fl. ■: - •■■■ 

 
 ODES, 
 
 SONNETS, 
 
 AND OTHER 
 
 POEMS, 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM MACDOWAL TARTT. 
 
 " Me quoque pectoris 
 
 " Tentavit in dulci juventa 
 
 " Fervor ." 
 
 Horack, /. i. c. \C>, 
 
 LIVERPOOL: 
 
 PRINTED BY G. F. HARRIS, 
 
 FOR LONG MAX, HIRST, n T.l.S, AND V. M I . 
 
 LONDON ; 
 
 IOHN PEELING, AND WRIGHT AND CRVICKSHANR, 
 
 LIVERPOOL; POOLE, CHESTER; AND FORD, 
 
 MANCHESTER. 
 
 180S.
 
 ■55-fS 
 
 rS/AH 
 
 TO 
 
 WILLIAM ROSCOE, Esq. 
 
 AN EXAMPLE OF 
 
 THE MOST 
 
 REFINED TALENTS IN LITERATURE, 
 
 AND OF 
 
 THE PUREST VIRTUES, 
 
 BOTH PUBLIC AND PRIVATE, 
 
 THE AUTHOR 
 
 HAS VENTURED TO DEDICATE 
 
 THE FOLLOWING 
 
 POEMS, 
 
 AS THE MOST PROPER PATRON 
 
 OF THE 
 
 INCIPIENT EFFORTS 
 
 OF 
 
 YOUTHFUL EMULATION.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Preface " 
 
 ODES. 
 
 I. On Retirement If 
 
 II. From the Greek of T. Moore 27 
 
 III. To Evening 30 
 
 IV. To Winter 3-i 
 
 V. On Revisiting ****** 38
 
 VIM CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 VI. To Ambition 41 
 
 VII. To Patience 47 
 
 VIII. " Coclo Musa beat." 51 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 I. The Mother 59 
 
 II. To Sensibility 60 
 
 III. The appearance of Morning, &c. ... 61 
 
 IV. From Petrarch 62 
 
 V. To a Friend 63 
 
 VI. In answer to the preceding 64 
 
 VII. From Petrarch 65 
 
 VIII. On the pursuit of Fame 66 
 
 IX. " Oh ! gentle stream," &c 67 
 
 X. Written at Hoy'lake 68 
 
 XI. From Tasso 69
 
 CONTENTS. IX 
 PAGE 
 
 XII. "Around me Evening's darkest shades," &c. 70 
 
 XIII. From Guidi 71 
 
 XIV. In Retirement 72 
 
 XV. Written at Midnight 73 
 
 XVI. The Captive 74 
 
 XVII. Written on reading Warton's " Suicide" 75 
 
 XVIII. The Maid . • 76 
 
 XIX. To Ingratitude 77 
 
 XX. On reading the fourth Sonnet of S. T. 
 
 Coleridge 78 
 
 XXI. Written near the Banks of the Mersey . 79 
 XXII. " How blest is he whose tranquil happy 
 
 mind/' &c 80 
 
 XXIII. To Pain 81 
 
 XXIV. " Let the weak wretch whom Folly 
 
 ever chains," &c 82 
 
 XXV. " Young, inexperiene'd, self-taught, un- 
 known," &c 83
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Lines addressed to the Misses ****** .... 87 
 
 Ballad 89 
 
 Lines addressed to a Lady, who wished her son had 
 
 a genius for Poetry 91 
 
 Elegiac Stanzas 96 
 
 The Lyre of Woe .... - 101 
 
 Mher-ul-nissa 105 
 
 To the shade of Departed Beauty 121 
 
 Woman 124 
 
 The Wanderings of Fancy 128 
 
 Lines, written under a Landscape, drawn by D. T. 141 
 
 Stanzas, written at Everton 143 
 
 To ray friend, *_**_**• 145
 
 CONTENTS. XI 
 
 PAGE 
 
 To . "When the joy-breathing spirit," &c. 149 
 
 The Withered Leaf 151 
 
 To " In that dear expressive face," &c. 153 
 
 Descriptive Lines 155 
 
 NOTES, &c 159 
 
 Page 82, 1. 3, (in a few impressions,) for "bosom,' 
 read "bosom's." 
 
 Page 1 iO, dele (V. N.)
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 IF any excuse be admissible for the errors or 
 inaccuracies of composition, surely none can merit 
 more attention than the excuse of Youth; for 
 where that is the plea, there is a hope of future 
 improvement. 
 
 Merely as the first essays of youth I wish the 
 following pages to be considered; and encouraged 
 by a remembrance of the liberality, with which 
 the efforts of early emulation have ever been 
 received, I cheerfully commit them to the candor
 
 XIV PREFACE. 
 
 of the public. Should they be thought entitled to 
 Indulgence, as a work of promise, all I had in 
 view is accomplished, and I am satisfied : should 
 I have failed, I shall bow with resignation to the 
 censure, which I shall both deserve and receive. 
 
 W. M. T. 
 
 Benson-Street, 10th June, 1808.
 
 " Minuuntur atr» 
 Carmine curae."
 
 ODE I. 
 
 ON RETIREMENT, 
 
 r. 1 
 
 Happy the man who, far retir'd 
 
 [ ,- rom worldly cares, and ever-jarring strife, 
 
 Passes in guiltless calm his life, 
 With love of blessed peace inspired : 
 LInmov'd by glitt'ring Fortune's charms, 
 Who spurns the croud that round her swarms; 
 
 B
 
 18 
 
 Who, nobly scorning mad Ambition's tow'r, 
 Pants not her high-brow'd steep to gain, 
 With danger compass'd round, 
 The loosc-hnng rock and faithless ground, 
 Nor trusts the syren-voice that lures him on in 
 vain. 
 Secure, he, in Contentment's rosy bow'r, 
 Nor ever (eels a pang, nor knows a heavy hour. 
 
 I. 2. 
 
 Each day, each dawning day that gilds the sky, 
 Renew 'd, to him fresh joys, and pleasure brings : 
 Lo, from his couch he vig'rous springs, 
 
 From slumbers sweet that early fly, 
 
 And breathes upon the flow'ry plain, 
 
 The fragrance of the gale again ;
 
 19 
 
 Or wanders clown the hawthorn hedge's side, 
 Where blooms the simple wild-rose sweet ; 
 Or climbs the dusky hill, 
 To gaze upon the prospect still, 
 And Morning see advance with mist-encircled feet: 
 "Till as she throws the purple lustre wide, 
 The gorgeous sun appears in all his radiant pride. 
 
 I. 3. 
 
 Oh ! who can view, 
 Unmov'd, the beauties of the rising morn, 
 
 While nature, bath'd in sparkling dew, 
 Smiles lovely thro' her lucid veil of light, 
 Whilst health's warm hues her cheeks adorn ! 
 
 Sweet is the hymn the birds repeat, 
 
 The lark's song from his misty height, 
 B 2
 
 20 
 
 On tow'ring wing, the time to cheat '. 
 
 On bed of freshest roses lying, 
 
 Where Zephyrs play around him sighing, 
 
 Delight half opes his humid eye: 
 
 While round him glide, in wanton measure, 
 The whispering Loves and melting Pleasure, 
 
 And hail, in sportive wile, the blushing boy ! 
 
 II. 1. 
 
 Warm darts the sun his noon-tide beam; 
 At ease, beneath the beechen shade reclin'd, 
 Lull'd by the murmurs of the wind, 
 
 Around his head what visions stream! 
 Dear is the hour, to Fancy dear, 
 On viewless wing who hovers near, 
 
 And lifts the soul unclopg'd by low desire;
 
 21 
 
 Or glancing from her fairy scene, 
 
 He turns th' historic page, 
 The manners of past years to glean, 
 
 And marks the blood-stain'd track of man 
 from age to age ; 
 Or, bending thought-rapt o'er the golden lyre, 
 Invokes the heav'n-born Muse, and wakes the 
 warbling wire. 
 
 II. 2. 
 
 Vet not, yet, haply, not alone by these 
 
 Sublim'd: — domestic cares the mind eraplov, 
 Blest source of pure unsullied joy, 
 
 Which God with eye benignant sees ! 
 Around the sire, from sorrow free, 
 His offspring throngs with prattling glee,
 
 22 
 
 While the fond partner of his blissful days 
 With look delighted gazes on, 
 
 And swelling breast of love, 
 Where Meekness makes her heav'nly throne 
 Mild as the evening gale, soft as the faithful 
 dove : 
 O'er her fine cheek the flush of rapture plays, 
 And from her tender eyes bright beam the thrilling 
 rays ! 
 
 II. 3. 
 
 Not (he proud dome, 
 Where Splendor sweeps along in spangled vest, 
 
 Of Luxury the high-pil'd home, 
 Whiie at the door stands ragged shiv'ring Want, 
 And vainly tells her tale distrest,
 
 23 
 
 Does gracious Peace attend to cheer: 
 And mild Content must shun die haunt 
 
 Where guilty pleasures blast the year. 
 She scorns the scenes of vacant Folly, 
 Her noisy train, and mirth unholy, 
 That echoes round her gaudy shrine ; 
 
 But still within the humble dwelling, 
 
 In neat array, all pomp excelling, 
 Serene, resides her artless form divine. 
 
 III. 1. 
 
 Behold the restless, toiling son of Care, 
 
 Whose sordid wishes speak the grov'liug mind; 
 With thoughts of base control confm'd, 
 
 What varied pains his bosom tear — ■ 
 
 What dire attendants constant round him stay, 
 B 4
 
 24 
 
 And, vengeful, often strike the blow 
 
 That stabs th' unshielded heart ! 
 Remorse, the parent sad of Woe, 
 
 And Disappointment there lifts high her 
 freezing dart; 
 And pale Mistrust, who strews with thorns the way, 
 And feigning Falsehood sly smiles treach'rous on 
 his prey ! 
 
 111. 2. 
 Vet lie. ev'n lie. perhaps, a moment's pow'r, 
 
 Has felt a wish within the wounded breast. 
 
 That, as it rose, has sigh'd for rest, 
 Far from the City's busy hour: — 
 When wand'ring iorth at Evening's reign, 
 While freshness breathes upon the plain,
 
 25 
 
 He sees the farms and cots around him rise, 
 (What time meek Nature sheds a balm 
 
 Upon the soften'd mind,) 
 And thinks in such a scene how calm 
 
 His years would glide away, nor leave one 
 sting behind ! 
 In vain : — as fades the pensive light it dies, 
 And still the rugged path at morn again he tries. 
 
 III. 3. 
 
 Oh ! may my days, 
 In some secure retreat, some peaceful shade, 
 
 Beam o'er my life with tranquil rays, 
 Where Nature lights with sweetest charm the scene 
 
 With Contemplation, holy maid ! 
 And 'mid the changes of the year,
 
 26 
 
 Forgot each grosser care unclean, 
 That wakes the ever-anxious fear; 
 
 Let Inspiration olt, infusing 
 
 Her spirit o'er my lonely musing, 
 Descend in silent dreams at ev'n : 
 
 And Hope, her milder influence lending 
 
 When life's dread close is near, attending, 
 Shall breathe (to soothe the soul) thrice-charmed 
 Avoids ol Heav'n.
 
 ODE II 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM MOORE S GREEK ODE, PREFIXED 
 TO HIS TRANSLATION OF ANACREON. 
 
 ' EIII gooi>oi; rcc7rr)!Ti, 
 
 Tiji'o? WOT ^iXiTYji . . . . 
 
