LINES

COMPOSED WHILE CLIMBING THE LEFT ASCENT OF BROCKLEY COOMB, SOMERSETSHIRE,

MAY, 1795.

With many a pause and oft reverted eye
I climb the Coomb's ascent: sweet songsters near
Warble in shade their wild-wood melody:
Far off the unvarying Cuckoo soothes my ear.
Up scour the startling stragglers of the Flock
That on green plots o'er precipices browse :
From the deep fissures of the naked rock
The Yewtree bursts! Beneath its dark green

boughs (?Mid which the May-thorn blends its blossoms

white) Where broad smooth stones jut out in mossy seats, I rest :and now have gained the topmost site. Ah! what a luxury of landscape meets My gaze! Proud towers, and cots more dear to me, Elm-shadow'd fields, and prospect-bounding sea! Deep sighs my lonely heart: I drop the tear : Enchanting spot! O were my Sara here !

LINES

IN THE MANNER OF SPENSER.

O PEACE, that on a lilied bank dost love
To rest thine head beneath an olive tree,
I would that from the pinions of thy dove
One quill withouten pain yplucked might be !
For 0! I wish my Sara's frowns to flee,
And fain to her some soothing song would write,
Lest she resent my rude discourtesy,
Who vowed to meet her ere the morning light,
But broke my plighted word—ah! false and re-

creant wight!

Last night as I my weary head did pillow With thoughts of my dissevered Fair engrost, Chill Fancy drooped wreathing herself with

willow, As though my breast entombed a pining ghost. “ From some blest couch, young Rapture's bridal

boast, Rejected Slumber! hither wing thy way; But leave me with the matin hour, at most! As night-closed floweret to the orient ray, My sad heart will expand, when I the Maid

survey.”

But Love, who heard the silence of my thought,
Contrived a too successful wile, I ween:
And whispered to himself, with malice fraught,
“ Too long our Slave the Damsel's smiles hath

seen:
To-morrow shall he ken her altered mien !”
He spake, and ambushed lay, till on my bed
The morning shot her dewy glances keen,
When as I'gan to lift my drowsy head-
Now, Bard! I'll work thee woe!” the laughing

Elfin said.

Sleep, softly-breathing God! his downy wing
Was fluttering now, as quickly to depart;
When twanged an arrow from Love's mystic

string, With pathless wound it pierced him to the heart. Was there some magic in the Elfin's dart? Or did he strike my couch with wizard lance? For straight so fair a Form did upwards start (No fairer decked the bowers of old Romance) That Sleep enamoured grew, nor moved from his

sweet trance !

My Sara came, with gentlest look divine; Bright shone her eye, yet tender was its beam: I felt the pressure of her lip to mine! Whispering we went, and Love was all our

themeLove pure and spotless, as at first, I deem,

He sprang from Heaven! Such joys with Sleep

did 'bide, That I the living image of my dream Fondly forgot. Too late I woke, and sigh’d“O! how shall I behold my Love at even-tide!”

July, 1795.

TO THE AUTHOR OF POEMS

PUBLISHED ANONYMOUSLY AT BRISTOL, IN

SEPTEMBER, 1795.

May your

66

UNBOASTFUL Bard! whose verse concise yet clear Tunes to smooth melody unconquered sense, fame fadeless live, as

never-sere” The Ivy wreathes yon Oak, whose broad defence Embowers me from Noon's sultry influence ! For like that nameless Rivulet stealing by, Your modest verse to musing quiet dear, Is rich with tints heaven-borrowed; the charmed

eye Shall

gaze undazzled there, and love the softened sky.

Circling the base of the Poetic mount
A stream there is, which rolls in lazy flow
Its coal-black waters from Oblivion's fount;

5

VOL. I.

The vapour-poisoned Birds, that fly too low,
Fall with dead swoop, and to the bottom go.
Escaped that heavy stream on pinion fleet
Beneath the Mountain's lofty frowning brow,
Ere aught of perilous ascent you meet,
A mead of mildest charm delays the unlabouring

feet.

Not there the cloud-climbed rock, sublime and

vast, That like some giant king o’erglooms the hill ; Nor there the Pine-grove to the midnight blast Makes solemn music! But the unceasing rill To the soft Wren or Lark's descending trill Murmurs sweet under-song mid jasmine bowers. In this same pleasant medow, at your will I ween, you wandered—there collecting flowers Of sober tint, and herbs of med’cinable powers !

*

There for the monarch-murdered Soldier's tomb You wove the unfinished wreath of saddest hues; And to that holier chaplet added bloom, Besprinkling it with Jordan's cleansing dews.t But lo! your Henderson awakes the Muse—1 His Spirit beckoned from the Mountain's height ! You left the plain and soared ’mid richer views !