WOODCUTS 
 
 AND 
 
 VERSES. 
 
 KENT : 
 
 at tijt prtbate lift*** of Etc 'Priors ; 
 
 BY JOHN WARWICK. 
 
 1820. 
 
preface* 
 
 IHE Lee Priory Printer long ago expressed 
 to me his wish to publish a volume in 
 which all the WOOD ENGRAVINGS that have 
 been used at this Press might be produced 
 together, with some poetical illustrations 
 or notices of each. The avocations of the Editor, whose 
 contributions would have been so much more valuable 
 than mine, being too numerous to permit him to give 
 his attention to an undertaking, that, however desultory 
 or even frivolous, was likely to involve much sacrifice of 
 time, the Printer requested my assistance, which has by 
 degrees supplied him with the following trifles. ---Trifles 
 I call them very sincerely, and only in that character 
 introduce them to his Subscribers: and, even then, by 
 no means as claiming kindred with those airy children 
 
 A 
 
2 ... 
 
 of fancy that sometimes appear at the incantations of 
 lyrical poets, and charm more by their lightness and 
 delicacy than the nobler spirits evoked by mightier ma- 
 gicians. Gladly would I persuade myself, if I could, 
 that even a few of mine partake of that graceful nature: 
 but, after looking over them in their present dress, I 
 consign them to their destiny with a sort of despair, for 
 it is no longer in my power to retard them. Like the 
 dancing-master who has prepared pupils for the Italian 
 stage, I see them go forward with all the advantages 
 of "scenery and decoration" to favour their appear- 
 ance; but I have not, like him, a flattering expectation 
 that their harmony and variety of movement will be 
 found such as to entitle them to the praise of trifling 
 with elegance. 
 
 The embellishments in most books are secondary to 
 the printed composition: in this, with very few excep- 
 tions, the reverse is the fact. I will not deny that this pe- 
 culiarity has sometimes had the effect of saving me the 
 trouble of invention, but it has, at least as often, been 
 
. ... 3 
 
 productive of embarrassment. It was not always easy 
 to form well-adapted combinations from various and 
 independent materials, nor always practicable to disci- 
 pline the mind to the proper entertainment o'f subjects 
 not of my own choice. Nor is this remark made to 
 predispose the reader in my favour, but to anticipate 
 objections: all that I desire or expect is, that my part 
 in the volume may pass without giving much discontent 
 to its purchasers*; and that the main attraction of the 
 work will be sought for in the WOOD ENGRAVINGS. 
 Many of these were executed by the first artists, in their 
 most spirited and finished manner, and the Printer is 
 well known for his skill in working them off. 
 
 If I cherished hopes of exciting any sentiment kinder 
 than toleration for these verses, I certainly should not 
 express them; still less should I be weak enough to sup- 
 plicate for kindness. I am too well convinced of the 
 
 * It is hardly necessary for me to say that the printer and his booksellers 
 are the only persons to whom this work can convey any emolument, as to which 
 I have no concern whatever, beyond what arises from my wish to serve him. 
 
4 ... 
 
 I truth of Johnson's assertion, that the supplications of a 
 writer never yet reprieved him one moment from obli- 
 vion. 
 
 Much has been said of the vanity of authors. As- 
 suredly the person who deliberately offers his produc- 
 tions to the public must, in most instances, suppose that 
 they are worthy of notice, and therefore arrogate some 
 merit to himself, and as all pretensions to merit are re- 
 ceived with jealousy, it is not wonderful that the vanity 
 of authors should be a favourite topic of animadversion. 
 But every man, let his affected humility be what it may, 
 has vanity of some kind: and that is surely not the most 
 disgraceful which springs from a love of letters, and is 
 fostered by the desire, however beguiling, of literary 
 distinction. 
 
 Having made what few observations I intended with 
 regard to the contents of this volume, may I here be 
 permitted to say something on the subject of my other 
 productions? By the publication of MONTHERMER and 
 of the SACRIFICE OF ISABEL, I long since laid myself open 
 
* ... 5 
 
 to the charge of being a vain author, and what is still 
 worse, an author in vain. I can only plead in extenu- 
 ation of the confidence in my own abilities implied by 
 the publication of the first of those poems, that youth is the 
 season of rashness, and that it was published when I was 
 very young. I can already see how much I might have 
 improved my chance of future reputation (for I once 
 thought I had a chance), by laying aside those works 
 till time should open my eyes to their faults, and enable 
 me to correct them. MONTHERMER, more especially, 
 was sent to the press too precipitately. "How often," 
 says the Author of TALES OF THE HALL " has youth been 
 pleaded for deficiencies or redundancies, for the existence 
 of which youth may be an excuse, and yet be none for 
 their exposure." With great deference to such autho- 
 rity, I cannot but consider this inference quite wrong. 
 If youth be an excuse for writing incorrectly, it surely is 
 also an excuse for publishing inconsiderately. The same 
 inexperience that causes the first error superadds the 
 
 B 
 
second, and when the plea of youth is received in exte- 
 nuation of the one, on what possible ground can it be 
 rejected in palliation of the other? 
 
 In our courts of justice the misconduct of the young 
 is in general visited with mitigated penalty; and the 
 spendthrift, if a minor, is not made responsible by law 
 for his extravagancies. The offender, as he grows older, 
 if his heart is not quite callous, becomes more and more 
 sensible of the tenderness that was shown him, and ab- 
 stains from the repetition of offence: and the prodigal, 
 when time has improved his judgment, as well as put 
 him in possession of his inheritance, not only calls in his 
 debts as a point of honour, but remembers that he is still 
 under obligation to society for the benevolent indulgence 
 that protected him in his days of folly, and turns his 
 mind with quickened zeal to useful and respectable ex- 
 ertion. So, I would say, at the bar of literature, juve- 
 nile offences against taste should be mildly judged; and 
 their recurrence would be more effectually checked by 
 temperate remonstrance, than by malicious severity or 
 
outrageous reproach: and so too, would I hope, the ex- 
 travagancies of thought and diction in the compositions 
 of a young author should not subject him to be dogged 
 by the common bailiffs of criticism, or to have his faculties 
 imprisoned, with Ridicule for their jailor. It may be said 
 that none but those whose faults in composition are 
 balanced by many excellencies can be entitled to such 
 lenity. I do not pray mercy for presumptuous stupidity: 
 but, in all cases, forbearance is at least more generous, 
 and, I should think, not less beneficial, than coarse abuse 
 and vulgar brutality. 
 
 As to myself, some kind encouragers no doubt will 
 tell me that mine was vanity indeed, and that I mistook 
 my calling when I strove to be admitted among the ser- 
 vants of the Muses. It may be so: no error is more 
 common. But, even thus, it is a harmless mistake, and 
 one which has afforded me so much happiness that I could 
 not easily be persuaded to regret it. Criticism can in- 
 deed convince me that my powers are very limited, and 
 can repress all idle aspirations after fame; but it cannot 
 
8 ... preface. 
 
 subdue the enthusiastic fondness with which from my 
 childhood I have cultivated poetry. Whether the Muse 
 for whom I have attempted to raise up flowers be one of 
 the inspired Sisters, or a deluding Spirit of my own cre- 
 ation, and whether I have made my garden in the genial 
 soil, or on ground remote from the sacred spring, the 
 employment has not been unrewarded. It has often 
 given a livelier and more healthy impulse to enjoyment? 
 and still more frequently been a consolation in those 
 many hours of trouble from which the most fortunate 
 are not exempt. 
 
 As to "the dew of praise," I confess that little has 
 fallen on the objects of my labour, except from private, 
 and most frequently partial, sources. I ow r e but few 
 thanks to Reviewers, and have long ceased to look to 
 them for any thing but censure; I ought not however, 
 individually to complain ; for it has pleased them in their 
 wisdom to decide that no soldier can write common sense. 
 Who shall dare to distrust the oracles of Apollo? A 
 Critic in an Edinburgh Magazine, a very paragon of 
 
9 
 
 Critics, has gone so far as to denounce vengeance against 
 every soldier, whether horse, foot, or dragoon, who shall 
 presume to write, print, and publish a book. There are 
 other heroes besides the children of Mars; and one can- 
 not but concede the palm of heroism to this intrepid 
 priest of the Muses, who thus posts himself at the porch 
 of their temple, and, with more than the spirit of Leo- 
 nidas, guards the pass with a wand of ebony alone, against 
 hosts of barbarians in arms. * 
 
 * See a Review of Dunluce Castle in Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine 
 for an early month of 1819. I forget which. 1 did not see it for some months 
 after its appearance, and I have since thought it unnecessary to make any 
 reply, though I believe myself to be in possession of the name and character 
 of the gentleman to whom belongs the honour of that elaborate performance. 
 However, as Dunluce Castle is one of the works printed at this Press, it may 
 be as well to introduce the subject here. The poem was written when I was 
 a boy, after a first visit to Ireland, and it was printed, as the subscribers to 
 this press know, nearly six years since. I was then in the south of France, 
 and it was by the partiality of the Editor that it appeared. He was well 
 aware that it was far from being worthy of the compliment which he paid to 
 it ; and was not blind to its exaggerated descriptions, nor to its redundance and 
 
 C 
 
I am too orthodox to question the infallibility of re- 
 viewers; otherwise the authority of Horace, strengthened 
 by the history of poets of all times, might tempt me to 
 suspect that no person can become a true poet who was 
 not born with a mind poetically constituted, and that 
 the adventitious circumstances of life can no more des- 
 troy than they can create the powers of imagination. 
 I might then grow bolder, and believe that if any par- 
 ticular profession could be more favourable than another 
 to the exercise of poetical faculties, that of a soldier 
 might fairly be considered so. Let his attention to his 
 military duties be ever so exact, he will still have much 
 leisure at his disposal. He is necessarily a visitor of 
 
 inaccuracy of language ; but being- a man always more ready to discover good 
 than to dwell on faults, he was tempted to believe, or to hope, that it was not 
 without some recommendations, and so gave it into the hands of the printer. 
 I had long congratulated myself on the restricted circulation which it must 
 have, issuing from a private press, and had hoped that it was quietly drown- 
 ing in oblivion, when the above-mentioned Critic was so kind as to snatch it 
 from the gulf, and, in a tone of characteristic candour, to announce its merits 
 to the world as a new and admirable production. 
 
preface.... 11 
 
 many countries, in which the endless variety of manners 
 and customs are continually soliciting his observation. 
 He beholds the grandest and the fairest objects in na- 
 ture, and often under romantic circumstances and with 
 picturesque additions, that augment the interest excited 
 by their magnificence and beauty. The follower of the 
 chase, who has noble opportunities of admiring the 
 charms of rural objects, which, in his keenness for his 
 sport he usually disregards, yet does not visit spots so 
 much out of the track of ordinary travellers, as he who 
 serves in a campaign. The tent of the Soldier is often 
 pitched amidst the wildest and the least frequented re- 
 cesses ; on the difficult mountain's side, or in the narrow 
 rocky glen, visited by the mountain torrents. He pene- 
 trates into woods whose gloomy depths look like primeval 
 solitudes; he witnesses the shock of battles, and after- 
 wards contemplates the desolation they have caused; 
 and death is constantly before him in every awful and 
 fearful shape. His life is an irregular but active drama, 
 in which the scene is incessantly changing; and, if nature 
 
12 ... 
 
 has made him a poet, these changes instead of bewilder- 
 ing his mind and perplexing his judgment, might be 
 supposed to have quite a contrary effect, by familiar- 
 izing him with striking objects, and suggesting corres- 
 pondent thoughts. If military biography furnishes us 
 with few names of poetical celebrity, it is not because a 
 soldier's profession precludes him from being a poet, but 
 because genuine poets very rarely appear in any pro- 
 fession, or among any condition of men. 
 