 Upon a rosy couch recliu'J, 
 His lyre soft breathing to the wind, 
 The Teian bard, with heav'nly fire, 
 Awoke the lay of wild desire; 
 Around him, votive to Ids pleasures, 
 Cupids danc'd in amorous measures, 
 Or form'd the Queen of Beauty's dart 
 That pierces, thrilling sweet, the heart; 
 Or for his brows a wreath entwin'd 
 Of rose and azure violet join'd,
 
 28 
 
 Which, whilst his kiss each playful shard. 
 They plac'd upon the hoary Bard. 
 
 But Wisdom, heav'n's immortal queen, 
 Gaz'd on their sports with envious mien : 
 Ey'd the rapt Bard and joyous train 
 That, wanton, bounded o'er the plain ; 
 And " Hoary Sage !" she smiling cries, 
 (" For sophists call Anacreon wise,) 
 Why wilt thou e'er thy life employ, 
 Devote to Bacchus, Love, and Joy, 
 Nor own I boast superior charms 
 To yon gay triflcrs' soft alarms; 
 Why wilt thou thus, entranced in bliss, 
 Sing Bacchus' joys, and Beauty's kiss, 
 Nor raise thy lyre, and Wisdom's Bard, 
 Receive from me thv best reward?"
 
 29 
 
 • O Goddess I' thus the Bard replies, 
 ' Let not for this thine anger rise, 
 That without thee the Sages deem 
 Anacreoti wise, tlio' all his theme 
 fs Beauty, love's delightful dream, 
 
 ' The dewy lip, and eye of fire:' 
 
 J love, I drink, I tune my lyre, 
 And sport with pleasure-beaming air, 
 'Midst glowing groups of beauteous fair; 
 For, as my lyre, e'en so my soul 
 Moves but to Love's divine control, 
 And f, beneath its blissful j*ow'r, 
 Enjoy the calm of life's short hour,— 
 Then Pallas say, my sage adviser ! 
 Am I not wise ? — O who is wiser?'
 
 ODE III. 
 
 TO EVENING. 
 
 O beauteous Eve ! my wildly-throbbing heart 
 Welcomes once more thy bless'd return ! once more 
 
 Thy pensive step I hail, 
 
 And fair enchanting form ! 
 
 Gladly I hail thy reign, O modest Eve ! 
 For at thy peaceful hour my sorrowing soul, 
 
 Sooth'd by thy sacred sway, 
 
 Oft feels a holy calm ! 
 
 Now, while thine hour invites the hallow'd song, 
 O let me breathe some plaintive lay ere Night,
 
 As envious, she is wont, 
 
 Veils, Nymph, thy pleasing scenes, 
 
 Which in my soul instil those pleasures sweet, 
 And feelings without name, whose influence round 
 
 The heart, and on each thought, 
 
 Divinely thrilling, play ! 
 
 Now air is still, (save when, to Silence' ear, 
 The mournful cuckoo's note, from distant dell, 
 
 Borne on the sullen gale, 
 
 Sounds doleful o'er the plain,) 
 
 And Contemplation from her secret cell, 
 
 Where, hid from day, she mus'd on heav'nly themes, 
 
 Comes forth, in sober mood, 
 
 Amid thv walks to strar :
 
 32 
 
 And Genius, Melancholy's fav'rite child, 
 Loves, too, thy silent haunt : and oft, as now. 
 
 While twilight grey descends, 
 
 I, wondering, mark his form 
 
 Deep rapt in thought sublime, as slow he seek*, 
 Where Ruin sits amid the gloom, yon tower 
 Mould' ring, with moss o'ergrown, 
 While Fancy, bn'ght-ey'd maid, 
 
 In visions wakes his soul. — Now deeper fall 
 Thy shadows, stealing o'er the dim-seen vale. 
 
 And robe in dusky hue 
 
 Yon awful mountain's head ; 
 
 Whilst round the blasted oak, on leathern wing, 
 In many a wheeling flight, the shrieking bat
 
 33 
 
 Flits — now unseen, and now 
 Quick darting 'cross my sight. 
 
 But see, advancing from the darken'd east, 
 The ever-frowning night comes hast'ning on, 
 
 To bid thy steps retire ! 
 
 Then farewell, pensive Eve ! 
 
 Yet, not reluctant, stealing from the crowd, 
 Thine hour shall win me oft to seek again 
 
 These still-lov'd, soothing scenes, 
 
 And hymn thy gentle name.
 
 ODE IV. 
 
 TO WINTER. 
 
 Winter ! thy cloud-envelop'd form, 
 Thy bitter blast, and howling storm, 
 
 To me with nought of terror sound ! 
 For many a dear delight is thine, 
 When, votive each at Pleasure's shrine, 
 
 We join, with smiles of joy, the dance's 
 merry round. — 
 
 Dear 'tis to mark the orient blaze 
 
 Of May's bright morn ; and dear to gaze 
 
 Upon the scenes which Summer yields, 
 Whew Nature, deck'd in mellow hue,
 
 35 
 
 Spreads her warm prospects to the view 
 
 Of shadowy woods, and lawns, and flow'r- 
 emblossom'd fields : 
 
 And dear to Nature's simple child, 
 To mark the close of Evening mild, 
 
 When sinks the sun with splendid pride, 
 And leaves upon the lonely glade 
 A browner tint, a solemn shade, 
 
 Whilst lovely seems the scene tho' dim-descried. 
 
 But yet, to me, as dear the joy, 
 
 Whilst wintry clouds obscure the sky, 
 
 The dancers' merry group to join, 
 
 Where Beauty charms, and, blandly smiling, 
 
 The soul of all its cares beguiling, 
 c 2
 
 36 
 
 Seems, tripping light along, with added charms 
 to shine. 
 
 Young Health, whose cheeks bright tints adorn. 
 Who meets the cheering breeze of morn, 
 
 And e'er delights with Exercise to rove, 
 Joins in the dance's mazy measures, 
 With many a group of laughing Pleasures, 
 
 And soft Desire, and ever-glowing Love : 
 
 And Cheerfulness of placid mien, 
 And witching smile, and brow serene, 
 
 Is seen amidst the merry throng; 
 And Joy, with many a sportive lay 
 And harmless jest, and antic gay, 
 
 Mingles, with happy look, the festive train 
 among.
 
 ^7 
 
 When Harmony, with rapid notes, 
 
 In many a varied cadence floats, 
 
 And loud the brisk-ton 'd viol sounds, 
 E'en Age forgets each latent pain, 
 
 Joins with wild glee the jocund train, 
 
 And, to the lively tune, with lively motion bounds. 
 
 Then e'er with smiles shall I receive thee, 
 And, Winter ! e'er a welcome give thee; 
 
 For with thee come the dance's pleasures, 
 Where bound we sportively along, 
 Midst Youth and Beauty's blissful throng, 
 
 In many a giddy maze, to Joy's fantastic measures ' 
 
 c o
 
 ODE V. 
 
 ON REVISITING ******* 
 
 O grove ! where erst at ease, in languid trance, 
 'Twas mine beneath thy shelt'ring shade secure 
 
 My careless limbs to rest, 
 
 And pass the noon-tide hours : 
 
 Again to visit thy belov'd retreat, 
 
 A lonely pilgrim, from the busy world, 
 
 With lighter step I come, 
 
 Than when I trod the scene 
 
 Where mad Ambition urg'd her head-long course; 
 And sickly Pleasure, 'mid the noisy croud
 
 39 
 
 Of Folly's silken sons, 
 Pursues her ceaseless round. 
 
 How sweet the gale that shakes thy leafy boughs, 
 And seems to breathe a welcome to my soul ! 
 
 How joyful to my ear 
 
 The blithe birds' simple song ! 
 
 Whilst o'er its bed the chrystal rivulet 
 Flows on, in lapses sweet, a cooling tide ; 
 
 And on its surface clear 
 
 The busy fly now floats, 
 
 Now waves its filmy wings. — The soften'd mind 
 Feels an emotion of deliciousncss, 
 
 And blesses the blest spot ! 
 
 O may the muse that here,
 
 40 
 
 A gentle visitant, would oft descend, 
 
 And prompt her vot'ry's dreams, not now delay 
 Her inspirations, (coy 
 Her aid,) — then shall my lyre, 
 
 Else mute, not idly, by the Zephyr's hand 
 Alone awaken'd, half unstrung, hang by : 
 
 Then shall these shades again 
 
 With soothing notes resound ! 
 
 No foot profane dares here intruding tread ; 
 But should the child of guilt or pride pass nigh, 
 
 O ! let him pause, and hear 
 
 Intent the peaceful lay !
 
 ODE VI. 
 
 TO AMBITI O N . 
 
 Ambition! phrenzied demon, cease 
 
 To lure me on with syren smile ! 
 
 Thy visions end in fruitless toil, 
 Chase from the breast the seraph Peace, 
 And lead to many a troubled hour. — 
 Then haunt no more my humble bow'r; 
 Thy spells, of magic force, o'er me have losi their 
 pow'r. 
 
 Too well I know the wily art 
 
 With which thou chain'st the youthful heart, 
 
 And tempt'st, with many a meteor-blaze,
 
 42 
 
 To tread thy thorn -entangled ways : 
 Too well I know how oft in anguish 
 Thou bid'st thy fated victim languish, 
 When ev'ry honor Fancy drew 
 Has vanish'd from his wilder'd view, 
 And, for the phantom Glory's meed, 
 In poverty and woe he feels his bosom bleed. 
 
 When Splendor 'midst thy throng unfurls 
 
 Her gorgeous banner to the wind, 
 And Honour, pointing to thy sky-crown'd steep, 
 
 Maddens with potent spells the brain, 
 They see not where, in Misery's chasm deep, 
 Her victim, Disappointment hurls; 
 
 They see not, past the noisy train, 
 
 Despair and Frenzy lurk behind !
 
 43 
 
 Thou bid'st the Hero's breast with ardor glow, 
 
 And onward press unknown to fear, 
 
 Unknown to feeling's trembling tear; 
 
 Seeking thy path thro' hosts of slain, 
 
 And bounding o'er the gory plain, 
 
 As Glory calls him still pursuing, 
 
 Callous to tender Mercy's suing, 
 
 Onward still thou bid'st him steer: 
 
 'Till, staid amid his bold career, 
 He falls — and, groaning, sinks beneath the deadly 
 
 blow. 
 And what the meed that crowns his dreadful deeds ? 
 — To fill the Hist'ry Pity shud'ring reads! 
 
 Prompted by thee, the Tyrant grasps at pow'r, 
 Nor hears his suff'ring country's moans,
 
 44 
 
 Nor hears the thousand, thousand groans, 
 Which bid him liberty restore ; 
 Faction's clam'rous troubled band, 
 And dire Oppression blast the land — 
 'Till Justice hears the nation's cries, 
 And 'neath her lifted axe the mighty felon dies. 
 
 For thee the Poet wastes his youth 
 
 Amid the night's chill gloom; 
 For thee he scorns the listless joys 
 Which laughing Pleasure's vot'ries prize. 
 
 And seeks to triumph o'er the tomb ; — 
 But soon he feels the freezing hand 
 
 Of proud Contempt oppress his soul, 
 
 And sinks beneath the harsh control 
 Of Penury's haggard spectre-band.
 
