DEJECTION;

'T is sweet to hear a brook, 't is sweet

To hear the Sabbath-bell, 'T is sweet to hear them both at once,

Deep in a woody dell.

AN ODE.

His limbs along the moss, liis head

Upon a mossy heap, With shut-up senses, Edward lay: That brook een on a working day

Might chatter one to sleep.

Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon,
With the old Moon in her arms;
And I fear, I fear, my Master dear!
We shall have a deadly storin.

Ballad of Sir Patrick Spens.

And he had pass'd a restless night,

And was not well in health; The women sat down by his side,

And talk'd as 't were by stealth.

will not go

« The sun peeps through the close thick leaves,

See, dearest Ellen! sce! 'T is in the leaves, a little sun,

No bigger than your e'e;

I.
WELL! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made

The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence,
This night, so tranquil now,

hence
Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade
Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes,
Or the dull sobbing draught, that moans and rakes

Upon the strings of this Æolian lute,

Which beller far were mute.
For lo! the New-moon winter-bright!
And overspread with phantom light,
(With swimming phantom light o'erspread

But rimined and circled by a silver thread)
I sce the old Moon in her lap, foretelling

The coming on of rain and squally blast. And oh! that even now the gust were swelling,

And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast! Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they awed,

And sent my soul abroad, Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give, Might starte this dull pain, and make it move and live!

II.
A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear,

A stilled, drowsy, unimpassion'd grief,
Which finds no natural outlet, no relief,

In word, or sigh, or tear-
O Lady! in this wan and heartless mood,
To other thoughts by yonder throstle wood,

All this long eve, so balmy and serene,
Have I been gazing on the western sky,

And its peculiar tint of yellow green : And still I gaze-and with how blank an eye! And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars, That give away their motion to the stars; Those stars, that glide behind them or betycen, Now sparkling, now bedimm'd, but always seen: Yon crescent Moon, as fix'd as if it grew In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue; I see them all so excellenıly fair, I see, not feel how beautiful they are!

Both groan'd at once, for both knew well

What thoughts were in bis mind; When he waked up, and stared like one

That liath been just struck blind.

He sat upright; and ere the drcam

Had had time to depart, O God, forgive me! (he exclaim'd) I have torn out her heart,

Then Ellen shriek'd, and forth with burst

Into ungentle laughter ;
And Mary shiver’d, where she sat,

And never she smiled after.

II.
My genial spirits fail,

And what can these avail
To lift the smothering weight from off my breast ?

It were a vain endeavour,

Though I should gaze for ever On that green light that lingers in the west : I may not hope from outward forms to win The passion and the life, whose fountains are within.

Carmen reliquum in futurum tempus relegatum. To-morrow! and To-morrow! and To-morrow!

IV. O Lady! we receive but what we give, And in our life alone does nature live:

ODE TO TRANQUILLITY.
TRANQUILLITY! thou beller name
Than all the family of Fame!
Thou ne'er will leave my riper age
To low intrigue, or factious rage;
For oh! dear child of thoughtful Truth,

To thee I gave my early youth,
And left the bark, and blest the steadfast shore,
Erc yet the Tempest rose and scared me with its roar.

There crowd your finely-fibred frame,

All living faculties of bliss;
And Genius to your cradle came,
His forehead wreathed with lambent flame,

And bending low, with godlike kiss

Breathed in a more celestial life; But boasts not many a fair compeer,

A heart as sensitive to joy and fear?
And some, perchance, might wage an equal strife,
Some few, to nobler being wrought,
Co-rivals in the nobler gift of thought.

Yet these delight to celebrate
Laurelld War and plumy State;
Or in verse and music dress

Tales of rustic happiness-
Pernicious Tales ! insidious Strains!

That steel the rich man's breast,

And mock the lot unblest,
The sordid vices and the abject pains,
Which evermore must be

The doom of Ignorance and Penury!
But you, free Nature's nncorrupted child,
You hail'd the chapel and the Platform wild,

Where once the Austrian fell

Beneath the shaft of Tell! O Lady, nursed in

pomp and pleasure ! Where learnt you that heroic measure?