 What I have here ventured to say with respect to 
 the poetical advantages of a military life, is of course 
 spoken generally, and not in relation to myself, or to 
 any pretensions of mine. I have seen very little of 
 " service/' and no more lay claim to the laurel than 
 to the bays. I have hazarded these remarks, not only 
 because it has been the custom, as unjust as dis- 
 courteous, of many periodical writers, to shew decided 
 hostility to every military author, unless of a military 
 book ; but because, in more instances than one, occa- 
 sion has been taken, in pretended reviews of my com- 
 
preface* . . . is 
 
 positions, to throw out the most absurd and sweeping 
 sarcasms on the literary qualifications of military men. 
 All for which I would contend on rny own part is, that 
 if my productions be devoid of merit, my profession has 
 nothing whatever to do with the deficiency; and all that 
 I would claim for myself is, that if they possess any re- 
 deeming qualities, notwithstanding all their faults, I may 
 not be deprived of the benefit of them because I am a 
 soldier, not an author by profession, and have but little 
 personal communication with Booksellers, and no ac- 
 quaintance whatever with Reviewers. 
 
 I know the tone which is likely to . be adopted in 
 reply to these observations; and some of my brother 
 soldiers will tell me that I have not acted like a wily 
 partisan, but rashly entered the enemy's territory, ex- 
 posed to ambushes on every side. This, however, is not 
 exactly the case. I have not advanced without pre- 
 viously making myself acquainted, in some degree at 
 least, with the nature of the ground, and the strength 
 
 D 
 
14... 
 
 of the adversary; and as to the Individual to whom 
 some of my remarks are more particularly pointed, I 
 must be bold enough to say that I have hopes of being 
 able, in case of necessity, to prove myself a match for 
 so formidable an antagonist*, without resorting either 
 to his ribaldry or his fiction. 
 
 EDWARD QUILLINAN. 
 
 See ' < Peter's Letters to his Kinsfolk. 
 
SPIRIT of Heaven, immortal Child, 
 On whom the great Creator smiled, 
 
 Before the date of time ! 
 When Man's new race was call'd to birth, 
 He bade thee seek the sons of earth, 
 
 And teach the thoughts sublime. 
 
 But ah, to few of all the race, 
 Was granted the surpassing grace, 
 
 To know the heaven-begot : 
 Save those, the warm of heart and mind, 
 The rest beheld thee, and were blind ; 
 
 They heard, and own'd thee not. 
 
to t!)e 
 
 In vain thy glorious voice they heard; 
 No waken 'd pulse within them stirr'd 
 
 A tremulous delight : 
 With dull regard they pass'd thee by, 
 They saw thy wild prophetic eye, 
 
 And wonder'd at the sight. 
 
 Not the supreme in power and pride, 
 The rich, the great, the high-allied, 
 
 Thy choicest boons have blest : 
 O generous Muse, through every age, 
 Thy gifts have sooth'd, on sorrow's stage, 
 
 The poor and the opprest. 
 
 Angel of light, the spell is thine 
 That lifts with raptures all divine 
 
 Coy Nature's lowliest child: 
 In spite of penury and scorn, 
 For Him is Fancy's sweetest morn, 
 
 Dear Nurse of visions wild ! 
 

 ; 
 
 
 
to tf)c 
 
 Or if, when Pride so high aspires, 
 Thy Torch some subtile Spirit fires 
 
 In Rank or Fortune's throng, 
 How shines the Ore, how beams the Crest, 
 In the majestic splendor drest 
 
 Of Genius and of Song ! 
 
 O many a Soul of feeble power 
 Oft dares, in hope's delusive hour, 
 
 To linger o'er that Torch: 
 Alas! 'tis an enchanted light; 
 It's flames ascend with Souls of might: 
 
 The Weak they vainly scorch. 
 
 Yet e'en the Weak may not despair: 
 Thou canst not quite reject the prayer 
 
 Of Him that loves Thee well: 
 His hand whose skill thy Harp disowns 
 May sometimes wake imperfect tones 
 
 From Love or Pity's Shell. 
 

tie to tf)c 
 
 Oft from his couch of cloudier dreams 
 He springs with dawn's congenial gleams 
 
 To drink the youthful air ; 
 And, wandering through the twilight dews, 
 In some lone spot he meets thee, Muse, 
 
 And then forgets his care. 
 
 Where virgin roses chastely blush, 
 While solemn-sounding waters rush 
 
 To kiss thy buskin'd feet, 
 Lull'd with the fragrance and the sound, 
 He finds thee wrapt in thought profound, 
 
 On some romantic seat. 
 
 He knows thee by thine eye inspired, 
 And by thy stedfast brow, attired 
 
 In myrtle's lyric crown, 
 And by thy wings of stainless white, 
 That seem prepared for upward flight, 
 
 To waft him to renown. 
 

to t^e 
 
 He knows thee by his panting breast, 
 That throbs with wishes unexprest, 
 
 With wishes scarce defined; 
 And by the thoughts of deep emotion, 
 That flow, like troubled waves of ocean , 
 
 Tumultuous on his mind. 
 
 O might he from those Wings presume 
 To snatch but one etherial plume, 
 
 To trace the verse of flame ; 
 Or from that Crown purloin away 
 One little amaranthine spray 
 
 Of poetry and fame ! 
 
DAUGHTER of Memory and Jove ! 
 While flowery braids by Fancy wove 
 
 Thy Sisters' brows adorn, 
 Truth's simple laurel circles thine, 
 Where not a flower has leave to twine ; 
 
 For Fancy is thy scorn. 
 
 But with that chaplet's sober green 
 Are mingled gems of ray serene, 
 
 Prefer' d when thou wert young 
 By History's Prince and Father first,* 
 On whose chaim'd ear at Samos burst 
 
 The dictates of thy tongue 
 
 * Herodotus. f Thucydides. 
 
 And Him + who, doom'd his throne to' inherit, 
 Wept, with a young enthusiast's spirit, 
 
 When in the' Olympic ring 
 That venerable Carian's theme 
 Flow'd to his soul, like mountain-stream 
 
 Into a rising spring 
 
 By Him* who from the' Assyrian field, 
 Still baffling Power with Wisdom's shield, 
 
 Led the Ten Thousand home: 
 Worthy of Socrates, his mind, 
 Like fire in a tempestuous wind, 
 
 Blazed out in storm and gloom 
 Xenophon. The plains of Cunaxa. 
 
And by that Chaeronean just* 
 
 To whom didst thou the scales intrust 
 
 Where fame's true weight is tried : 
 Oft, while the deeds of heroes pondering, 
 Unmoved he saw the Graces wandering 
 
 By old Cephisus' side. 
 
 Thy name with ancient Greece was Glory! 
 Thy first disciples traced her story 
 
 In characters of flame; 
 And for the splendour thus confer'd, 
 Well did she choose a golden word, 
 
 A Halo for thy name. 
 
 There Caesar's shines: and brighter yet, 
 Though by too frail a votary set 
 
 On thy averted brow, 
 There beams the gem that Sallust gave: 
 O how could Pleasure's willing slave 
 
 So pure an offering vow ! 
 
 / 
 Though Horace strung the' Alcaic Lyre, 
 
 Though Virgil breath'd Maeonian fire, 
 
 Yet Rome's Augustan Age 
 Scarce owes it's lustre more to Them 
 Than to thy rich historic gem, 
 The gift of Padua's Sage.t 
 
 But not that favour' d land alone 
 Distinguish'd by thy presence shone 
 
 And paid Thee honour due; 
 Amidst thy laurel-girded hair 
 Glow gems of Latian tribute, rare 
 
 As Greece presents to view. 
 
 He too by virtuous Pliny loved, t 
 And in imperial courts approved, 
 
 Though Flattery's foe profest, 
 He with no vulgar hand repaid 
 Thy grace that to his eye display' d 
 
 The secret human breast. 
 
 These, with that wreath of green combining, 
 And with a chasten'd radiance shining, 
 
 Compose thine antique crown : 
 O teach us by their blended light 
 To see the hearts of others right, 
 
 And thence correct our own. 
 
 * Plutarch. 
 
 t Livy. 
 
 t Tacitus. 
 
GODDESS of the green retreats, 
 Thee my boundless worship greets ! 
 Every hill and every dell 
 Has for me a druid cell, 
 Every leafy fane of thine 
 Holds for me a holy shrine. 
 
 Where the river flows and flaunts, 
 Wide astray from human haunts; 
 Where the ruin's lonely mass 
 Clouds it's waters as they pass; 
 
to Nature. 
 
 Where the light and frolic fawn 
 Bounds among the dews of dawn; 
 Where at noon, by pool or brook, 
 Crowds the herd in wild-wood nook; 
 Where at eve from toil released, 
 Rests the meek disburthen'd beast 
 Wheresoe'er my footsteps roam, 
 Nature, still I find a home: 
 And in every bower of thine 
 Still my worship finds a shrine! 
 