 45 
 
 Hope soothes no more ; with fairy dreams 
 
 His ardent mind no longer teems, 
 
 The shiv'ring train of wan Despair 
 
 Cast on each scene their baleful glare; 
 
 Mope soothes no more, but ev'ry blessing 
 
 Which once he deem'd as worth possessing, 
 
 The wreath of Glory, and the name 
 
 Borne on the deathless roll of Fame, 
 Now cease to charm ; for Want and Woe 
 turbid his mind, depress'd, with fancies high to glow. 
 
 And, lo ! his fiery eye-balls roll ! 
 
 Frenzy marks him for her own ; 
 Whilst sunk in grief his noble soul 
 
 Mourns each fond vision flown ; — 
 And now dark Melancholy wastes his frame,
 
 46 
 
 In deep despondency he sinks, 
 And owns no more the magic of a name. 
 Hence, then, Ambition! demon, hence! 
 
 Nor haunt my humble bow'r; 
 For well I know thy phantoms lead 
 
 To many a troubled hour !
 
 ODE VII. 
 
 TO PATIENCE. 
 
 Nymph of the ever-placid mien, 
 With humble look, and soul serene, 
 
 In fortune's adverse day ; 
 Who calmly sit'st amid the storm 
 That bursts around thy angtl form, 
 Nor murnmr'st at its sway. 
 
 Oh ! now regardful of thy spell, 
 While heaves my aching bosom's swell, 
 
 Each grief, each pain reveal'd, 
 Still trembling in the dangerous maze, 
 When ills assail, be near to raise 
 
 Thy strong protecting shield !
 
 48 
 
 Full many a heart, by sorrow try'd, 
 Has felt the balm thy hand supply'd 
 
 To ease its throbbing woes — 
 As Resignation lifts on high, 
 Not vainly so, the trusting eye, 
 
 And soothes them to repose. 
 
 Yet ah ! upon thy steps no less 
 
 The watchful fiends, relentless, press 
 
 To urge their fell control : 
 How oft they aim the pois'nous dart, 
 In vain, to strike thy gentle heart, 
 
 And fright thy tranquil soul ! 
 
 Methinks I see thee, even now, 
 With hands compos'd, and halcyon brow, 
 While glaring near thee stand,
 
 49 
 
 (Undaunted thou behold'st them wait,) 
 The vengeful ministers of fate, 
 A dreadful, num'rous band! 
 
 There stern Misfortune frowning lowers, 
 And chills the heavy-passing hours, 
 
 Mad Anguish writhing nigh; 
 And drooping Misery, and Scorn, 
 And weeping Poverty forlorn, 
 
 Their diffrent efforts try : 
 
 There base Ingratitude, and lo ! 
 Sly Falsehood striking off the blow 
 In Friendship's specious guise, 
 Whose hell-born art can none avoid,
 
 50 
 
 By sad experience fully try'd, 
 The guarded nor the wise 
 
 Tho' ne'er invok'd before, thy aid 
 Refuse not then, propitious maid ! 
 
 This warmly-votive hour ; 
 A suppliant at thy shrine, decreed 
 By many a bitter wrong to bleed, 
 
 Implores thy pitying pow'r: 
 
 With pious Hope, thy sister-friend, 
 Oil ! hither come, thy succour lend, 
 
 To quell this painful strife' 
 And teach me now, with rising thought, 
 And breast with conscious Virtue fraught, 
 
 To bear the ills of life !
 
 ODE VIII. 
 
 U C(ELO MUSA BEAT." 
 
 INSCRIBED TO W. S. L. ESQ. 
 
 Dear, O my lyre! art thou to me, 
 
 Tho' fools may scorn, and friends may chide 
 
 me; 
 
 Dear is thy simple melody, 
 
 Tho' Commerce' toiling sons deride me ! 
 
 O lyre! they little know thy charms ! 
 
 They know not how thy music warms 
 
 The soul, whjia Poesy's fine glow 
 
 From each mean act sublimes, from ev'ry passion 
 
 low. 
 
 D 2
 
 52 
 
 Dear, O my lyre ! art thou to me, 
 
 Dear above all the world's vain treasure! 
 Dear in the hour of misery, 
 
 For then thou art my only pleasure ! 
 I strike thy chords — Care flies away, 
 And Rapture darts her cheering ray ; 
 As, 'midst a storm, the transient beam 
 Shines o'er the gloomy plain, or glitters on the stream. 
 
 When Fortune's favor'd sons I see, 
 
 I envy not their splendid folly ; 
 Thy strings are dearer far to me, 
 Swept by the hand of Melancholy ! 
 Dearer to me the pensive hour, 
 When, yielding to thy sacred pow'r, 
 1 feel thy thrilling sounds impart
 
 53 
 
 A bliss, that never warm'd the proud or selfish 
 heart : 
 
 Tho' rloom'd 'midst sordid souls to dwell, 
 
 My toil the hour of Ev'ning closes, 
 Hope smiles — I strike the chorded shell — 
 
 Its music every grief composes : 
 Or bending o'er some tale of woe, 
 The while its notes more solemn flow, 
 I for the child of sorrow moan, 
 And 'midst another's woes forget to feel my own. 
 
 Oft too upon the Sabbath morn, 
 
 While merrily the bells are playing, 
 
 A man, ' gloom-pamper'd' and forlorn, 
 T, 'mid some rustic scene, am straying; 
 
 D 3
 
 51 
 
 But haply if around I see 
 
 Content's bland smile, and artless glee, 
 I sigh no more, but gaze upon the scene 
 With heart alive to joy, and gladness in my mien: 
 
 For who can see the blue-edg'd hi IV, 
 
 The streamlet thro' the valley flowing, 
 The humble cot, the hamlet still, 
 
 The trees in spring-tide beauty glowing— 
 O who can gaze on Nature's charms, 
 Nor feel the sight his bosom warms? 
 O who can gaze on such a scene as this, 
 Nor feel all care forgot, nor feel a heav'nly bliss?- 
 
 When in the crouded City's haunts, 
 
 The cares of wealth's low sons perplex me,
 
 55 
 
 When Vice in robe of splendor flaunts, 
 And haughty Pride and Folly vex me, 
 
 Then, lyre ! in thy sweet sounds I find 
 
 A solace to my troubl'd mind ! 
 Soft o'er thy strings a voice from Heav'n 
 Tells me, " To Virtue's sons sublimerjoys aregiv'n 
 
 " Mistaken man," it seems to say, 
 
 " Tho' Vice seems prospering around thee, 
 
 " Tho' Folly lives its little day, 
 
 " And Pride, and Envy's scoffings wound th< 
 
 " Beyond the grave the soul shall rise, 
 
 " And spring exulting to the skies; 
 
 " There Misery's injur'd child shall find 
 
 " In Abraham's bosom peace, in heav'n a blis 
 
 refin'd." 
 
 D 4
 
 56 
 
 Then dear, my lyre ! art thou to me, 
 
 If these the pleasures thou caa'st give me: 
 No more I'll sigh in misery, 
 
 No more the want of wealth shall grieve me; 
 1 Spirit of Spenser!' shall the mind 
 By Poesy's pure glow refin'd, 
 Stoop to the grov'ling cares of Mammon's son, 
 Toil for the bauble wealth, labor to be undone? 
 
 Spirit of Spenser ! no'! — tho' born 
 
 Whilst doorn'd on this low scene to languish, 
 
 ('Midst cold neglect, and want, and scorn,) 
 To feel their bosoms torn with anguish ! 
 The Muses' vot'ries have their joys, 
 Which not e'en death's fell pow'r destroys ; 
 
 For theirs, O happy thought ! 's immortal fame, 
 
 The soul's unijuenchcd fire, the never-dying name '.
 
 bonnets.
 
 " — Unambitious of the laureil'd meed 
 " That crowns the gifted bard, I only ask 
 " Some stealing melodies the heart may love, 
 " And a biief Sonnet to beguile my cares, — "
 
 59 
 SONNET I. 
 
 Til R MOTH F,R. 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM T1IK ITALIAN OF FII.LICAJA. 
 
 See the fond Mother with her offspring round, 
 How melts her soul with pious tenderness ! 
 As she surveys theui, all her looks express 
 
 Maternal love, and happiness profound. 
 
 One to her breast, where the calm joys abound, 
 She eager clasps ; another strives to bless 
 With words of sweet import; a third no less 
 
 Soothes : while another sports upon the ground. 
 
 By all their little ways their wants she knows; 
 To each dispenses what its wants demand, 
 
 Or feigning frowns : the Almighty so, who throws 
 
 His glance from high, to Man each need supplies; 
 And if a pray'r rejects, his bounteous hand, 
 
 Witholding, but to bless the more denies.
 
 60 
 SONNET II. 
 
 TO SENSIBILITY. 
 
 Yes, tho' thou bid'st life's troubl'd scenes appear 
 In darker shades; tho' oft thou bid'st arise, 
 Whilst the dull croud pursue their fragile joys, 
 E'en fancied discontent, iraagin'd fear; 
 And seest each distant misery as near; 
 Yet, Sensibility ! thee more I prize 
 Than his cold calm who views with tearless eyes 
 The orphan supplicant, or Friendship's bier: 
 For thou hast nameless pleasures, which the mind 
 To dullness wed, can never, never know. 
 Where thy soft sympathies refine the breast, 
 The ties of love or friendship stronger bind ; 
 And if thou add'st a pang to ev'ry woe, 
 To ev'ry real bliss thou giv'st a purer zest !
 
 61 
 SONNET III. 
 
 THE APPEARANCE OF MORNING AFTER A TEMPESTUOUS 
 NIGHT. 
 
 Dark is the night; on yonder moss-bound tovv'r 
 The glimm'ring stars a feeble ray scarce cast, 
 And 'neath the fury of the bellowing blast 
 
 The monarch oak bows its high head ; whilst pour 
 
 The mountain torrents down the craggy shore 
 Of yon huge cleft ; — the midnight hour is past ; 
 And Superstition, trembling, pale, aghast, 
 
 Hears dying shrieks mix with the tempest's roar. 
 
 With falt'ring step the lated trav'ller strays 
 Unweeting of his way ; and chasms dire, 
 
 The flood unseen, or meteor's witching blaze, 
 
 His fear-struck fancy paints. But soon retire 
 
 The gather'd shades; and to the enraptur'd view 
 
 The hills and vales return, glowing with golden hue!
 
 62 
 SONNET IV. 
 
 FROM PETRARCH. 
 
 Dear Eyes ! ye day-stars of my fate ! from whence 
 Fall the pearl drops of sympathetic tears ; 
 Bright azure lamps, within whose chrystal sphere* 
 The rays of virtue live, and innocence: 
 From ye, inspiring orbs '. no guilty sense 
 Of passion kindles, while each look endears, 
 But in the wond'ring soul, a love, thro' years 
 To burn, with chaste, and holy thrill intense ! — 
 To ye, pure eyes ! I humbly look, and there 
 
 I read the words that calm my troubled soul : 
 " Oh ! Pt-rKAitcH, murmur not ! — to earthly share 
 " Of griefs shall recompense on high be giv'n."— 
 
 Yes, I will ev'ry grov'liug wish control, 
 And thro' their mistress lilt my thoughts to Lleav'n !
 
 63 
 SONNET V. 
 
 TO A FRIEND. 
 
 An ! seek no more, by faithless thoughts possest, 
 To tempt the dang'rous paths which lead to fame; 
 Quench, quench at once th' increasing treach'rous 
 flume 
 
 Ambition lights within thy glowing breast ! 
 
 For arduous is the task to climb, at best, 
 
 The sky-crown'd steep which daring spirits aim 
 To reach, and gain a never-dying name; 
 
 And few, alas ! so far are ever blest ! 
 