Who late and lingering seeks thy shrine,
On him but seldom, power divine,
Thy spirit rests! Satiety
And Sloth, poor counterfeits of thee,
Mock the tired worldling. Idle Hope

And dire Remembrance interlope,
To vex the feverish slumbers of the mind :
The bubble floats before, the spectre stalks behind.

But me thy gentle hand will lead
At morning through the accustom'd mead;
And in the sultry summer's heat
Will build me up

mossy seat;
And when the gust of Autumn crowds

And breaks the busy moonlight clouds,
Thou best the thought canst raise, the heart attune,
Light as the busy clouds, calm as the gliding Moon.

The feeling heart, the searching soul,
To thee I dedicate the whole!
And while within myself I trace
The greatness of some future race,
Aloof with hermil-eye l scan

The present works of present man-
A wild and dream-like trade of blood and guile,
Too foolish for a lear, loo wicked for a smile!

TO A YOUNG FRIEND,

ON HIS PROPOSING TO DOMESTICATE WITH THE

AUTHOR.

You were a Mother! That most holy name,

Which Heaven and Nature bless, I may not vilely prostitute to those

Whose Infants owe them less
Than the poor Caterpillar owes

Its gaudy Parent Fly.
You were a Mother! at your bosom fed

The Babes that loved you. You, with laughing eye,
Each twilight-thought, each nascent feeling read,
Which you yourself created. Oh! delight!
A second time to be a Mother,

Without the Mother's bitter groans :
Another thought, and yet another,

By touch, or taste, by looks or tones
O'er the growing Sense to roll,
The Mother of

your

infant's Soul! The Angel of the Earth, who, while he guides

His chariot-planet round the goal of day, All trembling gazes on the Eye of God,

A moment lurn'd his awful face away;
And as he view'd you, from his aspect sweet

New influences in your being rose,
Blest Intuitions and Communions fleet
With living Nature, in her joys and woes!

Thenceforth your soul rejoiced to see
The shrine of social Liberty !

COMPOSED IN 1796.
A MOUNT, not wearisome and bare and steep,

But a green mountain variously up-piled,
Where o'er the jutting rocks soft mosses creep,
Or colour'd lichens with slow oozing weep;

Where cypress and the darker yew start wild; And ’mid the summer torrent's gentle dash Dance brightend the red clusters of the ash;

Beneath whose boughs, ly those still sounds beguiled, Calm Pensiveness might muse herself to sleep;

Till haply startled by some fleecy dam, That rustling on the bushy clift above, With melancholy blcat of anxious love,

Made meek inquiry for her wandering lamb:

Such a green mountain't were most sweet to climb, E'en while the bosom ached with lonelinessHow more than sweet, if some dear friend should bless

The adventurous toil, and up the path sublime Now lead, now follow : the clad landscape round, Wide and more wide, increasing without bound !

LINES TO W. L. ESQ.
WHILE HE SANG A SONG TO PURCELL'S MUSIC.
Wulle my young cheek retains its healthful hues,

And I have many friends who hold me dear;

L---! methinks, I would not often hear
Such melod as thine, lest I should lose
All memory of the wrongs and sore distress,

For which my miserable brethren weep!

But should uncomforted misfortunes steep
My daily bread in tears and bitterness;
And if at death's dread moment I should lie

With no beloved face at my bed-side,
To fix the last glance of my closing eye,

Methinks, such strains, breathed by my angel-guide, Would make me pass the cup of anguish hy,

Mix with the blest, nor know that I had died !

ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG MAN OF FORTUNE

O then 't were loveliest sympathy, to mark
The berries of the half-uprooted ash
Dripping and bright; and list the torrent's dash,-

Beneath the cypress, or the yew more dark,
Seated at ease, on some smooth mossy rock;
In social silence now, and now to unlock
The treasured heart; arm link'd in friendly arm,
Save if the one, his muse's witching charm
Muttering brow-bent, at unwatch'd distance lag;

Till high o'er head his beckoning friend appears, And from the forehead of the topmost crag

Shouts eagerly: for haply there uprears That shadowing pinc its old romantic limbs,

Which latest shall detain the enamour'd sight Seen from below, when eve the valley dims,

Tinged yellow with the rich departing light;

And haply, bason'd in some unsuon'd cleft,
A beauteous spring, the rock's collected tears,
Sleeps shelter'd there, scarce wrinkled by the gale!

Together thus, the world's vain turmoil left,
Stretch'd on the crag, and shadow'd by the pine,

And bending o'er the clear delicious fount,
Ah! dearest youth! it were a lot divine
To cheat our poons in moralizing mood,
While west-winds fann'd our temples toil-bedew'd :

Then downwards slope, oft pausing, from the mount,
To some lone mansion, in some woody dale,
Where smiling with blue eye, domestic bliss
Gives this the Husband's, that the Brother's kiss!

WHO ABANDONED HIMSELF TO AN INDOLENT AND

CAUSELESS MELANCHOLY.

Hence that fantastic wantonness of woe,

O Youth to partial Fortune vainly dear! To plunder'd Want's half-shelter'd hovel go,

Go, and some hunger-bilten Infant hear

Moan haply in a dying Mother's car: Or when the cold and dismal fog-damps brood O'er the rank church-yard with sere elm-leaves strew'd, Pace round some widow's grave, whose dearer part

Was slaughter'd, where o'er his uncoffin'd limbs The flocking flesh-birds scream'd! Then, while thy heart

Groans, and thine eye a fiercer sorrow dims, Know (and the truth shall kindle thy young mind) What nature makes thee mourn, she bids thee heal!

O abject! if, to sickly dreams resign'd, All effortless thou leave life's common-weal A prey to Tyrants, Murderers of Mankind.

SONNET TO THE RIVER OTTER.

Thus rudely versed in allegoric lore, The Hill of Knowledge I essay'd to trace; That verdurous hill with many a resting-place, And many a stream, whose warbling waters pour

To glad, and fertilize the subject plains; That hill with secret springs, and nooks untrod, And many a fancy-blest and holy sod,

Where Inspiration, his diviner strains Low murmuring, lay; and starting from the rocks Stiff evergreens, whose spreading foliage mocks Want's barren soil, and the bleak frosts of age, And Bigotry's mad fire-invoking rage!

Dear native Brook! wild Streamlet of the West !
How
many
various-fated years

have past,
What happy, and what mournful hours, since last
I skimm'd the smooth thin slone along thy breast,
Numbering its light leaps! yet so deep imprest
Sink the sweet scenes of childhood, that mine eyes

I never shut amid the sunny ray,
But straight with all their tints thy waters rise,

Thy crossing plank, thy marge with willows grey,
And bedded sand that vcin'd with various dyes
Gleam'd through thy bright transparence! On my way,

Visions of childhood! oft have ye beguiled Lone manhood's cares, yet waking fondest sighs :

Ah! that once more I were a careless child!

O meek retiring spirit! we will climb,
Cheering and cheer'd, this lovely hill sublime;

And from the stirring world up-lifted high
(Whose noises, faintly wafted on the wind,
To quiet musings shall attune the mind,

And oft the melancholy theme supply),
There, while the prospect through the gazing eye

Pours all its bealthful green dess on the soul, We'll smile at wealth, and learn to smile at fame, Our hopes, our knowledge, and our joys the same,

As neighbouring fountains image, each the whole : Then when the mind hath drunk its fill of truth

We'll discipline the heart to pure delight,
Rekindling sober joy's domestic tlame.
They whom I love shall love thee.

Honour'd youth! Now may Heaven realize this vision bright!

SONNET.

COMPOSED ON A JOURNEY HOMEWARD; THE AUTHOR

HAVING RECEIVED INTELLIGENCE OF THE BIRTH OF A SON, SEPTEMBER 20, 1796.

1 OFT o'er my brain docs that strange fancy roll

Which makes the prescut (while the flash doth last)