tis said, in Summer's evening hour Flashes the golden-colored flower |