 Ah ! pant no more to grasp the glorious meed, 
 Won but by toil, and woe, and many an hour 
 
 Of anxious fear, and throbbing pangs, — the doom 
 
 (With oft neglect severe, and scorn, and need,) 
 Of him, whose gifted mind would mock the pow'r 
 
 Of years, and triumph o'er oblivion's gloom !
 
 64 
 SONNET VI. 
 
 RECEIVED IN ANSWER TO THE PRECEDING. 
 
 ** Far be from me the dull inglorious thought 
 Which in my bosom checks each proud desire, 
 Each wish above the vulgar to aspire, 
 
 By glory prompted, by ambition taught, 
 
 By few attain'd, 'tis true, by many sought ! — 
 But be it mine to sweep the warbling lyre, 
 Or sti ike the louder chord of epic lire, 
 
 My early lines with glowing Lucy fraught: 
 
 Or bid Anacreon's tender measures flow 
 Swift-pac'd: to sing the rosy-bosom'd Boy, 
 Or lire my song with bacchanalian joy : 
 
 Or weave the pity-moving tale of woe. 
 
 These, these can make the breast with transport 
 glow, 
 Or bid the hours of sorrow swifter fly."
 
 65 
 SONNET VII. 
 
 F it O M P E T R A R C H . 
 
 Now Spring again enlivens all the green, 
 
 And blushing throws her bloomy treasures round ; 
 A glowing verdure cloathes the laughing ground, 
 
 And Mirth and Music gladden the sweet scene. 
 
 On budding sprays the joyful birds convene, 
 And Love on all inflicts his gentle wound: — 
 But me no views enliven ; nor sweet sound 
 
 Delights: nor fragrant flowers, nor skies serene! 
 
 But all luxuriant Nature to my sight 
 Seems like a desart and a dreary wild ! 
 
 For oh ! the form that woke my passion proud, 
 And with entrancing smiles each grief beguil'd, 
 
 Is sunk for ever in unchanging night; — 
 
 And all my hopes lie buried in her shroud !
 
 66 
 SONNET VIII. 
 
 ON THE PURSUIT OF FAME. 
 
 ADDRESSED TO A WIDOWED MOTHER. 
 
 Away delusive thoughts ! romantic schemes ! 
 Tempt me no more to leave a good possess'd, 
 To stray, of Fame's uncertain meed in quest, 
 
 Deceived by Ambition's flatt'ring dreams. 
 
 E'er may I shun the path ! it falsely gleams; 
 Her projects rob each votary of rest, 
 And rend with unknown pangs the lab'ring breast 
 
 Of him, who at immortal honour aims. — 
 
 My Widow' d Mother ! thee I'll e'er protect, 
 For thee forego the poet's dazzling name; 
 
 To thee my youth devoted, will neglect 
 The pleasing visions of eternal fame : 
 
 For thee the path of wealth I will essay, 
 
 But Poesy shall smoothe its rugged way !
 
 67 
 
 SONNET IX. 
 
 O ! gentle stream, that gliding thro' the vale, 
 Along thy bed the Ocean's waves to meet, 
 Hath sooth'd me often, as thy murmurs sweet 
 Mix'd with the sighs of Summer's balmy gale ; 
 From the aye-bustling world's enjoyments stale, 
 Thee gladly once again, blest stream ! I greet ; 
 For ah ! 'tis long since last my weary feet 
 Prest, careless, thy soft banks — ere Sorrow pale 
 
 Had niark'd me for her own: and many a stream 
 Beauteous, and river proud since have I seen ; 
 
 But not from thee could e'er my mem'ry 
 roam, 
 Or my soul love thee less, than when, in dream 
 Of youth, thro' Fancy's wistful eyes, serene, 
 
 I watch'd the sparkling of thy sun-ting'd foam. 
 
 E 2
 
 68 
 
 SONNET X. 
 
 WRITTEN AT HOy'LAKF. MAY, 1806. 
 
 Straying along the banks of Hoyle, whilst roars 
 The foaming billow o'er the yellow sand, 
 Upon the scene which glows around, I stand 
 Gazing in extacy; or where yon shores 
 Rise glitt'ring dim-descried; or lab'ring oars 
 Gleam faintly to the setting sun. — Scarce fann'd 
 By the light breeze, the barque that to the strand 
 Of commerce bends her way, with wealthy stores 
 Fraught, moves but with the flowing tide, each sail 
 Close-clinging to the mast : — But not these scenes, 
 Nor yon rude hills on which the black cloud leans 
 In awful grandeur, o'er my mind prevail 
 More than the thought — that here, with raptur'd 
 
 fire, 
 Seward once swept her nature-breathing lyre
 
 69 
 SONNET XI. 
 
 FROM TASSO. 
 
 " Tre gran don vid' io, ch'in esser belle," <|-c. 
 
 Three courtly damsels stood before my sight, 
 All cast in beauty's mold, tho' each possess'd 
 A various charm ; yet every shape confcst 
 
 A form the same, and every gay delight 
 
 A sister's air betray'd: each maiden bright 
 
 I fondly prais'd ; but one above the rest 
 
 Soon kindled love's warm flame within my breast; 
 
 And still to her my thoughts will wing their flight, 
 And still for her I sigh, and still my lyre 
 Her name, her beauties only can inspire : — ■ 
 Tho' as her semblance in the rest I view, 
 
 Reflected, her in them I must adore; 
 But sighing fear, as each I thus pursue, 
 To prove a traitor to Love's mighty pow'r. 
 
 E 3
 
 70 
 
 SONNET XII. 
 
 Around me Evening's deepest shades descend; 
 Hush'd is the songster's warblings on my ear, 
 Yet still in musing mood I linger here, 
 
 Still lonely o'er the tott'ring wall I bend: 
 
 For busy fancy warm a charm can lend 
 Amid this hour, to fix'd attention dear, 
 Whilst dwells her eye on yon worn ruin near, 
 
 That with the dusky twilight seems to blend. 
 
 She brings to view the vanish'd days of yore, 
 Within the banner'd hall the Warriors plac'd : 
 
 And Pleasure smiles the sparkling si ream ta 
 pour, 
 
 As the old Minstrel's kindling songs arise: — 
 
 Now nought is heard, save the low mournful blast, 
 
 Which thro' the shuddering ivy shivering sighs.
 
 71 
 SONNET XIII. 
 
 FROM GUIDI. 
 
 " Scherzava dentra all' auret chiome amore," §c. 
 
 Love fondly wand'ring thro' the auburn maze 
 That decks with silken tresses Julia's brow, 
 Trac'd every lock, each waving ringlet's glow, 
 
 And, doting, linger'd there with fond delays. 
 
 Long, rapt in bliss, the wanton fiutt'rer stays, 
 And soon he found 'twere vain to wish to go; 
 For, in each glossy curl's entwisting flow, 
 
 A chain, by Beauty wove, its bondage lays 
 
 Upon his heart, and keeps it close confin'd. — 
 Venus, with gifts divine, her boy's release 
 Seeks; but, O Venus ! let thine efforts cease 1 
 
 He's Julia's slave, by her his bonds are twin'd ; 
 And should'st thou free him from his golden chain, 
 With ardent flight he would return again. 
 
 E 4
 
 72 
 
 SONNET X I Y r . 
 
 While here Contentment tiims her wood-bine 
 bow'rs, 
 And Peace, her smiling sister, soothes the breast, 
 Lap'd ever In the dream-like charm of rest, 
 
 How sweetly pass the golden-winged hours! 
 
 When morning mild her Hood of radiance pours, 
 
 I rise refrcsh'd, from dreams and slumbers blest, 
 
 To breathe the gale; — when evening paints the 
 
 west, 
 I climb the rugged steep that rudely tow'rs, 
 
 Whence view'd around the rich-hued landscape 
 
 spreads : 
 
 Or thro' the fragrant vale's sequester'd haunts 
 
 I wind, with easy step, my careless way, 
 
 Where ne'er Oppression, sullen tyrant, treads : 
 
 And far from scenes where vacant Folly flaunts, 
 
 Wake, as the muse inspires, the simple lay.
 
 13 
 SONNET XV r . 
 
 WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT. 
 
 Shrii.lv the whirlwind whistles through the air ! 
 The vivid lightning's quickly-dashing ray, 
 And deep-ton'd thunder on its distant way, 
 
 Render the night more awful : dim and drear 
 
 The glimin'ring beacons on yon heights appear, 
 And mock the mariner with delusive play: 
 The barque at anchor in the swelling bay 
 
 Rolls dreadful. Ev'n the sea-boy bows to fear, 
 
 And gazes on the tempest-troubled scene 
 In mute astonishment. On such a night 
 
 Hoar Avarice, trembling, grasps his glitt'ring store; 
 
 And harden'd Murder, fiend of pallid mien, 
 
 Shrinks from his bloody purpose, whilst Affright 
 
 Paints to his sunken eye th' Offended Pow'k.
 
 74 
 SONNET XVI. 
 
 THE CAPTIVE. 
 
 A fetter'd slave a negro chieftain lay, 
 
 Borne by th' oppressor o'er the swelling wave, 
 When Memory, to his midnight vision, gave 
 
 The realms o'er which he proudly once bore sway. 
 
 Again, in thought, the sufferer was gay, 
 Again was happy, generous, and brave; 
 Once more beheld the stream its green banks lave, 
 
 Where, blest with freedom, he was wont to stray; 
 
 Again he clasp'd his mistress to his breast, 
 
 Whilst throng'd his children fondly round his 
 knee ; — 
 
 But O ! the bliss supreme was scarce possess'd, 
 Ere doom'd, swift as the passing gale, to flee; 
 
 For soon th' oppressor's lash his slumbers broke, 
 
 Loud clank'd his chains ! in agony he woke !
 
 13 
 
 SONNET XVII. 
 
 WRITTEN ON READING WARTON's " SUICIDE." 
 
 Right sung the glowing Bard his moral strain, 
 While (bending o'er his seraph-speaking lyre, 
 His conscious bosom fill'd with hallow'd fire) 
 
 He drew the wretch by his own weapon slain ! 
 
 Misguided wretch ! whom black Despair could chain, 
 Whilst to his fancy's view she held, thrice-dire, 
 Woes that awoke the frenzy-kindling ire! — 
 
 " Tho' fell Misfortune and her baleful train 
 Assail thee, bear thou still with fortitude 
 
 Thy doom, the trial of all- righteous Heav'n ; 
 Who gives, in mercy, too, Religion; blest 
 With sovereign balm to soothe thy soul to rest, 
 Nor murmuring dare to sacrifice, with rude 
 
 And impious hand, the life which God hath giv'n!"
 
 76 
 SONNET XVIII. 
 
 THE MAID. 
 
 Behold Maria, deck'd in bloom of youth, 
 Health in each look, in every gesture grace, 
 Trip o'er the plain ! Beneath her gentle pace 
 Scarce bends the grass : — in innocence and truth, 
 In unassuming loveliness array'd, 
 
 She hears the lover's tale; and blushes dye 
 With deeper red her cheeks, whilst tremblingly 
 She feels him press her hand ; and would upbraid 
 His fervent vows, — but in her beating breast, 
 Now seen most beauteous, in her swelling vein* 
 That throb with pleasure, as he fondly strains 
 Her yielding bosom, to his bosom prest, 
 (Whilst o'er her charms his eyes enraptur'd rove,) 
 She feels a pleasing glow, — yet knows not that 'tig 
 love.
 
 77 
 SONNET XIX. 
 
 TO INGRATITUDE. 
 
