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So Nature mourned, when sunk the First Day's
light, With stars, unseen before, spangling her robe of
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
WRITTEN AT SHURTON BARS, NEAR BRIDGEWATER, SEPTEMBER, 1795, IN ANSWER TO A LETTER
“Good verse most good, and bad verse then seems better,
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
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.
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