JMMMT& 
 
 I HAVE found the young Gleaner, the Cherub of Morn: 
 Like the red blooming poppy she sleeps in the corn ; 
 
 Those gay eyes, of the hue 
 
 Of the corn-blossoms blue, 
 Are like daisy's lids clos'd by a summer Eve's dew. 
 
 Though her pillow be rugged, serene is her sleep, 
 While she dreams of the fields that the harvest-men reap; 
 
 Like the Lark in it's nest, 
 
 When no dangers molest, 
 Though so rude be her bed, yet so fresh is her rest. 
 
 There are those, little Maid, if adduced to the proof, 
 Though by Indolence lull'd under Luxury's roof, 
 
 Who would joyfully share 
 
 Thine exemption from care, 
 And for that be content thy privations to bear. 
 
 Fan softly, I pray thee, thou gale of the west, 
 Fan softly, sweet gale, the repose of the blest ! 
 
 For these fair yellow shocks 
 
 That thy light pinion rocks 
 Are the cradle of Innocence nurs'd among flocks. 
 
How sleeps the Squire who sinks to rest 
 By gout and gluttony opprest! 
 When Night, with drowsy wand of lead, 
 Returns to lull his ponderous head, 
 She there shall clog a coarser brain 
 Than Fancy's jest could ever feign. 
 
 By pinching Imps his neck is wrung ; 
 By pigmy Fiends his feet are stung ; 
 There Surfeit comes, with sultry face, 
 To wrap his breast in hot embrace ; 
 And Nightmare shall awhile repair, 
 To sit a smothering monster there! 
 

COME away to the greenwood bowers; 
 
 Come away with the May-day posies 
 We'll ride in a chair of flowers; 
 
 We'll dance on a rope of roses. 
 
 There are full-grown sons of pleasure, 
 Who trust to as frail a stay : 
 
 Then swing to the whirling measure ; 
 For sure we're as light as They. 
 

 
 .{// 
 
 ' 
 
 
WHO with me will wander? straying 
 Through the purple vines I go j 
 Laughing with the Nymphs, and playing 
 Where the richest clusters grow : 
 
 Who will wander with me > 
 
 Round my staff the tendrils wreathing, 
 Thus the' autumnal prize I bear ; 
 All it's musky ripeness breathing 
 Sweets to load the wings of air. 
 
 Who will wander with mer 
 
 Who with me will wander, joying? 
 Welcome to the fair and gay ; 
 Never cloy'd, and never cloying; 
 Here and there, and then away ? 
 
 Who will wander with me ? 
 
POETS loiter all their leisure, 
 Culling flowers of rhyme ; 
 
 Thus they twine the wreath of pleasure 
 Round the glass of time: 
 Twining flowers of rhyme. 
 
 Fancy's Children, ever heedless ! 
 Why thus bribe the hours? 
 
 Death, to prove the trouble needless, 
 Withers all your flowers: 
 Why then bribe the hours? 
 
 Like the Sand, so fast retreating, 
 Thus your hopes shall fall j 
 
 Life and fame are just as fleeting j 
 Poets, flowers, and all : 
 Thus your fancies fall. 
 

THROW back the locks redundant from those eyes, 
 Young Florimel ! and o'er this moss-grown bench 
 While bending hawthorns shower 
 Their blooms, my strange tale hear. 
 
 Where stands yon Rustic, there last night I stood, 
 Beneath the brow of that monastic Arch : 
 
 Scarce breath'd the drowsy winds; 
 
 The waters caroll'd out 
 
 To the pleased Moon; who ne'er with sweeter grace 
 On Latmus Hsten'd to the Boy she loved; 
 
 Touched by her serious beam 
 
 The pale hills sadly smiled. 
 
 Soon through those rustling lilachs I beheld 
 A shape of beauty glide in robes of white : 
 
 Hither her steps were bent; 
 
 And, ere this seat she gain'd, 
 
 Through the long grass a tall majestic Bird 
 Came floating, to salute the well-known form; 
 
 'Twas such as Hebe yoked 
 
 To Juno's golden car. 
 
 But not with Argus' hundred eyes adorn'd, 
 Nor freak'd with orient tints like Iris' wings; 
 
 White where its quivering plumes 
 
 As Juno's milky way. 
 
 The stately tenants too of yon green isle, 
 
 The Swans, came plunging from their secret bed, 
 
 To welcome to their stream 
 
 The Wanderer of the Night. 
 
 Winnowing the water-lilies as they turn'd 
 With snowy pinions, by this bank they sail'd, 
 
 With fond familiar court 
 
 Acknowledging their queen. 
 
JMato ti>at lobrt) tfre J&oon. 
 
 Who with bland voice repaid them, and, the while, 
 With playful fingers the tall Bird caress'd 
 
 That proudly trail'd its fan, 
 
 Like lucid ivory carved. 
 
 These in the moonlight shining this fair Bird, 
 Those spotless Swans, and warbling crystal stream, 
 
 And, most, the white-robed Maid, 
 
 Beneath this tent of blooms, 
 
 Form'd a delightful picture, lovelier far 
 Than sad Autonoe's hapless hunter saw 
 
 By that sequester'd fount, 
 
 The secret bath of Nymphs. 
 
 To crown the spell, the visional y Maid, 
 Fixing her dark eyes on the silvery orb, 
 
 Sung a fantastic song, 
 
 An anthem to the Moon. 
 
 Strains wilder issued never from the lips 
 
 Of Troy's pale Prophetess, nor mellower tones 
 
 Flow'd from the rocky Isles, 
 
 The lingering sail to charm. 
 
 Andcharm'dwere allthatheard her the tallBird 
 Beside her cower'd feet still as a tuft of snow; 
 
 The Swans like Halcyons sate 
 
 Upon their liquid bed; 
 
 And I as if a Spirit sung stood awed : 
 
 Yet well I knew the' Enchantress j~'twas that pale 
 
 Proud Maid, the Baron's Child, 
 
 The Light of Alan-tower. 
 
O THOU, of Genius Eldest-born, 
 Endow'd with youth's eternal morn, 
 
 Divine Enthusiast, Hail! 
 Hail to thy proud undaunted guise, 
 Thy plumed crest, and ardent eyes, 
 
 And rich etherial mail. 
 
 'Tis thine the Dragon's wings to mount, 
 And soar to Light's remotest fount, 
 
 Beyond the eagle's force; 
 With young Adventure at thy side, 
 Who tames at once the Monster's pride, 
 
 And speeds his fiery course. 
 
 As erst with Thee to glory's height, 
 The Theban urged his daring flight, 
 
 Allow'd those reins to share ; 
 O when will favour'd Bard again 
 Spring from the grovelling walks of men, 
 
 And ride the Wings of Air? 
 
WE are hunting the Fairy all day long; 
 Bewitch'd to the chase by his own sweet song; 
 We've an amber cage and a net of gauze j 
 But, with toil o'erwearied, we often pause. 
 
 Like the phosphor-light that illumes the fen, 
 So the false elf flits over glade and glen : 
 Then to cheer us forward he calls and sings; 
 But if once we're near him, away he springs. 
 
 When we press him close, in a leaf he'll lie, 
 Or will mount the back of a dragon-fly, 
 Or will seek the veil that the spider spins, 
 Or will diving cling to a minnow's fins. 
 
 Like the phosphor-light on the dark morass, 
 i 
 
 He'll return, and perch on a blade of grass : 
 
 < When the net comes close, and the toil seems o'er, 
 s Then away he flirts, and we hunt once more. 
 
 But his voice is rich like a poet's dream, 
 And excites the spirit like fancy's beam ; 
 So, because he carols a false sweet song, 
 We are hunting the Fairy all day long. 
 

**#* *##**# 
 An Absentee. 
 
 SHAME afflict thee, Slave of Riot, 
 For an ancient House's fall ! 
 Want's remorse, and Fear's disquiet 
 Sting thee, heartless Prodigal ! 
 
 Through those woods that waved so proudly, 
 Held so long in pious care, 
 Now the Axe to Echo loudly 
 Tells thy havoc, worthless Heir ! 
 
 Now the druid Raven, calling 
 From his sanctuary of oaks, 
 While the fane around is falling, 
 Ruin on thy head invokes. 
 
 Where for ages dwelt thy Fathers, 
 Usury's hirelings now reside; 
 While Oppression's sickle gathers 
 Labour's harvest far and wide. 
 
 Thou, to gayer shores departed, 
 Heedest not the peasant's groan j 
 Soon perchance the callous-hearted 
 Shall as dully hear thine own. 
 
 In thy Sires' emblazon' d Oriel 
 Soon shall be a Stranger's Shield; 
 And those halls no last memorial 
 Of their famous Lords shall yield. 
 
 Then their Son, a homeless Wanderer, 
 Fortune's treacherous die may rue; 
 While the World rejects the Squanderer 
 That a noble House o'erthrew. 
 
 In a night the* Ephesian Wonder 
 Felt a wretched Maniac's brand : 
 So that proud House crumbles under 
 A mean Gamester's frantic hand. 
 
RECLINED upon a bank of moss, 
 Which golden butter-cups emboss, 
 
 And violets stud profusely, 
 Beside the trout-enlivened Stour, 
 With Pope's dear verse I charm the hour, 
 
 In pensive ease reclusely. 
 
 Poor Blond alone, my old ally, 
 Sits in profound demureness nigh, 
 
 O'erwatching every page, 
 And wondering much, as much he may, 
 What case can thus, the summer-day, 
 
 His Master's care engage ! 
 
 But should Amanda seek the brook, 
 With sportive line and specious hook, 
 
 To tempt the finny race; 
 At once I quit the charming lays, 
 On her beguiling eyes to gaze, 
 
 And soft dissembling face. 
 

anli tfte 
 
 She, with her treacherous smile serene, 
 Her sly placidity of mien, 
 
 And those beguiling eyes, 
 Throws out the lure with finest art, 
 More bent to catch a foolish heart 
 
 Than seize the watery prize. 
 
 Vain Angler! slave to man's applause, 
 Heartless herself, for hearts she draws, 
 
 Then flings them lightly by- 
 Yet, though I know and scorn the Cheat, 
 Bewitched by all her bland deceit, 
 
 I cannot, dare not, fly. 
 

 
At the masque, or the sylvan fantastical sport, 
 
 Where the Nymphs and the Dryads embellish 'd the scene, 
 
 No Lady appear'd of so lofty a port, 
 
 As she stood, like Diana, in midst of the Green. 
 