 O curst Ingratitude! how dire the blow 
 
 Treach'rous thou deal'st ! no deadly- poison'd dart 
 Wounds with such ten-fold agony the heart, 
 
 Or bids it half such poignant misery know ! 
 
 No balm can cure thy phrenzy-waking woe, 
 Or to the wretch a moment's ease impart 
 Thy hand subdues ; recoiling from him start 
 
 The forms of Hope— her visions wont to glow, 
 
 And cheer, with magic light, life's dreary gloom: 
 While fell Despair, exulting o'er his prey, 
 
 Grim-smiling, binds him in his freezing chain! 
 
 O ! see lie sinks beneath th' oppressive doom ! — 
 And the poor sufferer, from his feelings' sway, 
 
 Would seek in death oblivion of his pain.
 
 T8 
 SONNET XX. 
 
 ON READING THE FOURTH SONNET OF S. T. COLEIUDGE. 
 
 " Ah that once more I were a careless child !" 
 Why, Coleridge, wish for childhood's hours again? 
 
 We heave a sigh of fond regret, 'tis true, 
 
 As Memory bids its visions rise to view, 
 
 And think that then we scarcely knew a pain : 
 
 For O I 'tis sweet to muse on pleasures past, 
 
 Whether in youth's gay dawn, or manhood's 
 
 prime; 
 
 Such thoughts a pleasing melancholy cast 
 
 O'er the rapt soul.— But not alone the time 
 
 Of infancy's light hours such joys can bring; 
 
 Of virtuous love thou knew'st not then the bliss, 
 
 The witching transports of thy Sara's kiss, 
 
 Nor friendship's charms, nor fancy's visions wild ! 
 
 Then, Coleridge, in thy hours of sorrowing, 
 
 Wish not again thou wert a careless child !
 
 79 
 SONNET XXI. 
 
 WRITTEN NEAR THE BANKS OF THE MiUSET. 
 
 O'er heav'n's expanse thegath'ring tempest low'rs, 
 Dark'uing the surface of the dusky main; 
 The sea-bird screaming, seeks yon cliffs to gain, 
 To shun the pelting of the threaten'd shovv'rs: — 
 And now in ceaseless torrents lo ! it pours, 
 Shading th' horizon, 'till the hills attain, 
 So seeming, the black clouds; which still retain 
 Their golden edge, ting'd by the setting sun, 
 As swift it sinks behind yon gothic tow'rs.* — 
 Louder the whirlwind rages; bright upon 
 The humid deck of yonder storm-tost barque 
 The lightning Hashes; — and, with feeble toll, 
 The bells' hoarse sounds, as o'er the waves they roll 
 Solemn and slow, the hour of evening mark. 
 
 , built in the reign of Henry II.
 
 80 
 
 SONNET XXII. 
 
 How blest is he whose tranquil, happy mind, 
 No sordid views, no restless thoughts inspire 
 The dangerous gifts of fortune to desire, — 
 
 Whose eyes her dazzling prospects cannot blind; 
 
 But in his state contented and resign 'd, 
 
 Nor owns a wish that prompts him to be higher, 
 Or to Ambition's rugged heights aspire, 
 
 Pleas'd with the lot that Heaven has design'd: 
 
 For clear will ever shine his destin'd hour, 
 As calmly on his stream of life doth glide, 
 
 And on its surface beams of joy play warm ; 
 Whilst o'er rough rocks Ambition's turbid tide 
 
 Foaming, its course pursues with troubled roar, 
 Swelling and raging to the vexin" storm.
 
 81 
 SONNET XXIII. 
 
 TO PAIN. 
 
 Spectre ! whose writhing limbs, wild-glaring eyes, 
 And livid cheek, and quiv'ring lip, and breast 
 Throbbing with torture, speak a form opprest 
 By many a bitter anguish ; at whose sighs 
 Content, and Joy, and every pleasure flies ! 
 
 Thee, Pain ! too oft I've known : too oft have prest 
 My Pillow, by thy cursed spells possess'd, 
 And thought I from it never more should rise: 
 For thy fell pow'r subdues the glowing mind, 
 And 'neath thy sway its energies are lost; 
 Or 'midst the dreams of 'moody madness' tost, 
 Oblivion of its woes it seems to find. 
 Then, dreaded fiend, no more my peace invade, 
 For, at thy spectral sight, Life's brightest prospects 
 fade. 
 
 / F
 
 82 
 
 SONNET XXIV. 
 
 Let the weak wretch, whom folly ever chains, 
 In worthless pleasures spend life's transient hours* 
 (Whilst peevishspleen his bosom's peace devours, 
 And fills each moment, unemploy'd, with pains) — 
 Join the mad throng where dissipation reigns, 
 
 Revel, and from the sparkling bowl, that show'rs 
 The grape's rich nectar, quaff, 'till wine o'er- 
 pow'rs, 
 'Till o'er each sense excess the triumph gains : 
 But be it mine, from all such tumults far, 
 
 To pass my days, blest with those tranquil joys 
 That thro' the breast of Nature's vot'ry steal, 
 Nor with himself, nor passions e'er at war; 
 And, as to raptur'd view her scenes arise, 
 Possess the happiness she bids me feel.
 
 83 
 
 SONNET XXV. 
 
 You no, inexperienc'cl, self-taught, unknown, 
 As Fancy bids I form my careless lay, 
 
 Unmeet before the rigid critic's throne 
 
 To claim the laurel wreath : but many a day, 
 When woe oppress'd me on life's weary way, 
 
 I've found sweet solace in my lyre alone ; 
 And I would think, that in the weak essay 
 
 The Poet's pow'rs, yet immature, were shewn. — 
 
 But is it arrogance would thus mislead 
 My youthful mind; or is it consciousness 
 That native genius will mv musings bless 
 
 And crown me with the never-fading meed: 
 
 Yet still, my Lyre ! I'll strike thy feeble strings, 
 
 For dear's the comfort which their music bring?. 
 F 2
 
 MISCELLANEOUS
 
 " Oh ! let my song, my memory find 
 "A shrine within the tender mind !"
 
 LINES, 
 
 ADDRESSED TO THE MISSES 
 
 Why does the harp neglected slumber? 
 
 Fail to breathe its wonted number? 
 
 Ne'er upon its untouch'd strings 
 
 The tuneful lay of rapture rings, 
 
 But Inspiration o'er it sighs, 
 
 And half her fading spirit dies ! 
 
 When, ere I pass, 'twixt hope and fear, 
 
 Still as I pause some strain to hear, 
 
 Never does a single note, 
 
 Or murmur wild, in pity float, 
 
 F 4
 
 88 
 
 But Silence, in the lonely room, 
 
 Sits shrouded, 'mid her cheerless gloom' 
 
 Sweet is music to the soul ' 
 
 Her sounds, with some divine control, 
 
 Her thrilling sounds, and soothing airs, 
 
 Can soften all the bosom's cares*. 
 
 But O ! when Beauty's magic hand 
 
 Wakes the wire with blest command, 
 
 Gliding o'er with gentle fingers, 
 
 How the soul entranced lingers, — 
 
 Lingers on each melting fall, 
 
 In heavenly trance absorbing all 
 
 The senses in a pensive pleasure, 
 
 Captives to the joyous measure ! 
 
 While Love, with influence more refm'd, 
 
 In bondage clear enchains the mind !
 
 BALLAD. 
 
 Dauk and cold was the night, and the wind wa< 
 loud howling, 
 But I felt it not, Fanny, whilst wand' ring with 
 thee ; 
 And tho' o'er yon lone turret the black cloud hung 
 scowling, 
 I sat 'midst its ruins with thee on my knee. 
 
 And I felt, too, a bliss, tho' the scene was so dreary, 
 A rapture which none could inspire, love, but 
 thee:
 
 90 
 
 'Tvvas the press of thy lips made me fancy it cheery, 
 When sat 'midst those ruins with thee on my 
 knee. 
 
 And when the fierce tempest's shrill whistling* 
 grew louder, 
 And thy bosom began to be fill 'd with alarms, 
 Than the gem-cover'd monarch thy William was 
 prouder, 
 To see thee forget all thy fears in his arms. 
 
 Thus, Fanny, thro' life will 1 ever protect thee, 
 Thro' each varying scene I still constant will be; 
 
 Should Sorrow assail thee, or Friendship neglect thee, 
 Thou still shalt be welcom'd, my Fanny, by me !
 
 LINES, 
 
 ADDRESSED TO A LADY 
 
 H7io wished her Son had a Genius for Poetry. 
 
 O ! wish it not ! 
 That, fraught with Poesy's bright fire, 
 Thy Son belov'u should sweep the lyre; 
 Should form its sounds to Rapture's lay, 
 In frolic Fancy's measures gay : 
 Or bid the piteous tale of Woe 
 In solemn cadence sadly flow. 
 
 O ! wish it not ! 
 For tho', 'tis true, it has the pow'r 
 To chase misfortune's heavy hour;
 
 92 
 
 Can many a bliss supreme impart 
 That never warm'd the selfish heart; 
 Tho' oft by it the sensate mind 
 Is ev'n to extacy refin'd. 
 
 Yet wish it not ! 
 Tho' round the heart that feels its sway 
 The kindlier passions gently play, 
 And prompt to shed the pitying tear 
 To Mercy, and to Virtue dear ; 
 Or from the bosom draw the sigh 
 That's breath'd for human misery. 
 
 Yet wish it not ! 
 Tho' feeling and affection warm 
 The breast that owns its magic charm ; 
 Tho' it can check each sordid thought, 
 Each wish by Fraud or Malice taught ;
 
 93 
 
 Tho' it can bid us proudly tow'r 
 Superior to Life's little hour. 
 
 Yet wish it not ! 
 For, oh ! believe me, many a woe 
 Corrodes the heart that feels its glow ; 
 It makes us view life's vale of pain 
 In sombre colours, listless, vain; 
 And cherish feelings too refin'd 
 For him who mingles with mankind. 
 
 Then wish it not ! 
 Reason forgot, the raptur'd soul 
 Follows each passion's wild control ; 
 With proud contempt Wealth's vot'ry views, 
 And thinks superior far the Muse ; 
 Heedless of interest, many an hour 
 He loses 'midst her myrtle bow'r.
 
 94 
 
 Then wish it not ! 
 It lays him open to each wile 
 Of the base fiend insidious Guile ; 
 And when beneath Misfortune's pow'r 
 He feels that Wealth should claim its hour, 
 For Friendship then he finds a name, 
 Humanity an idle dream — 
 
 They help him not ! 
 His faults condemn'd, his pow'rs forgot, 
 Despair and Poverty his lot ; 
 Subdued, behold his once proud soul 
 Sink 'neath despondency's control; 
 Extinct his fire, his reason flown, 
 Wild Madness claims him for her own — 
 
 Then wish it not ! 
 For what avails the voice of Fame,
 
 95 
 
 The laurell'd bust, the deathless name? 
 The only meed the Poet gains 
 For all his sorrows, all his pains; 
 Too late 'tis giv'n— too late our sighs 
 
 To mourn the woes he felt arise 
 
 He hears them not !
 
 ELEGIAC STANZAS, 
 
 WRITTEN ON Till APPROACH OF WINTER, 1306- 
 
 Bare are the boughs where dust' ring foliage grew, 
 And loud the chilling wind howls o'er the plain ; 
 
 The hedge- row shines no more with morning's dew, 
 But falls, with heavy sound, the patt'ring rain. 
 