 O when was more sweet a young blossom transplanted 
 Than Sudeley sent forth in a palace to shine? 
 O where was the Lady whose beauty enchanted 
 Like the Daughter of Bridges, the Pride of the Vine? 
 
THE Lion of the sacred hill 
 And he that awed Nem sea's wood 
 Could never slake, though prowling still, 
 Their still increasing thirst of blood : 
 The nations thus by thee accurst 
 Insatiate found ambition's thirst ! 
 But Ammon's Son those pests appeased, 
 Though singly to the task he rush'd ; 
 This in his iron grasp he seized, 
 And That the Muse's olive crush'd : 
 Who, singly, in thy fortune's wane, 
 Could lay a hand upon thy mane ? 
 
 The terror of Etolian plains, 
 Whose tusk Diana's wrath impell'd, 
 Not by the herd of trembling swains 
 But by a kingly host was quell'd : 
 Thee, in a chase of dire renown, 
 A field of princes' hunted down. 
 O noble was the sight and sound 
 When, flashing in the golden sun, 
 The Grecian lances sung around 
 Their game in rocky Calydon ! 
 
 Thy hunting-day had sterner charms 
 When tens of thousands shone in arms ! 
 
 Crete's horned plague the captor bore 
 To' amaze his argiye despot's court; 
 Then, wild in Marathon, once more 
 'Twas dragged, to furnish Athens sport. 
 Thou too hast been in thy despair 
 A show for idle wonder's stare. 
 That thou wert cruel was thy crime ; 
 That thou art captive is thy fate ; 
 But tyrants in their adverse time 
 Should more of pity raise than hate ; 
 And noblest natures least of all 
 Insult the mighty in their fall. 
 
 Once he burst forth oh, who forgets 
 That fierce stupendous spring he took, 
 When plunging through his hunters' nets 
 Again the slumbering thrones he shook ? 
 
 Earth scarce is breathing from the shotk ; 
 
 And dare they now thy name to mock ! 
 A Lion to a woman's prayer 
 His fangs was tempted to resign : 
 Vainglory, like that treacherous Fair, 
 Seduced thee to surrender thine; 
 
 And thou art now for ever bow'd; 
 
 The toils must be the Lion's shroud. 
 
O FAIR is Matlock's rocky hill; 
 And fair is Derwent's bowery side: 
 But Derwent-Stream is fairer still, 
 As slow it winds it's placid tide! 
 
 The Urchin there, in summer-days, 
 Delights the glowing limb to lave; 
 Or in his Boat exults to raise 
 The murmurs of the rippling wave. 
 
 Flush'd, giddy Boy! the stream of life 
 Is not so smooth as Derwent-Stream : 
 Thou soon shalt know it's stormy strife, 
 And mourn o'er childhood's happy dream. 
 
 But oh, in what assuasive flood, 
 What waters then of virtue meek, 
 Shall Passion cool it's boiling blood, 
 Or Woe refresh it's wither'd cheek? 
 
THE cottage of Monksdale looks gay with its roses; 
 Esk-Castle looks proud with its ivy-crowned towers : 
 The Baron of Esk like his ivy was aged; 
 The Maiden of Monksdale was fresh as her flowers. 
 
 The Peer sought (he cot for the sake of its Maiden : 
 The Maid for his castle the Noble revered ; 
 She smiled when she gazed on the star at his bosom, 
 But sighed when she glanced at his brow and his beard. 
 
 He spoke of his wounds from a little blind Archer; 
 And vowed that unpitied he could not survive : 
 The gentle Nymph thought, while she tenderly listened, 
 She cared not how soon he was buried alive. 
 
 * O, remember that fruit is maturest in autumn, 
 And that time mellows wine,' said the eloquent Sage : 
 
 But when winter, thought she, sheds its snow on the temples, 
 Old wine, not young love, is the cordial of age. 
 
 * Those towers and their master,' said he, 'I surrender 
 To Beauty's dominion, her smile my reward.' 
 
 But the Nymph, who was humble, would fain have consented 
 To take the old castle without the old Lord. 
 
 Yet o'ercome by his ardour, at last she accepted 
 The conjugal ring and the sceptre of rule; 
 And to hide the white hairs of her blooming Adorer 
 She graced his wise head with the Cap of a Fool. 
 

HEALTH ! and for ever ! e'en the Grave 
 May well for Thee let Nature wave 
 
 The sternest of her laws : 
 And Death may wish immortal life 
 To One that plies the lance and knife 
 
 So boldly in his cause. 
 
 I pledge Thee in thine own good wine ; 
 Nor Rhone nor Rhine, nor Douro's Vine 
 
 The juice inspiring gave, 
 But, thanks to thy empiric pains, 
 The rich, the ripe, the ruddy veins 
 
 Of Man, our dupe and slave. 
 
 At Thee thy Brother of the School, 
 Who learns to baffle me by rule, 
 
 The sapient shoxilder shrugs : 
 Curse on the Pedant and his Art ! 
 Would thou couldst bleed him at the heart, 
 
 Or gorge him with thy drugs. 
 
 Or would thou couldst for him distil 
 Some special drop : thy chemic skill 
 
 His learned pride might quell : 
 No crone that ever mutter'd charm, 
 Or groped the ditch for things of harm, 
 
 Could poison half so well. 
 
 E'en Nature's wholesome herbs and sweets 
 (So well brave Ignorance defeats 
 
 The general Mother's will) 
 To bane in thy Alembic turn, 
 And steam to mischiefs that will burn, 
 
 And venom that will kill. 
 
 I pledge thee to the goblet's brim, 
 For every victim's mangled limb, 
 
 For every fix'd disease, 
 For every wasted artery, 
 And every kind of bartery 
 
 Of bad advice for fees ! 
 
 Hark ! some one rattles at thy gate ; 
 'Tis a sick Miser's Heir, whom Fate 
 
 Long hinders of his revel; 
 He'll lead thee to his kinsman's couch : 
 Farewell ! I speed away to vouch 
 
 The tidings to the Devil. 
 
, t&e 2TO, ant fte 
 
 'TIS now the hour the Wanderer strays 
 Through covert paths, and woodland ways; 
 It is the starry-mantled hour, 
 When slumber lulls each choral bower; 
 Alone Minerva's wakeful Bird 
 From some sepulchral Yew is heard. 
 
 Wild Hermit! from his sylvan shroud, 
 He lifts his whooping voice aloud ; 
 To every mute attesting star 
 He sends his shrill appeal afar, 
 Sounding like Traveller's ciy affrighted, 
 In some waste solitude benighted. 
 
 And now, the startled Plover's wail 
 Arises on the plaintive gale. 
 Poor trembler, in her simple dread, 
 She hears the wily Fowler's tread ; 
 And from her lowly dwelling springs, 
 To lure him far, on wheeling wings. 
 
 But hush, poor Bird, thy clamorous suit; 
 And Thou, whom day offends, be mute ! 
 For hark, the vernal notes awake 
 From yonder lone neglected brake. 
 Dear musical Enthusiast, hail, 
 Unmatch'd, poetic Nightingale ! 
 
 Sweet Bird, calumnious minstrels say 
 That thine is a complaining lay ; 
 They say thy voice will only flow 
 Obedient to the call of woe. 
 O who could thus thy warblings wrong, 
 That ever heard the' ectstatic song ! 
 
 No : 'tis pure joy's unmingled vein 
 That prompts that rich and vivid strain : 
 If sadness touch those breathings sweet, 
 It is because extremes will meet; 
 And thus thy rapture's last excess 
 Will melt in murmuring tenderness. 
 
 Fenc'd from the rude approach of men, 
 Thy haunt is in the deepest glen ; 
 Thou yieldest all, afar from strife, 
 To calm and song thy little life : 
 Coy, tender Melodist divine, 
 A Poet's soul is surely thine. 
 

Addressed to Sir E. B. 
 
 WHERE is thy glory, Sudeley ? though thy wall 
 With stubborn strength the hand of Time defies, 
 The Sun looks down into thy roofless hall, 
 And through thy courts with splendor's mockery 
 
 pries. 
 
 Where are thine ancient Lords ? the Brave ? the Wise ? 
 Crumbled to dust in yonder Gothic Fane. 
 Where are their children's children ? None replies. 
 Swept from their trunk in Chance's hurricane, 
 The branches wave no more on Cotswold's old domain. 
 
 Yet here the Sons of Chandos, in their day 
 Of greatness, ruled in no ungentle sort : 
 Here Want was succour'd ; Sorrow here grew gay ; 
 And Winchcombe's Castle was no Tyrant's Fort : 
 Here too the' imperial Dame with Barons girt, 
 She who could make the Crowns and Nations bow, 
 Relax'd, at Welcome's voice, her lion-port, 
 And soften'd into smiles her stately brow : 
 What wert thou then, famed Pile ! ah, changed ! What 
 art thou now ? 
 
Now savage elders flourish in thy courts ; 
 The thistle now thy lorn recesses haunts ; 
 Perch'd on thy walls the wild geranium sports, 
 And the rude mallows, deck'd in purple, flaunts : 
 Behold, proud Castle, thine inhabitants! 
 See how their nodding heads the zephyr hail, 
 As if they mock'd thee with triumphant taunts, 
 As victory's banners to each passing gale 
 From some dismantled Fort relate their boastful tale. 
 
 Are they not emblems, these obtrusive flowers, 
 Thus choaking up the sculptured Leopard's trace 
 And the old Cross on Sudeley's honour'd towers, 
 Are they not emblems of the motly race 
 Upraised by Mammon from their humble place ? 
 Those weeds that on the ruins of the Great 
 Arise in rank luxuriance, and deface 
 The genealogic types of reverend date, 
 And flirt new symbols forth, and wear a gaudy state. 
 
.Brydges, the proud tear in thy dark eye swells, 
 When History thy Forefathers' fame displays, 
 And hoar Tradition garrulously tells 
 Tales that their shades to the mind's vision raise, 
 Like forms shewn dimly through a twilight haze : 
 Fancy the while in her insidious strain, 
 Whispering sweet words, exaggerates the praise, 
 The power, and wealth, and chivalry, and train 
 Of thy baronial Sires magnificently vain. 
 