 Another Summer of my youth is gone, 
 Nor left a trace to say it once was mine ; 
 
 In folly spent its golden hours have flown, 
 Or lost at laughter-loving Pleasure's shrine. 
 
 I fondly hop'd to cull the classic page, 
 Or woo stern Science in her sombre cell :
 
 97 
 
 Still meaner thoughts each passing day engage, 
 And e'en neglected lies the muses' shell. 
 
 Yet I had hop'd to form a raptur'd strain, 
 
 Might bid my memory triumph o'er the tomb ; 
 
 — But Genius flies from Folly's brawling train, 
 And seeks some shadowy glen 'midst evening's 
 gloom. 
 
 'Tis her's to climb the mountain's craggy steep, 
 And gaze upon the scene which glows around; 
 
 To bend astonish'd o'er the foaming deep, 
 Or list with horror to the tempest's sound. 
 
 "1 is her's, reclin'd beneath the moon's pale beam, 
 
 To give the passing air a living form; 
 G
 
 98 
 
 Or, 'midst the forky lightning's vivid gleam, 
 To view the angry demon of the storm. 
 
 'Tis her's to bid the spirit fly from earth, 
 And join the seraph-forms of Fancy's sky: 
 
 To give each warmest, wildest feeling birth; 
 Or prompt the tear which falls from Pity's eye. 
 
 Yet what avails her pow'rs, her thoughts refin'd — 
 They only give a keener sense of woe ; 
 
 Far more sereneness feels the humble mind, 
 
 Than they whose breasts with Genius' throbbings 
 glow. 
 
 Then be it mine, amidst domestic joys, 
 To live retir'd, nor feel ambition's llame;
 
 99 
 
 Its wild control the bosom's peace destroys, 
 And arduous is the path which leads to 
 fame. 
 
 But happy he, with calm contentment blest, 
 Who gazes raptur'd on an infant train, — 
 
 Clasping a lov'd Companion to his breast, 
 
 Who gives each pleasure zest, and soothes each 
 pain. 
 
 Be mine his bliss! in some sequester'd shade, 
 Far from the world, its follies, and its 
 crimes, — 
 Be mine to mark life's latest shadows fade, 
 
 Whilst nature's lore my humble joy sub- 
 limes ! 
 
 G 2
 
 100 
 
 Tho' not forgot should be the simple lay, 
 
 That oft hath charm'd misfortune's heavy hour ; 
 
 Still, Poesy ! I'd court thy heav'nly sway, 
 
 Still should my willing bosom own thy pow'r !
 
 THE LYRE OF WOE. 
 
 TO l'AN NY. 
 
 I've struck the Lyre of Woe too long, 
 
 My plaints can ne'er make sorrow cease: 
 To Pleasure now I'll give my song — 
 
 O .' could the strain my Fanny please ! 
 I'd sing thee many a merry tale, 
 
 Or paint thy charms in amorous measure; 
 I'd swear the swiftly-varying gale 
 
 Ne'er, varying, blew on such a treasure. 
 
 With fifty more such flights as these, 
 
 Such as the dreaming bard composes, 
 
 Who, but in Fancy's wand'rings, sees 
 
 The coral lip, the cheek of roses : 
 G 3
 
 102 
 
 Or in my song, to nature true, 
 
 I'd paint the bliss I oft have known, 
 
 When (whilst each moment swifter flew) 
 'Midst yon green wood with thee alone, 
 
 I've clasp'd thee to my glowing breast, 
 
 And sworn I lov'd thee o'er and o'er, 
 And as to mine thy bosom prest, 
 
 I still have thought I lov'd thee more ; 
 'Till feeling I could never tell 
 
 How much I lov'd, or speak my bliss, 
 I've prest thy lips' bewitching swell, 
 
 And drown'd the accents in thy kiss: 
 
 Whilst every kiss still made me feel 
 That I did love thee more sincerely,
 
 103 
 
 Then from my breast a sigh would steal, 
 And I would whisper thee how dearly: 
 
 'Twas all my transport let me say, 
 But, Fanny, 'twas sincerely true, 
 
 And I was blest to hear thee say, 
 
 And deeply blush, thou lov'd'st me too. 
 
 Thus many a happy night I've pass'd, 
 
 And thought it fled but as a minute, 
 And I would ever think the last 
 
 Had most of heav'nly ' rapture in it :' 
 This be my theme ! no more I'll sigh, 
 
 No more I'll strike the Lyre of Woe ; 
 From hence be mine the Harp of Joy, 
 
 And sweetly may its numbers flow ! 
 
 G 4
 
 £&J)n*uhni$$a i 
 
 IMF. FIIAG.MFVT OF AX FASTI IIX TAI.E,
 
 The following Stanzas form nearly the first canto of a poem, 
 founded upon a narrative which was read by the author 
 with considerable interest. He is aware that some of 
 them are feeble; but if they have sufficient merit to 
 preserve them trom the blight of criticism, it is his in- 
 tention to complete the poem in a second canto.
 
 MHER-UL-NISSA. 
 
 Bur who is she, who far above the rest 
 
 Tow 'rs with majestic air, and heav'nly mien, 
 Whose glance with Love's fine feelings warms the 
 breast, 
 Or awes the soul as Wisdom's haughty queen ? 
 Loose flows her glossy hair of auburn die, 
 And brightly sparkling is her azure eye, 
 As with an angel's grace, and prophet'siire 
 She wakes, with raptur'd touch, the glowing lyre, 
 To deeds of heroes bold, or songs of soft desire?
 
 110 
 
 'Tis Mher-itl-nissa; wond'rous is her tale, 
 And wild as is the Bard's romantic dream, 
 When warlike chieftains clad in cumb'rous mail, 
 
 And fairies, love, and battles are his theme; 
 Nor is it fraught with less of magic sway 
 Than the young Poet's fancy-breathing lay; 
 But as each varied scene we seem to view, 
 In mis'ry's sombre tints, or joy's bright hue, 
 It moves our feelings more, for that we know 'tis 
 true. 
 
 Then hear it, Stranger: Lowly was her sire, 
 A northern Tartar, who his country fled 
 
 To seek the scenes which Glory's vot'ries fire, 
 Where her vast treasures proud Hindostan spread ; 
 
 One feeble horse, and purse of sordid ore,
 
 Ill 
 
 Were all he from his native country bore ; 
 
 And parch'd with heat, and drooping oft for 
 
 food, 
 Dauntless, he still his onward way pursued 
 Amid the dreary waste of desart solitude. 
 
 His wife, who pregnant with yon beauteous fair, 
 
 Was ill enabled to support the toil, 
 Yet with her lord content each grief to share, 
 
 The tedious journey bore; with ceaseless moil 
 Still on they went, amidst the desart waste 
 No hut to shield them from the sultry blast, 
 No hand to soothe their bitter woes they found-. 
 Wearied and famish'd, on the barren ground 
 They sunk, whilst night's dense shades, deep-thick- 
 ening, clos'd around.
 
 112 
 
 Dismal the wild, and 'midst the cheerless gloom 
 
 The Tygers' loud and soul-appalling yell, 
 As fierce with hunger for their prey they roam. 
 
 Upon the ear as distant thunder fell ; 
 They cannot now retreat, 'twere certain woe, 
 And death appears their fate if on they go, — 
 Either is misery supreme; yet here, 
 Amid these scenes of famine, death and fear, 
 Yon beauteous Sun* was born, was born to gract 
 her sphere. 
 
 Feeble and feebler still her parents grew, 
 
 They could not bear the gift which Heav'n had 
 giv'n, 
 
 Muer-ul-nissa is, in the metaphorical language oi the 
 East, " the Sun of Women."
 
 113 
 
 Hope's distant prospect lessen'd on their view, 
 
 By wan Despair, and Melancholy driv'n; 
 At length, (could ought but Mis'ry's deadliest 
 
 dart 
 So chill the fervor of a parent's heart?) 
 By sorrow's dark oppressive thoughts beguil'd, 
 They form the dread resolve to leave their child, 
 To meet uncertain late amidst the desart wild. 
 
 Onward they journey'd on their weary way: 
 
 But who can tell the mother's feelings strong, 
 When to her distant gaze her infant lay 
 
 Such semes of Horror's varied shapes among? 
 The noxious reptile's sting, the blast of night, 
 All that a mother's feelings could affright 
 Kose on her mind: and " Oh '." she wildly cries,
 
 114 
 
 " Return, return to where our baby lies, 
 " Haste, to its succour fly ! oh ! save it ere it dies 
 
 i" 
 
 And could a father hear a wife thus plead, 
 
 And for her infant's life refuse her prayer? 
 No ! swiftly he repents the deadly deed, 
 
 And seeks again where, to the tempest bare, 
 It lay beneath a blasted tree's drear shade ; 
 He seeks the fateful spot, yet seeks afraid, 
 Lest ought perchance had hann'd her tender form ; 
 And Horror thrills, and Hope's bright visions 
 
 warm, 
 As for his babe he seeks amidst the bitter storm. 
 
 O Cod ! what varied pangs distract his mind, 
 When to his view the infant lay confest,
 
 115 
 
 And round its neck a snake's huge foldings tvvin'd, 
 Whose forked tongue was brandish'd o'er its 
 breast. 
 E'en now between its jaws the baby seems, 
 When loud and shrill th' affrighted father screams: 
 The startled monster instant loos'd its hold, 
 And to its dreary den in terror roll'd, 
 Dragging its form immense, in many a mazy fold. 
 
 Oh ! joy supreme ! he sees unhurt the child, 
 And bears it to its trembling mother's arms ; 
 
 Hope now again exerts her influence mild, 
 And Mis'ry of its venom'd sting disarms; 
 
 A mother bliss can feel, whilst to her breast, 
 
 E'en tho' in such a state, her babe is prest ; 
 
 And now no more they droop 'midst hopeless fear, 
 H 2
 
 116 
 
 Succour, so long Jeferr'd, at length draws near, 
 For to their ravish'd sight, !o ! travellers appear ! 
 
 On to Lahore, refresh'd, they bend their way, 
 
 Where Alcbar then his court in splendor held, 
 And Fortune smil'd auspicious on the day: — 
 
 For Mher-ul-nissa soon in charms excell d, 
 As did her sire in honours, wealth and pow'r: 
 They view'd their altcr'd state, and bless'd the hour 
 When, vcnt'rous, from the barren North they fled; 
 For Glory's wreath soon bound the father's head, 
 And Beauty on the child her choicest treasures shed. 
 
 Young Selhn, Akbar's Son, had heard extoll'd 
 Her beauty, wit, and grace each fair above, 
 And long had panted eager to behold
 
 117 
 
 Whom e'en to see, was seeing but to love. 
 At length arriv'd the happy day lie sought, 
 With all anxiety's wild tumults fraught, 
 When first her home the Prince's presence knew ; 
 The Sire receiv'd his guest with honours due, 
 And Mhek-ul-nissa soon was usher'd to his 
 
 Graceful in every pleasing art she shone, 
 Or mingling in the mazes of the dance, 
 
 When to the music's soul-enliv'ning tone, 
 Her polish'd limbs with rapid motion glance; 
 
 Or when to milder airs they slowly move 
 
 In all the soft luxuriance of love, 
 
 E'en as some fairy-form's aerial flight; 
 
 Prince Selim gaz'd, entrane'd with wild delight, 
 ii 3
 
 118 
 
 Gaz'd on her charms, and sigh'd, a captive to the 
 sight. 
 