 Then follows Memory's fancy-withering part : 
 She bends, as a fond Sister, o'er the Urn 
 Of Youth's dead Expectations, the sad Heart ; 
 And calls up every woe that thou hast borne ; 
 And murmurs till the bosom is o'erworn 
 And the plumed spirit of ambition droops. 
 Thus to regrets life's vernal projects turn ; 
 Pain's poisonous fruit succeeds the flowery hopes 
 That bloom'd in Denton's vale, and Wotton's sylvan 
 slopes. 
 
Yet why repine? no more the Lydian stream 
 Devolves in its old bed the golden tide : 
 Ancestrel dignities have ceased to beam 
 Upon the children of a house of pride : 
 And thou, 'tis true, hast been severely tried : 
 
 To the maternal legacy of care 
 
 
 
 Thy birthright by no brother was denied ; 
 
 No smooth supplanter kindly claim'd thy share, 
 As hard Rebecca's Hope beguiled the Patriarch's heir. 
 
 Yet, why, too fondly querulous, repine ? 
 Still many a pure delight thy journey cheers; 
 And, though a way with thorns perplex'd is thine, 
 Fresh flower* still greet thee in the vale of tears ; 
 And Love walks with thee to the goal of years; 
 And thou hast treasures, as Cornelia's prized; 
 And even of worldly state enough appears, 
 And, if enough, the rest should be despised ; 
 Peace visits not the heart where pride is unchastised. 
 
Of briers the earth, of clouds the heaven to clear, 
 Hast thou not too the love of lore and song ? 
 If Sudeley now the haughty head could rear 
 As when its battlements withstood the strong, 
 And frown'd upon Rebellion ; if the throng 
 Of chivalry and beauty, as of yore, 
 Still danced its beryl-glittering halls along, 
 And thou wert lord of hill, and plain, and tower, 
 While all within was pomp, and all without was power; 
 
 Could all the specious pageantry convey 
 A genuine pleasure to the thoughtful mind, 
 Which one who loves like thee the Muse's lay, 
 Within the shades of quiet cannot find ? 
 Ambition's pillars shake with every wind, 
 And, like these Ruins, soon or late, must fall; 
 But the green wreaths in Learning's bowers entwined 
 Will grace the tomb, as o'er yon Chapel-wall 
 The clustering ivy spreads its rich enduring pall. 
 

TIME strikes his bell in Grandeur's halls, 
 
 To warn the Proud of fate : 
 Preaching from hallowed towers and walls, 
 In Mammon's marble ear he calls, 
 
 And mocks Ambition's state. 
 
 Yon Shepherd, whom the city's chime 
 Scarce reaches 'ere it dies, 
 
 Far better notes that voice of Time ; 
 
 And marks the solar flight sublime 
 With more regardful eyes. 
 
 He warns the deaf: they feel the Sun, 
 
 And, basking in his ray, 
 Forget how soon his course is run, 
 How soon the longest day is done, 
 The brightest summer day. 
 
 The village Dialist is He; 
 
 Well skill'd the hours to scan; 
 The Sun, propitious to his plea, 
 Smiles on his work, and bids it be 
 
 A Monitor to Man. 
 
 Ye Vain! 'ere night's cold dews benumb 
 Those limbs, unused to trial, 
 
 Before your hour of audit come, 
 
 When Death your debts to Time shall sum, 
 Consult the Shepherd's Dial. 
 
UNBl.EST is Woman, when she roves 
 In Love's unconsecrated groves. 
 Gay though they look at distance view'd, 
 There hatches Shame her owlet-brood ; 
 And there from every treacherous copse 
 Some croaking Sorrow mocks her hopes. 
 
 Phantoms of Fear about her glide ; 
 Remorse is ever at her side ; 
 Guilt glitters in her conscious eyes, 
 And lures the light from cloudy skies, 
 The baleful light that rides the wind 
 When storm and thunder shake the mind. 
 
 Fair Dreamers of Arcadian dreams ! 
 
 To you the verse a fable seems. 
 
 Will Myra's lot as vainly speak ? 
 
 Her alter'd eye and faded cheek 
 
 Like Your's were Love and Beauty's pride 
 
 Before those fatal bowers she tried. 
 
FROM the wing of young Love, as on roses he slum- 
 
 ber'd, 
 
 A feather was cull'd by an amarous Bard, 
 Who had worn out his pen upon sonnets unnumber'd, 
 But labour'd in vain to win Beauty's regard. 
 
 So refined by that plume was the Poet's expression 
 That the Nymph of his heart half revoked her disdain, 
 And, when next he came near, the delightful concession 
 Of smiles like the morning rewarded his strain. 
 
 But t'.e poor Son of Song, unaccustom'd to kindness, 
 Stood mutely bewilder'd, unable to move, 
 Till she left him, accusing tjbe Muses of blindness, 
 That could let such a creature sing sweetly of love. 
 
 Stung with shame by the keen parting glance of the 
 
 Scorner, 
 
 The coy Youth withdrew to the forest to weep, 
 When chance led his feet to a shady green corner 
 Where the Vine-God lay, fann'd by the Zephyr, asleep. 
 
 As a charm for his sadness (we know by examples 
 Of all climes and ages that Poets are thieves) 
 He pilfer'd the wreath from the little God's temples, 
 And bound his own brow with the mystical leaves. 
 
 And away from his brow flew at once sorrow's traces ; 
 The bold flush of hope tinged his cheek of despair; 
 And, as if his freed lips had been kiss'd by the Graces, 
 Returning, he breath'd all his soul to the Fair; 
 
 Till her marble breast heaved like the life-waken'd Idol 
 Of the Sculptor of Cyprus, her model in shape; 
 And soon the Bard sung a gay song at his Bridal, 
 Call'd " Love's best Ally is the God of the Grape." 
 
FAIR Land, when with her Cross, of yore, 
 Religion sought thy pagan shore, 
 Thy sons returned the Stranger's smile 
 With welcome to the Western Islej 
 And listen'd to her truths divine ; 
 And learn'd to love the Cross's Sign ; 
 And, prompted by her voice revered, 
 Throughout the clime the symbol rear'd. 
 
 They raised it where the rivers glide 3 
 And by the mountain torrent's side ; 
 By lake and rock ; by wood and wold j 
 And, near it, as in charmed mould, 
 Graves oft were form'd for honour'd bones ; 
 Saints slept beneath those sculptured stones, 
 And drew the pious pilgrim's feet 
 To many a far and wild retreat. 
 
 Still where those old memorials stand 
 Heaven seems to sanctify the land : 
 The votary kneels upon the moss, 
 And prays beside the sacred Cross j 
 The peasant with regardful eye 
 And low inflection passes by } 
 The very children linger there, 
 And think they breathe a blessed air. 
 
 Fair Land, another Stranger came, 
 And said Religion was her name : 
 She came with proud dominion arm'd, 
 And some the fair Seducer charm'd ; 
 But of thine offspring most were true 
 To Her by whom the Cross they knew ; 
 Who first appear'd, with holy smile, 
 A Stranger in the generous Isle. 
 
 Though Power sustain'd the Rival's cause, 
 
 And fetter'd them with angry laws, 
 
 Age after age a yoke of pain 
 
 Bow'd down and gall'd their necks in vain. 
 
 Woe was their faith's confirming seal, 
 
 Till power grew weary of his zeal, 
 
 And threw a half relenting smile, 
 
 Half sullen, o'er the injured Isle. 
 
 Whether that smile shall yet be bright, 
 Or yet gleam on with jealous light, 
 Isle of the Cross! in weal or woe, 
 Thy Sons their steady truth will shew 
 To Her who first with grace divine 
 Taught them to love the Cross's Sign, 
 And plant it far, on rock and sod, 
 In honour of the Saviour-God. 
 
O WHY is thy brow, young Knight, 
 Defaced with the frowns of age ? 
 And why are thy hands, young Knight, 
 Thus lock'd with the grasp of rage ? 
 And why are thy tender sighs 
 Exchanged for indignant gloom? 
 And why do thy rolling eyes 
 The basilisk's glare assume? 
 
 2 
 
 Remember thy wooing days ; 
 The damsel was then divine: 
 Remember thy winning ways, 
 That made such a goddess thine. 
 And art thou then changed so much, 
 By Hymen congeal'd so soon, 
 As shrink from the Lady's touch, 
 Almost in the Honey-moon ! 
 
 5 
 
 Alas, 'tis unriddled now; 
 'Twas Folly that link'd your lot: 
 Her Cap is on either brow, 
 Conjoin'd in a gordian knot. 
 
 AND THOU, gentle Lady fair, 
 Why droops the reproachful brow ? 
 And why, gentle Lady fair, 
 So little like gentle now? 
 And why are those looks, so meek, 
 Now wrathfully cast askance ? 
 And why in thine alter'd cheek 
 Do now all the Furies dance ? 
 
 4 
 
 Forget not the days of love 
 Or were they the days of guile ? 
 Thine emblem was then the Dove-- 
 Or was it but woman's wile ? 
 Or art thou no more the same? 
 Is all the enchantment o'er? 
 Is love such an airy name, 
 And wedlock a yoke so sore? 
 
 6 
 
 Thus pair'd in the hopeless yoke, 
 And gall'd with a ceaseless weight, 
 And lash'd with vexation's stroke, 
 Do fools become wise too late. 
 
 Then joy to thy shoulders, Knight 
 And thine, gentle Lady fair ! 
 There Folly has yoked ye tight; 
 And Wedlock will keep ye there ! 
 
BE merry, be merry in Clifton Halls ! 
 
 The moon in heaven is bright : 
 From the towers of the churches Midnight calls ; 
 And the Gay are met within sparkling walls ; 
 
 For the LORD OF DEATH gives a Dance to-night. 
 
 They're merry, they're meny ! in painted bowers 
 
 They ply the frolic feet 5 
 The Revellers' heads are bound with flower^, 
 And they wear a Cap of bewitching powers, 
 
 By Folly weaved in the loom of Fate. 
 
 Disease, and Languor, and Care, and Pain, 
 
 Obey the stirring charm ; 
 The Colchian spell is at work again, 
 And Age trips down with the festive train, 
 
 Supporting Beauty with gallant arm. 
 
 But who is She that presides the while, 
 
 So like a Spirit fair ? 
 She glides aboxit with a fearful smile : 
 Her cheek is bright 5 yet the Serpent Guile 
 Seems lurking under the roses there. 
 