 O ! for the Teian sage's glowing lyre 
 
 To paint those youthful charms with fervor 
 due, 
 Her crimson lips that smiPd with soft desire, 
 And brightly-rolling eyes of tender blue ; 
 Easy each motion seem'd, serene her air, 
 Full, tho' unzon'd, her bosom rose ; her hair 
 Untied, and ignorant of artful aid, 
 Adovvn her shoulders loosely lay display'd, 
 And in the auburn curls ten thousand Cupids play'd. 
 
 Prince Selim lov'd ; and could a female heart 
 Not feel the bliss which such a love bestows,
 
 119 
 
 When Splendor, Beauty, Youth their aid 
 
 impart, 
 To grace with added force the lover's vows? 
 Oh no! e'en tho' she'd giv'n her plighted 
 
 truth 
 With many a kiss to bless an humbler youth, 
 Yet Selim now alone her thoughts employs, 
 And as he leaves her home, with tearful eyes 
 She gaz'd, whilst swell'd her breast with love's 
 
 impassion'd sighs. 
 
 Not so her sire, he priz'd the lowlier youth 
 For many a virtue to the prince unknown, 
 
 * * *.' -.'• -V- * -7- * -" ^ ^ •" Jf •" "- -r * 
 
 * # -V- '" * ••- "' ''■ ^ ^ -7- -V- •" -" * •'.'- v> 
 
 And now he mourn'd to see him droop depress'd, 
 it 4
 
 By mad'ning Jealousy's wild pangs oppress'd, 
 And gave, to free him From his fond alarms, 
 Before the altar, Mhkr-ul-nissa's chamis, 
 Who sigh'd a joyless bride, reluctant, in his arms, 
 -r- ••.'■ "- * t- * •'.•• * "• ■:■ * * v- -•:■ * * % * 
 
 (V. X.)
 
 SHADE OF DEPARTED BEAUTY. 
 
 Spirit oflier for ever flown ! 
 
 O ! could thy heav'nly essence see, 
 While to the careless world unknown, 
 
 How much my soul laments for thee; 
 Perhaps 'twould please thee then to know 
 
 That he whose heart was fondly thine, 
 Tho' dead to all his hopes below, 
 
 Yet cherishes a flame divine ! 
 
 Then would'st thou see how many a tear 
 Of anguish bathes these burning eyes ;
 
 122 
 
 Then would thy gentle nature hear 
 The murmur of my ceaseless sighs ! 
 
 And, O blest spirit ! then, intent, 
 In long succession, would'st thou find 
 
 How many a slow-wing' d night is spent 
 To woo thy image to my mind ! 
 
 Yet surely, at this silent hour, 
 
 When wearied mortals sink to sleep, 
 Thou pitying se'est, by memory's pow'r 
 
 Oppress'd, thy wretched lover weep, 
 And shed'st upon his woes a balm : — 
 
 For oft upon my troubled breast 
 Will steal a momentary calm, 
 
 That speaks thy hov'ring presence blest.
 
 123 
 
 And oft, to list'ning fancy lone, 
 
 As griefs of wilder swell subside, 
 Thy voice, like music's sweetest tone, 
 
 A seraph's soothing voice will glide, 
 And with its breath attention chain : 
 
 " A little space will pass away, 
 " And we, more blest, shall meet again 
 
 " In yonder realms of endless day !"
 
 WOMAN. 
 
 The dreadful toil of Battle o'er, 
 When the Warrior, bath'd in gore, 
 Seeks his native home again, 
 And leaves the carnage-glutted plain, 
 Where in one promiscuous heap 
 The friend and foe unconscious sleep, 
 Where by the pale moon's feeble ray 
 The War-fiend wings his gloomy way, 
 And smiles upon the horrid sight 
 With all a demon's curst delight ; —
 
 125 
 
 What meed can soothe such dreadful toils 
 But woman's love, but woman's smiles; 
 Reclin'd upon her heaving breast, 
 Each deadly thought is hush'd to rest ! 
 
 When o'er the billowy ocean borne, 
 From home and social pleasure's torn, 
 The seaman ploughs the wat'ry waste 
 Amid the desolating blast, 
 Whilst the dark spirit of the storm 
 Raises his fear-inspiring form, 
 And Death in ghastliest shape appears 
 'Till e'en the hardy seaman fears, 
 As 'midst the lightning's livid hue 
 The pointed rock assails his view; —
 
 126 
 
 Say all his dreary dangers o'er, 
 And gain'd again his native shore, 
 What can reward such dreadful toils 
 But woman's love, but woman's smiles 
 
 Yes, Woman ! dearest boon of Heav'n ! 
 To thee, alone to thee, was giv'n 
 To lull each bitter woe to rest 
 That ever pain'd the human breast ; 
 Thy lovely smile and soothing pow'r 
 Can chase pale Sorrow's gloomy hour; 
 Thy lovely smile and sparkling eye 
 Can give a purer zest to joy ; 
 Thy converse sweet can aid impart 
 To cheer the mourner's drooping heart,
 
 127 
 
 Can give each blissful feeling birth, 
 And raise a Paradise on earth; 
 Each woe's forgot, repaid each toil, 
 By woman's love, by woman's smile !
 
 THE WANDERINGS OF FANCY. 
 
 " The generous fear, that wounds the youthful breast 
 " To live inglorious, and to die unblest." 
 
 Roscoe. 
 
 With thee, O Famcy ! and thy shadowy train, 
 
 I sought the rapid Mersey's sandy shore, 
 Whilst dane'd the moon-beam on the billowy main, 
 
 Or faintly gleam'd upon the boat-man's oar. — 
 Forgot the noisy city's grov'lling throng, 
 And lost thy bold fantastic dreams among, 
 Their pow'r the galling woes of life begnil'd, 
 Beneath their sway at sorrow's sting I smil'd, 
 And felt thy sacred flame, and gaz'd thy visions wild.
 
 129 
 
 Whilst thus I pensive stray'd, raethought a form 
 
 Light as the shadowy vapours of the dawn, 
 Whose eye flash'd vivid as the lightning-storm, 
 
 Came bounding nimble as the dappled fawn, 
 And stood before my sight ; her jetty hair 
 Twiu'd graceful o'er her bosom, rising bare 
 Above her slacken'd zone, whilst loosely swings 
 Upon her arm a lyre, and 'cross its strings 
 Her hand now soft she sweeps, and now ungovern'd 
 flings. 
 
 Bright and yet mild as gleams the rising sun 
 When o'er the misty mountain first he wheels, 
 
 So seem'd her form divine. — Approaching, soon 
 Her hand across the lyre she sweetly steals, 
 
 And from its golden chords arose a strain
 
 130 
 
 That rapt in wild excess the wilder'd brain, 
 And seem'd with nobler ardors to inspire 
 The glowing soul ; but O ! no mortal lyre 
 Can imitate the sounds: (she fled,) they must 
 expire. 
 
 Yet, Memory, thee I woo to tell the strain, 
 Tho' feebly must my lyre its wand'rings 
 trace, 
 
 But e'en its simple chords may not in vain 
 Essay the sounds which time shall ne'er efface; 
 
 E'en I who frame a wild and careless sons 
 
 o 
 
 Full oft, amidst the Muses' higher throng, 
 Inspir'd by her less dissonant may be; 
 For oh ! the lays she sweetly sang to me, 
 Seem'd as the seraph-train's immortal harmony.
 
 131 
 
 And if aright I caught the soothing strain, 
 
 'Tvvas thus the spirit sang: — 
 
 " Dear Youth ! when on thy mother's breast 
 
 In infant slumbers thou did'st rest, 
 
 I saw thy life's beginning fair, 
 
 E'en then began my guardian care, 
 
 I saw young Hope of azure eye 
 
 Point to the flow'ry paths of Joy, 
 
 But ere thou reach'dst the fairy ground, 
 
 The fiend Misfortune on thee frown'd ; 
 
 I mark'd how later years arose 
 
 Amidst accumulating woes; 
 
 With pleasure, saw thy noble pride 
 
 Pale Misery's haggard train defied, 
 
 And view'd with joy thy stubborn soul 
 
 Still firm beneath their harsh control. 
 i 2
 
 132 
 
 I saw thy youthful mind expand, 
 And still the spark of genius fann'd, 
 Would smile, when at the gloomy hour 
 Of midnight, thou did'st woo my pow'r, 
 Or when amidst the lonely. glen, 
 Far from the noisy haunts of men, 
 Thou stray'dst at evening's close serene, 
 And gaz'd, with mildly-pensive mien, 
 On Nature and her rustic charms, 
 The wood-clad hill, the scatter'd farms, 
 The village spire, the mountain grey, 
 The peasant on his homeward way, 
 His children tottering by his side, 
 His distant cot and homely bride; 
 I heard thee sigh, the world forgot, 
 To pass thy days in such a cot,
 
 133 
 
 With Nature, and Simplicity, 
 
 And mild Content, and Poesy: 
 
 Again I heard thy rising sigh, 
 
 As once again the town drew nigh; 
 
 For thou amidst its bustling throng, 
 
 Obscure, unnotie'd pass'd along, 
 
 Or haply met weak Folly's smile, 
 
 Or the dark brow of canker'd Guile; 
 
 But still preserve thy tow'ring soul, 
 
 Press onward to the destin'd goal, 
 
 And thou the wish'd-for meed shalt claim, — 
 
 The Bard's high hope — the deathless name: 
 
 Yes, though as yet thy humble lay, 
 
 Its sounds scarce risen, fades away, 
 
 Yes, though as yet it listless seems, 
 
 And lost to thee young Fancy's dreamy 
 i 3
 
 134- 
 
 The time shall come, nor far the date, 
 When thou shalt raise thy Harp on high, 
 And sing of deeds unsung before, 
 In strains that ne'er shall die ! " 
 
 And thus she falt'ring ceas'd : for now drew near 
 A Hermit-form, with wrinkled cheek, and 
 pale 
 E'en as the slave of soul-subduing Fear, 
 
 And his hoar beard hung loosely to the gale; 
 Bent was his brow as one deep lost in thought, 
 And in his looks, with anxious meaning fraught, 
 Sat pictur'd Discontent, and haggard Woe. 
 He nearer drew, and then, in accents slow, 
 From his pale quiv'ring lip these sounds did seem 
 to flow.
 
 135 
 
 " O ! heed not, youth, yon syren's witching lay, 
 
 Fly, from her tempting accents fly away ! 
 
 False are her sounds, her visions vain tho' bright, 
 
 The gaudy rainbow's varied, transient light. 
 
 She'd lead thee on to seek a deathless name, 
 
 And snatch the wreath that binds the brow of Fame, 
 
 But oh ! whilst pointing to her prospects fair, 
 
 She hides the many mis'ries lurking there, 
 
 She points to Honor and her gorgeous train, 
 
 But shews not Disappointment, Want, and Pain ; 
 
 She bids thee feel with her a bliss refin'd, 
 
 The Poet's glowing soul, the daring mind, 
 
 But tells thee not the misery he knows, 
 
 His hopes dispers'd, his keener sense of woes, 
 
 She pictures not his breast with anguish torn. 
 
 The prey of sorrow, cold neglect, and scorn ; 
 i 4
 
 136 
 
 She tells of humble scenes, yet still inspires 
 Thy soul with higher hopes and proud desires 5 
 ! shun her barren path ! and be it thine 
 To seek of Wealth the ever-teeming mine, 
 With it thou'lt purchase Honor, Lux'ry, Ease, 
 Each charm that life, amid its pow'r to please, 
 Can give: then shun yon syren's 'witching 
 
 lay, 
 And, wiser, seek the gem-bespangled way ; 
 This, this be thine ! wish not the Poet's name ! 
 Nor tempt the dang'rous path which leads to 
 
 Fame !" 
 