 Some word she whispers to all who traee 
 
 Tiie labyrinth of Dance, 
 Which to Age's cheek gives a hectic grace, 
 And by Youth is heard with a flushing face, 
 
 And a sweetly wild but perturbed glance. 
 
 And the moment she sees the hectic blood 
 
 The deepening cheek suffuse, 
 To the LORD OF DEATH she directs a nod, 
 And receives a smile from the SKELETON-GOD, 
 
 Whose eye as a Lover's her step pursues. 
 
 ' Be merry, be merry in Clifton Halls,' 
 
 That WITCH CONSUMPTION cries ! 
 But hark, from the turret the Grave-Bell calls, 
 The Feast is spread by the churchyard walls, 
 And away to banquet with DEATH she flies. 
 
g rtes app 
 
 Receive a Suppliant's prayer, 
 Whose steps unhallowed dare 
 once before thine altar to encroach 
 
 Far from thy ways of truth, } 
 
 Seduced by Love and Youth, 
 His devious feet through wanton paths have stray'd; 
 
 Yet, hence, reject not now 
 
 The weary wanderer's vow, 
 Nor spurn his sacrifice, transcendant Maid. 
 
 Permit that in thy fane, 
 
 To sooth thy just disdain; 
 With reverent zeal he fan the vestal fires; 
 
 Whereon his scorn may throw 
 
 Those subtle shafts and bow, 
 With which false Love awakes the vain Desires. 
 
 Then grant, for his resource 
 'Gainst future tempters, force 
 
 The unblunted lance of fortitude to wield; 
 Or, blue-eyed Virgin, lend 
 Thy succour, and extend 
 
 The sure protection of thy gorgon shield. 
 
 Yet never to his heart, 
 
 O Maid revered, impart 
 That awful armour's cold petrific charm : 
 
 Change, Goddess, all but this ; 
 
 But spare pure feeling's bliss: 
 Turn not to stone a heart by nature warm. 
 
FAKEWELJ, 
 
 TO 
 
 BY 
 
 E. PUILJLINAN. ES< 
 
 ^ 
 
 KENT: i 
 at tijc prtbatc ^u&& of 
 
 BY JOHN WARWICK. 
 1820. 
 

ADIEU, the pensive still retreat, 
 The woodland paths, the classic dome, 
 Where float the mental visions sweet, 
 And Fancy finds her genial home. 
 
 The Wanderer oft, where'er he roves, 
 Dear cherished scene, shall think on thee: 
 In Memory's glass review thy groves, 
 Thy green luxuriant pastures see. 
 
dfarefodl to See 
 
 For not 1o him a sunny glade 
 Nor yet a primrose-nook is strange, 
 Nor tufted knoll, nor secret shade, 
 Of all thy various ample range. 
 
 And oft each coy secluded scene 
 
 With him the bashful Muse has sought; 
 
 Where, veil'd behind the leafy screen, 
 
 She best might breathe the thrilling thought. 
 
 He knows where in the tangled brake 
 The goldfinch builds his little cell, 
 
 And where their nests the thrushes make, 
 And where the happy squirrels dwell. 
 
 But most within that circled room, 
 Where Bards, Historians, Sages live, 
 In all the fresh and deathless bloom 
 Their own immortal labours give 
 
to 2Ue 
 
 Most in that magical recess, 
 Sweet Fancy holds poetic reign 3 
 The hours so fleetly onward press, 
 They mock at the pursuit of pain. 
 
 And thence the eye may rest or range 
 On broken mounds, in brilliant weather, 
 Where light and shadow blend and change, 
 Like joy and grief in dance together. 
 
 'Tis wild, fair Lee, when winds awake 
 Among thy boughs with stern turmoil, 
 To see their stormy pinions shake 
 The stately elms that love thy soil. 
 
 'Tis gentle, at the sun's decline, 
 To watch the ruddy golden beam, 
 That flings it's broad and mellow line 
 Athwart thy smiling conscious stream. 
 
to See 
 
 'Tis softer yet to turn and mark 
 The moon behind yon wood arise, 
 Disparting, like a crystal bark, 
 The cloudy billows of the skies: 
 
 All lavish, as she slowly sails, 
 Of light that breaks like Ocean's spray, 
 And greets thy vaulted gates, and hails 
 Thy Gothic walls with flickering ray. 
 
 Fair walls, from yonder hill how oft 
 
 i 
 
 The stranger on his weary road 
 
 s 
 
 $ Turns, as he marks the spire aloft, 
 
 To thine embowered serene abode. 
 
 And sighing thinks perchance the while 
 'Twere bliss, absorbed in peace and prayer, 
 Life's simple tenor to beguile, 
 An unmolested hermit there. 
 
to See 
 
 Far be from me such dreary bliss ! 
 
 The pulse of social joy congeal'd, 
 
 O who, sweet Lee, would change for this 
 
 The charm that Love and Friendship yield. 
 
 Yet not for this less dear to view 
 Thy woods, and spire, and turrets rise; 
 O not because pale Memory's dew 
 Will sometimes dim Affection's eyes. 
 
 Alas, regret will still attend- 
 For when was pleasure unalloyed ? 
 While Pity mourns the youthful friend, 
 The Mother's second hope destroyed. 
 
 Ah, rather, for this tender woe, 
 That here he left his latest trace, 
 Should Memory round thy precincts throw 
 s A holy charm, a soothing grace. 
 
to See 
 
 Adieu, fair Lee, a gem of thine 
 1 bear away as now we part, 
 And it shall have as safe a shrine 
 As is a true and tender heart. 
 
 A flower of thine I bear afar, 
 And thou art rich in fair young flowers; 
 Though none to me seems quite so fair, 
 So sweet as This, in all thy bowers. 
 
 I I bear it from a fostering soil, 
 
 \ 
 
 That suffered not it's bloom to perish ; 
 
 And so on me may Fortune smile 
 As I the' entrusted treasure cherish. 
 
 Adieu! may Peace o'erwatch thy gates; 
 May Pleasure nestle on thy walls ; 
 And the pure Star of radiant Fates 
 With cloudless lustre cheer thy halls. 
 
Addressed to a young Friend, an Admirer of an Italian Lady. 
 
 Y! wouldst thou have thy suit prevail? 
 Go lead thy heart's enchantress o'er 
 The woody steeps of Avondale 
 That guard the stream of Avonmore. 
 Howe'er her partial mind pourtray 
 The graces of her Bard's Vaucluse, 
 She'll there as charmed haunts survey 
 As ever sooth'd the Tuscan Muse. 
 
 For there from every zephyr's wing 
 
 A fairy spirit gently calls, 
 
 And there the waters wildly sing, 
 
 And there a mimic Sorga falls. 
 
 Through Arklow's woodlands proudly sweep, 
 
 And Aghrim boasts its golden ore ; 
 
 Though wild is Cronroe's rocky steep, 
 
 And wilder yet is lone Glenmore; 
 
Though Vartrey lightly bounding goes, 
 As coy yet playful childhood stray Sj 
 Though sweet Avoca sweeter flows 
 Since young Catullus sung its praise ; 
 Let lovers roam o'er hill and vale, 
 Yet never shall their eyes explore 
 A fairer glen than Avondale, 
 A lovelier stream than Avonmore. 
 
 Then warmly while thy lips repeat 
 The liquid verse she loves so well 
 Be sure her heart will kindly beat, 
 Be sure her breast will softly swell. 
 Dull must the lover be to fail, 
 Or else a frozen nymph implore, 
 Among the groves of Avondale, 
 Beside the stream of Avonmore. 
 
of tfie 
 
 HEN, passing greener vallies by, 
 Saint Keivin chose his last retreat, 
 Vale of the Monk, no vulgar eye 
 Found Glendaloch Religion's Seal. 
 
 For there the stern Enthusiast saw 
 The frowning wilderness he sought, 
 Hills that chastised the soul with awe, 
 Shades pregnant with celestial thought. 
 
 Hearts from the world he thither drew; 
 And temples in the desart rose ; 
 And, as on Gideon's fleece the dew, 
 Sunk on those hearts that blest repose. 
 
 Dim, lonely, melancholy vale, 
 How oft has tolled the Beadsman's knell, 
 Deepening thy mountains' hollow gale 
 And sullen waters heavy swell ! 
 
of tl)e 
 
 Even yet, amidst thy mellow gloom 
 Death, the presiding Genius, reigns; 
 He sits on Kingly Thuhal's tomb, 
 Or stalks among thy shattered fanes. 
 
 More charm to nurse vain dreams of bliss 
 Though sweet Ovoca's banks supply, 
 Earth has no fitter space than this 
 For Sage to muse, or Saint to die. 
 
 Ah what should gayer bowers avail ? 
 Young dreamer, turn to Keivin's rock; 
 'Twere sweet to live in Avondale, 
 But good to die in Glendaloch ! 
 
IS said there is a blessed charm 
 
 For those who here devoutly crouch, 
 Pilgrims for this forget alarm 
 And crawl to Kelvin's stony couch. 
 
 If memory of his mind divine 
 Here waken sin's repentant sighs, 
 It is indeed a holy shrine 
 Wherein a precious relique lies. 
 
 JEN 
 
 E the vain stream whose headlong course 
 Has plunged down yonder gulf in foam. 
 How limpid was its peaceful source ! 
 How dark will be its troubled home ! 
 
 Thus in Remorse's drear abyss 
 Young hearts by passion hurried fall, 
 Where troubled waters foam and hiss 
 And gloom and horror darken all. 
 
SONNET I. 
 
 | HERE is a pensive sweetness on her cheek, 
 And in her eye a melancholy lustre; 
 Complaining of the living snakes that cluster 
 Among her golden tresses. How, to wreak 
 Such vengeance on the lovely and the weak, 
 Could the Parthenian Goddess, for her shrine 
 Profaned, forget that mercy was divine ? 
 Fair Victim ! I know One as fair as thou, 
 
 Whose foot like thine at Wisdom's Altar stumbled, 
 And who, forsaken and forgotten now, 
 In spirit broken as in beauty humbled, 
 
 Feels shame's keen vipers on her aching brow, 
 While they whose ears are shut to misery's groan 
 View the poor Wretch with eyes and hearts of stone. 
 
SONNET II. 
 
 [EAUTIFUL Maniac of the locks enchanted, 
 Whose golden net enslaved the lord of ocean ! 
 Is this the end of all his false devotion? 
 Is this the crown upon thy temples planted 
 By him whose bosom for thy beauty panted ? 
 Alas f ! frail Woman yields to soft emotion ; 
 And love beguiles her with some airy notion; 
 And then the tempter's fatal suit is granted : 
 
 And then away are winged the days of gladness 
 With him who sipped the nectar of her breath; 
 And then succeed the pains of guilt and sadness; 
 Love's flowery braid becomes a snaky wreath^ 
 And then the serpents hiss her into madness. 
 *bus pleasure's garland turns a crown of death. 
 
SONNET III. 
 
 ER form was like a Grace of Parian marble; 
 Her step was stately like the walk of Dian ; 
 Her song excelled the Thracian nightbird's warble 
 She woke the lyre's enchantment like Amphion, 
 Or him whose music tamed the pard and lion; 
 Her eye was bright as the divinest star 
 That sparkles on the sword of stern Orion, 
 But like Aurora's when her summer car 
 
 Bore that beloved one to the floating isle, 
 It lit with orient warmth her conscious smile. 
 Should she not have some crystal dome in air, 
 
 Where earth might worship her, yet not defile? 
 Beauty ! behold the palace of the Fair- 
 She feasts the worms in yon sepulchral pile. 
 
|ET us go to some place of rest, my Soul ! 
 
 Why do we linger here? 
 Where the night-winds pant, and the dull waves roll, 
 
 And the sound and sight are drear, 
 It will suit the worn spirit hest, my Soul; 
 
 1 hen why should we linger here? 
 
 What avail the gay notes and light foot of young Pleasure 
 When the heart's not in tune to keep time with the measure ? 
 
 Not for Us is the festive hall, my Soul ! 
 
 Its groups like spectres grin; 
 And Music and Dance, as the death-bells toll 
 
 In the ear of the child of sin, 
 Even thus on my heart they fall, my Soul, 
 
 And jar on the strings within. 
 
 When the heart's out of tune, oh how harsh seems the measure 
 To which giddy groups whirl in the circle of Pleasure ! 
 
HERE the wild-daisy springs, there all fresh from his 
 
 flight 
 
 And all blithe as he sings, will the glad Lark alight ; 
 Where the starry tuft blossoming hides his young nest. 
 There his softly-descenclim r wing loves the buds best. 
 
 Where afar in the thorny vale sweet-briers swell, 
 There the Nightingale chaunts his full roundelay well ; 
 'Tis to sooth his love's vernal choice, hush'd in repose, 
 That he pours forth his mellow voice from the wild-rose. 
 
 As that wild-daisy lovely art Thou, my young Bride, 
 Thou art sweet as this wild-rose all new in its pride ! 
 Thou art That without speck ; thou art This without thorn ; 
 And thy bosom is pure as their dew in the morn ! 
 
 Not so dear is his nest to the Lark from on high, 
 Nor the glance of his mate to the Nightingale's eye, 
 As thy smile is to me through the cloud of my cares; 
 And the song sung to thee should be sweeter than their's ! 
 
 Though the skill is denied to tune melody's string, 
 Thus the will, my young Bride, to thy beauty would sing; 
 Because my soul's pleasure is all where thou art; 
 For wherever the treasure is there is the heart. 
 
A SONG. 
 
 HERE'S a green sunny isle on the depths of Lough-Mask, 
 Where the sand-snipes all joy on the pebbled shore bask j 
 Where from rocks sing the Whitethroats enchantingly 
 
 sweet, 
 To appease the chafed billows that fret at their feet. 
 
 There are shades in that isle to veil lovers' kind glances 3 
 There's a green in the midst for each light foot that dances : 
 Thither then let the oars dash the shallop along ; 
 For we'll there give the morning to dance and to song. 
 
 Let the mountains send down their fair damsels to-day j 
 Let the boats fraught with music too follow away : 
 We'll debark on that isle with the mountains' fair daughters ; 
 But the music shall come stealing over the waters. 
 
 To the witch-time of twilight we'll dance and we'll sing, 
 Till the dew-slippered fairies come claiming the ring; 
 Then thy harp, my sweet Bride, shall their angry spell break, 
 And shall win Thee the love of those elfs of the lake. 
 
 There's an octagon temple on that sunny isle, 
 
 Where the wine in cold cups of rock-crystal shall smile j 
 
 There those fairies shall join in the feast of the gay, 
 
 And shall pledge Thee, my Bride, the young Queen of the May. 
 
HEN the stars shine out in the clear blue sky, 
 
 And the air is the breath of May, 
 O give me a Muse with a sweet mild eye, 
 And give her a harp to play. 
 
 Let us sit remote in a mountain scene, 
 
 On the shore of a lovely lake : 
 Let the moon look down on the small isles green, 
 
 And the waves that around them break. 
 
 Let the harp then tremble through all its strings, 
 
 With its tenderest fall and flow , 
 Let it breathe such a spell as a bright dream bringSj 
 
 When the mind is subdued with woe. 
 
 O, be Thou the Muse, for thine eye is mild ; 
 
 And thine be the harp, my Bride ! 
 For the mountains here are sublimely wild, 
 
 And fair is Lough -Corrib's side. 
 
 'Tis a lovely lake with its 'hundred isles, 
 
 And thy harp has a tender tone ; 
 And 'tis fit that Thou with thy harp and smiles 
 Be the Muse of these regions lone! 
 
 Lough-Corrib, a lake of great extent and beauty in the West of Ireland. 
 
He to tije historic JWtts*. 
 
 y History's Prince and Father. Herodotus is so called by Cicero. 
 
 Wept with a young enthusiast's spirit. Thucydides shed tears on hearing He- 
 rodotus read his History at the Olympic Games- 
 
 Worthy of Socrates. Xenophon was one of the Philosopher's pupils. 
 
 And by that Chceronean just. The general impartiality, as well as the skill 
 and judgment, of Plutarch in weighing the characters of illustrious men is, 
 I believe, sufficiently established ; though some writers have accused him 
 of giving too much preponderance to the Greeks. His style is not consi- 
 dered so remarkable for elegance as for precision and force, and he is there- 
 fore here represented as paying little attention to the Graces, whom, it is 
 fair to assume, he must have met on the banks of their favourite river the 
 Cephisus, as it flowed by Chaeronea, the Historian's native city. 
 
 Thy name with ancient Greece was Glory- CLEOS. 
 The gift of Padua's Sage. Livy. 
 
 He too by virtuous Pliny loved. The friendship of Tacitus and the younger 
 Pliny was the admiration of Rome; and that Historian, though the declared 
 
2 .... Note*. 
 
 and sincere enemy of flattery, was not only a favourite of Vespasian, but 
 was patronised even by Domitian. 
 
 These, with a chasterid radiance shining, 
 
 Compose thine antique crown. 
 
 As the offerings of the most illus- 
 trious ancient historians. 
 
 to Nature* 
 
 Where the meek disburthen'd beast 
 
 Crops at eve his prickly feast. 
 
 The necessity of addressing my attention to 
 
 such subjects as the Woodcuts afforded me has, it will be observed, led me 
 into this goodly company. This species of animal however, was not quite 
 new to me before. Witness my thorough-bred Reviewer in Blackwood's 
 Magazine. I do not expect this observation to wound him, as it is shewn 
 in the above couplet that asses have the faculty of eating thistles unhurt. 
 
 goung 
 
 Ian softly, I pray thee, thou gale of the west. 
 
 " Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, 
 Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise, 
 My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, 
 Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream !" 
 
 AFTON WATER. 
 
Note* 3 
 
 Ntgfitmar*. 
 
 I should have been glad if this and some other subjects had exercised the 
 powers, of that mercurial old gentleman, George Colman the Younger. This 
 parody of mine is a sin against good taste $ and I insert the original Ode by 
 way of atonement to the offended manes of the most delightful of English 
 lyrical Poets. 
 
 How sleep the Brave who sink to rest 
 By all their country's wishes blest! 
 When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, 
 Returns to deck their hallowed mould, 
 She there shall dress a sweeter sod 
 Thau Fancy's feet have ever trod. 
 
 By fairy hands their knell is rung; 
 By forms unseen their dirge is sung; 
 There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray, 
 To bless the turf that wraps their clay; 
 And Freedom shall awhile repair 
 To dwell a weeping hermit there ! 
 
 " Hfyt JJlaitr t&at lobtfr tyt JWoom" 
 
 These lines, which were really suggested by the mgfa-errantry of a very fair 
 and very eccentric young Lady, have put on, almost against my own will, 
 
4 ttfote*. 
 
 the perilous form of the blank ode. That my admiration of that exquisite 
 evening hymn of the Poet, for whom " the pensive pleasures sweet prepared 
 the shadowy car/' tempted them to take this shape I will not deny, but I 
 should be sorry to be suspected of the idle vanity of having hoped to catch 
 the tone of Collins's enchanting production. 
 
 Sad Autonoe's hapless hunter. Actaeon, whose fate is said to have accelerated 
 the death of his mother Autonoe. 
 
 Troy's pale prophetess. Cassandra. 
 
 The rocky Isles. Sirenusae, the supposed abodes of the Sirens. 
 
 a* to Imagination* 
 
 The Theban urged his daring flight. Pindar. 
 
 This chase after happiness, or whatever else the reader may choose to make it, 
 will seem to have but slight connexion with the Woodcut to which it is 
 appended j and it will indeed require good eyes to discover the little grass- 
 hopping non-descript that gives so much trouble to the hunters. I recom- 
 mend the Critics to put on their spectacles. 
 
Note*. . . 5 
 
 Btor an* tij* Angler* 
 
 wonders much, as much he may. 
 
 " And much I ruminate, as much I may." COWPEB. 
 
 This Lady was daughter of Edmund Bridges, second Lord Chandos, and 
 wife of William Lord Sandys of the Vine. She is celebrated by the poet 
 Gascoigne as the handsomest lady of the Court, though there was a scar 
 upon her forehead. 
 
 And who, by the conquest of loveliness, there 
 
 From the haughty queen turrfd her proud favourite 's vow ? 
 