 'Twas thus Experience sang : the Muse arose, 
 Whilst flashes anger from her sparkling 
 eyes,
 
 137 
 
 And in her bosom indignation glows, 
 
 " Fly far from hence, mean grov'lling wretch," 
 she cries, 
 " Nor damp the ardors of the youthful mind, 
 To dull oblivion be thy strain consign'd, 
 And lost " the lore that deadens young desire," 
 But thou, O ! youth, to higher hopes aspire, 
 Be thine the sensate breast, be thine the golden 
 lyre ! 
 
 Yes, though the Sons of Prudence chide, 
 Tho' Folly's senseless croud deride 
 
 Thy wild desires and simple pleasures, 
 Yet to the mind which owns my sway, 
 To manv a kindred bosom they 
 
 Are dearer than the world's vain treasures.
 
 138 
 
 The worldling cannot feel the line 
 
 Where glow the minstrel's thoughts divine, 
 
 And Fancy's visions rise in words that breathe, 
 He dreams not of the poet's joy, 
 He never felt the rising sigh 
 
 To build a deathless name, to snatch the fadeless 
 wreath. 
 
 But oh ! be thine to feel the poet's song, 
 
 Be thine the poet's soul, be thine the poet's 
 
 tongue ! 
 To Virtue strung, the lyre, its simplest strain, 
 Its untaught warblings are not form'd in vain; 
 Be thine the bliss unknown to sordid souls, 
 The wild-wove dream that round the Minstrel 
 
 rolls !
 
 139 
 
 Let deeds of high emprize thy lay inspire, 
 To liberty and truth devoted be thy lyre, 
 And thou, oh youth ! shalt see again 
 
 4 
 
 My visionary form ! shalt see decreed, 
 When manhood breathes a purer strain, 
 
 The poet's best reward, the deathless meed!" 
 
 She ceas'd ; she fled : again I sighing sought 
 The noisy town; but soon her soothing tone, 
 
 By memory cherish'd, chetk'd each murm'ring 
 thought ; 
 it bade me sigh no more at Fortune's frown, 
 
 But look to higher hopes, to joys refin'd, 
 
 Unknown but to th' enthusiast's glowing mind; 
 
 It bade me tow'r above the sordid crew,
 
 140 
 
 Who to the shrine of Mammon bound their 
 
 view, 
 Nor know the sacred hour to taste and feeling 
 
 true. 
 
 (V. N.)
 
 LINES, 
 
 Written i nd^-r a Landscape, drawn by D. T** 
 
 How still the air! no sound is heard to breathe 
 To interrupt this pause ; yon ruin'd tow'r, 
 More awful by the twilight's partial show'r, 
 Adds to the solemn scene a dearer charm. — 
 Here Fancy may indulge her visions warm, 
 
 Anil bright Imagination flow'rets wreathe, 
 
 To deck her favTile child : my raptur'd eye 
 Glides o'er the dying landscape with delight, 
 And marks the sombre colouring of night
 
 142 
 
 Mellow the tints of eve. Now fainter still 
 Appears to view yon tall majestic hill 
 That lifts its head e'en as 'twould prop the sky. 
 
 Here Silence holds her court; the sighing breeze, 
 Sweeping the dusky lake, is heard no more, 
 No more the waves in murmuis seek the shore, 
 In slow succession ; nor the distant bell 
 Tolling the curfew, or a dying knell, 
 
 Floats on the wind, or echoes thro' the trees.
 
 STANZAS, 
 
 Written at Everton*, on Sunday morning. 
 
 O could I for life, freed from every care, 
 
 As pensive, as blest, as serene, 
 Nor feeling one lingering wish to be there, 
 Thus gaze on the world's joyless scene ! 
 
 Tis the morning of rest ; scarce a murmur is driv'n 
 
 Before the soft current of air ; 
 'Tis so still that an angel might whisper from Heav'n 
 
 To soothe the cold breast of despair. 
 
 An eminence overlooking the town of L****«***-
 
 144 
 
 And happy is he who thus raptur'd can gaze 
 On nature's bright prospects ; and view 
 
 With pity, the bosom where Guilt ever preys, 
 Or the cheek mark'd by Sorrow's pale hue. 
 
 For oh ! 'tis not theirs, when retir'd from mankind, 
 
 This calmness of soul to attain; 
 For where guilt or misfortune oppresses the mind, 
 
 In solitude keenest' s the pain. 
 
 And the bliss I now feel, it not long can remain, 
 
 'Tis a bliss too extatic to last ; 
 I must mingle ag^n with the world's noisy train. 
 
 And forsjet the sweet moments I've pass'd!
 
 TO MY FRIEND, 
 
 * ** *#* 
 
 ON HIS BIRTH-DAY. 
 
 To hail in song the natal day, 
 
 And more than e'er was felt to say, 
 
 O 'tis a beaten path! — but yet 
 
 Thy birth-day I can ne'er forget, — 
 
 The Bard who cherish'd first by thee 
 
 Felt added joys in poesy, 
 
 Felt e'en his numbers could impart 
 
 A pleasure to some kindred heart, 
 
 Shall hail the day, in accents rude, 
 
 And speak, in simple lays, his heartfelt gratitude'
 
 146 
 
 I saw the muses' raptur'd train 
 Scorn'd by the worldling dull and vain ; 
 In secret form'd my warblings wild, 
 'Till thou upon my efforts smil'd, 
 'Till thou with glowing soul appear'd, 
 My drooping spirits fondly cheer'd, 
 And bade me hope that yet my name 
 Might grace the deathless roll of fame ; 
 Then, then I boldly own'd the song, 
 And view'd, with proud contempt, the cold in- 
 sensate throng. 
 
 Since— many a happy hour I've known 
 Such as the feeling mind alone 
 Can rescue from the cares of earth — . 
 When Reason smil'd on frolic Mirth,
 
 147 
 
 And youthful Fancy hover'd nigh 
 
 As o'er some raptur'd minstrelsy 
 
 We both have hung, and thought how sweet 
 
 'Twou'd be, to hear the Bard repeat 
 
 To Friendship's ear o'er Pleasure's bowl, 
 
 Those glowing emanations of the soul ! 
 
 'Twas such a Bard in some blest hour 
 Whilst 'neath Imagination's pow'r, 
 Who, sportive, thought that nature might 
 Some short descriptive labels write, 
 And hang them upon mortals' " throttles, 
 Like labels upon physic bottles*." 
 
 * For this expression, which is certainly rather anti- 
 poetical, see Moore's " Nature's Labels/' m the Poetical 
 'Works of Thomas Little, Esq. 
 K 2
 
 148 
 
 'Twas a wild thought: but if dame Nature 
 Had thus made known each secret feature, 
 Upon thy warm and sensate breast 
 This label would have hung confest : 
 
 " Here Fancy and Feeling commingling impart 
 A wild throb to the pulse, and warm glow to the 
 
 heart, 
 Here Wit, Mirth, and Reason, enliven each hour, 
 And the wish to be gen'rous is blest with thepow'r ' 
 
 Such is the friend whose natal day 
 I hail, in this wild, wand'ring lay ; 
 O ! may his future moments flee 
 From care and disappointment free, 
 Her sigh for him may Beauty breathe, 
 And Glory crown him with her wreath !
 
 To 
 
 On being told I had hurt her feelings. 
 
 When the joy-breathing spirit of Rapture has 
 flown, 
 And the heart sinks oppress'd by the demon of 
 woe, 
 Could / add to the pangs which the Suff'rer has 
 known, 
 Or sharpen the arrow of sorrow ? Oh 1 no ! 
 
 Each sigh of her grief I would willingly share, 
 
 Bid the tear of her anguish for e'er cease to flow, 
 k 3
 
 150 
 
 But could /ever add to the load of Despair, 
 
 Or oppress the keen feelings of sorrow ? Oh ! no ! 
 
 Oh no ! I would pray the blest seraph of Peace 
 To soothe all the cares of the mourner to rest, 
 
 Bid the griefs of her bosom in happiness cease, 
 And Joy fix its haunt in so hallow'd a nest!
 
 151 
 
 'Twas Winter — from the cheerless drizzling 
 North, 
 
 Athwart the air, cold misty horrors spread; 
 To melancholy born — I wander'd forth, 
 
 And hail'd the darkness, happier bosoms dread. 
 
 For Nature's naked Majesty can soothe 
 The undeserv'd misfortune's sullen pride; 
 
 Can melt to noble and delicious ruth, 
 When life is left a bitter friendless void. 
 
 O'er the bleak scene my eyes enraptur'd stray, 
 On the bare trees with gloom-nurst fancy rest; 
 
 When one lone ling'ring leaf, gust-swept away, 
 Wheeling and fluttering, lighted in my breast.
 
 152 
 
 " Alas ! Pale out cast, seek not there 
 
 To shun the rigors of the sky, 
 Thou'lt only find an atmosphere 
 
 As blighting as the winds you fly : 
 Go ! rather brave the boist'rous air, 
 
 Ormould'ring on the damp earth lye ; 
 Within this breast burns fev'rous care, 
 
 Its springs of Sympathy are dry. 
 
 " From all my native branches cast, 
 
 Like thine is my uncertain state, 
 The sport of every random blast, 
 
 Nor meet one bosom's calm retreat ; 
 And all my hope is but to find, 
 
 Still with thyself a kindred fate, 
 On the cold lap of earth resign'd, 
 
 To leave at length Life's weary weight."
 
 T< 
 
 In that dear expressive face 
 
 A sad and secret tale I read; 
 Thy heart has felt the with' ring trace 
 
 Of Passion's self-deceiving deed. 
 
 The unbidden sigh — the starting tear — 
 The keenly-conscious glowing cheek — 
 
 The forced smiles that half appear, 
 
 Then fade in gloom — thy woes bespeak. 
 
 Simplicity that thought no harm 
 Has fall'rxan unsuspecting prey: —
 
 154 
 
 Oh ! who shall hence thy sorrows charm. 
 And drive the fiends of care away ? 
 
 Those bitter pangs that rend thy heart, 
 (Tho' the harsh world deny relief,) 
 
 Those very pangs shall peace impart — 
 Heaven shall soothe repentant grief! 
 
 Thy life-consuming tears and sighs, 
 Those holy sorrows, soon shall cease, 
 
 Grateful, to Mercy's throne, they rise, 
 The pledges of eternal peace.
 
 Motts.
 
 NOTES. 
 
 WlTH regard to a few'of the preceding poems, I merely 
 act as editor ; but, owing to the author's absence from 
 England, I have not, at present, the liberty of pointing 
 them out. 
 
 P. 62. Sonnet iv. 
 " From Petrarch," — is rather an imitation of his general 
 style ; but the seventh is principally taken from Petrarch's 
 two hundred and seventieth. 
 
 P. 118. 1. 6. 
 
 " East/ each motion seemed, serene her air," &c. 
 
 The lines which conclude the stanza are altered from 
 
 Prior's " Solomon/' a poem undeservedly neglected. 
 
 P. 120. 
 
 The second canto of this essay, should it ever be com- 
 pleted, will be occupied by a relation of the events pre- 
 ceding Mher-ul-nissa's advancement to the throne of 
 the Mogul Empire ; at which period the poem commences. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 PRINTED II Y G. F. HARRIS, 
 LIVERPOOL.

 
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