 Lord Essex "fell in love" 
 
 with a fair Bridges, on whom his admiration drew down the displeasure, 
 and, court- scandal adds, the fist of his royal mistress. But this was not the 
 lady. It was more probably a daughter or niece of the third Lord Chandos. 
 I did not observe the mistake in time for alteration. In the text the mas- 
 culine word Monarch is unluckily applied to the Queen. Perhaps, however, 
 if the lady above mentioned could be consulted, she would vindicate the 
 solecism by assuring us that the weight of the Queen's hand was of no 
 maidenly character. Poor Lord Essex too might have given an opinion 
 on this subject, as he also, if history have not put an unjust affront on him, 
 had good reason to be sensible of Her Majesty's pugilistic qualifications. 
 
6 
 
 apttb* Eiotu 
 
 The Lion of the sacred hill 
 And he that- awed Neman's wood. 
 
 The Lions of Mount Cithaeron and of 
 Nemeea, destroyed by Hercules. 
 
 And That the Muse's olive crushed. The accounts of the club of Hercules are 
 various. By some it is said to have been the gift of Vulcan, and made of 
 brass ; while the more general opinion is that it was of oak, and cut by Her- 
 cules himself in the Nemaean forest. But the most pleasing account is that 
 which represents it to have been of olive, and found by the hero on Mount 
 Helicon. 
 
 The terror of Etolian plains. The Calydonian Boar, destroyed by Meleager 
 and the neighbouring princes. 
 
 Crete's sea-born dread. The wild Bull of Crete, first caught by Hercules, 
 and presented to Eurystheus, by whose order it was set at large. It was 
 again taken alive by Theseus, who exhibited it through the streets of Athens 
 previously to its being sacrificed to Minerva. 
 
 A Lion to a woman's prayer 
 His claws was tempted to resign. 
 
 In the well-known fable. The Reviewer 
 
 before alluded to has here an opportunity of displaying his wit about a 
 grand Menagerie, &c. &c. As I have already classified him, I cannot reply 
 that he is a Calydonian Boar*. 
 
 Query. Caledonian Bore ? PRINTER. 
 
t)t Eapfotns, tyt fol, amr t&e 
 
 The Designer was not, I suppose, conscious of the absurdity of placing these 
 three birds on the same bough. The Lapwing, in particular, has no busi- 
 ness here, for it is a bird which always lights upon the ground, and never, 
 I believe, was seen on a tree. But the Artist may perhaps be forgiven, 
 when it is remembered that Virgil has fallen into a similar mistake, by 
 making the nightingale, which always frequents low close thickets, sing 
 from a poplar-tree. While I am on this subject, I wish to take the oppor- 
 tunity in good time of preventing the charge, which may otherwise be 
 brought against me, of having stolen from a golden treasury, and unskil- 
 fully alloyed and debased the coin, by converting Mr. Wordsworth's descrip- 
 tion of the Nightingale to my own use. Some of these things have been 
 long written and printed, and this is 01165 and it was only very recently 
 that, in a miscellany entitled "British Melodies," I saw Mr. Wordsworth's 
 beautiful verses on the Nightingale ; for the first time, with shame be it 
 spoken, not having seen that edition of poems in which I am told they first 
 appeared some years since. 
 
 And hark, the Nightingale begins its songj 
 
 " Most musical, most melancholy" Bird! 
 
 A melancholy Bird ? O idle thought ! 
 
 In nature there is nothing melancholy. 
 
 But some night- wandering man whose heart was pierced* 
 
 +*-**.** **t* * *t ** 
 
 Not Milton I hope. 
 
8 Notes*. 
 
 With the remembrance of some grievous wrong, 
 
 Or slow distemper, or neglected love, 
 
 (And so, poor wretch, filled all things with himself, 
 
 And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale 
 
 Of his own sorrows) he and such as he 
 
 First named these notes a melancholy strain : 
 
 And many a poet echoes the conceit; 
 
 Poet who hath been building up the rhyme 
 
 When he had better far have stretched his limbs 
 
 Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell 
 
 By sun or moon-light, to the influxes 
 
 Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements 
 
 Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song 
 
 And of his fame forgetful ! so his fame 
 
 Should share in nature's immortality, 
 
 A venerable thing ! and so his song 
 
 Should make all nature lovelier, and itself 
 
 Be loved like nature ! But 'twill not be so, 
 
 And youths and maidens most poetical 
 
 Who lose the deepening twilights of the spring 
 
 In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still 
 
 Full of meek sympathy must heave their sighs 
 
 O'er Philomela's pity-pleading strains. 
 
 My Friend, and my Friend's Sister ! we have learnt 
 
 A different lore : we may not thus profane 
 
 Nature's sweet voices always full of love 
 
 And joyance ! 'tis the merry Nightingale 
 
 That crowds and hurries and precipitates 
 
 With fast thick warble his delicious notes, 
 
 As he were fearful that an April night 
 
 Would be too short for him to utter forth 
 
 His love -chant, and disburthen his full soul 
 
Hot** 9 
 
 Of all its music ! And I know a grove 
 Of large extent, hard by a castle huge, 
 Which the great lord inhabits not : and so 
 This grove is wild with tangling underwood, 
 And the trim walks are broken up, and grass, 
 Thin grass and kingcups grow within the paths. 
 But never elsewhere in one place I knew 
 So many Nightingales : and far and near 
 In wood and thicket over the wide grove 
 They answer, and provoke each other's songs 
 With skirmish and capricious passagings, 
 And murmurs musical and swift jug jug, 
 And one low piping sound more sweet than all. 
 
 Long as this quotation is, I shall be pardoned for introducing the 
 
 most gentle Maid 
 
 Who dwelleth in her hospitable home 
 Hard by the castle, and at latest eve 
 (Even like a lady vowed and dedicate 
 To something more than nature in the grove) 
 Glides through the pathways; she knows all their notes, 
 That gentle Maid ! and oft, a moment's space, 
 What time the moon was lost behind a cloud, 
 Hath heard a pause of silence : till the Moon 
 Emerging, hath awakened earth and sky 
 With one sensation, and those wakeful Birds 
 Have all burst forth with choral minstrelsy, 
 As if one quick and sudden gale had swept 
 ,An hundred airy harps! and she hath watched 
 Many a Nightingale perch giddily 
 
10 ... 
 
 On blosmy twig still swinging from the breeze, 
 And to that motion tune his wanton song, 
 Like tipsy joy that reels with tossing head ! 
 
 Mr. Payne Knight in his Essay on Taste, has also remarked on the common 
 error of ascribing melancholy to the notes of the Nightingale, and justly 
 observed that birds are mute in grief, and sing only when they are happy. 
 
 There too the' imperial Dame with Barons girt, 
 Relaxed at welcome's voice her lion-port. 
 
 " Girt with many a Baron bold, 
 
 # * * # 
 
 In the midst a form divine ! 
 Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face 
 Attempcr'd sweet to virgin grace." 
 
 THE BARD. 
 
 Sudeley Castle, which was long in possession of the ancestors of the 
 Editor of this Press, for which reason these stanzas are addressed to him, was 
 one of the Noblemen's seats visited by Queen Elizabeth in her Progresses. 
 
 The splendor and munificence of Grey, the fifth Lord Chandos, were 
 such as to obtain for him the popular denomination of King of Cotswold. 
 
Notes 11 
 
 That bloomed in Denton's vale, and Wottoris sylvan slopes. 
 
 The poet Gray, who 
 
 was for some time a visitor at Denton while it was in the occupation of his 
 friend the Rev. Mr. Robinson, speaks with pleasure in his letters of the 
 retired little valley and its green meadows. The place belongs to the Editor, 
 and Wotton Court, which is just above it, was his birth-place. 
 
 No smooth supplanter kindly claimed thy share. " But he (Esau) said again : 
 Rightly is his name called Jacob," that is a supplanter, " for he hath sup- 
 planted me, lo, this second time." 
 
 no more the Lydian stream 
 
 Devolves in its old bed the golden tide. 
 
 This allusion to Pactolus, (not, per- 
 haps, an allowable one) refers to the following passage in the Advertise- 
 ment to " Speeches delivered to Queen Elizabeth at Sudeley Castle." 
 
 " George Brydges, the sixth Lord Chandos, left Sudeley, among his other estates, to his 
 second wife, Jane, daughter of John Savage, Earl Rivers, who carried it to her last 
 husband, Mr. Pitt. The stream of inheritance in the Chandos family was thus 
 broken, and cruelly diverted into another channel. After a century and a half, 
 in a long circuit through its new course, it again approximated, and was on the 
 point of being brought back by a great exertion into its old line, when an unpro- 
 pitious circumstance again diverted it, perhaps for ever." 
 
 Advertisement to Speeches delivered to Queen Elizabeth at Sudeley Castle. 
 
 And thou hast treasures as Cornelia's prized. When a lady of Campania made 
 an ostentatious display of her jewels in a visit to the daughter of Scipio 
 
12 
 
 Africanus, and requested her to produce her own, the Roman matron pre- 
 sented her children, and " These," said she "are the jewels of which I 
 boast." 
 
 " Pointing to such, well might Cornelia say, 
 When the rich casket shone in bright array, 
 
 These are my jewels." 
 
 Rogers' s Human Life. 
 
 Dfalfet 
 
 This subject was evidently designed after the subsequent passage in Shakspeare. 
 
 " O God, roe thinks it were a happy life 
 
 To be no better than a homely swain : 
 
 To sit upon a hill, as I do now; 
 
 To carve out Dials quaintly, point by point, 
 
 Thereby to see the minutes how they run, &c. 
 
 Gires not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade 
 To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep, 
 Than doth a rich embroidered canopy 
 To kings, that fear their subjects treachery ?" 
 
 Henry VI. Part 112, 
 
13 
 
 JJtgra. 
 
 This was,, I suppose, drawn after Thomson's Celadon and Amelia. Indeed 
 several of the Designs are taken from passages in various Authors, which 
 are no doubt familiar to the reader. 
 
 CJuptir ana 
 
 Till her marble breast heaved like the life-waken' 'd Idol 
 
 Of the Sculptor of Cyprus. Pygmalion, the Sta- 
 
 tuary, disgusted with the profligacy of the women of Amathus, determined 
 not to marry. But he afterwards became so enamoured of a beautiful Sta- 
 tue which he made, that Venus, at his prayer, inspired it with animation : 
 and the work of his own hands became his wife. Ovid says that the Statue 
 was made of Ivory. 
 
 Jnterea niteum mira feliciter arte 
 
 Sculpsit ebur, formamque dedit, qua femina nasci 
 
 Nulla potest ; operisque sui concepit amorem. 
 
 # * * * 
 
 Saepe manus operi tentantes admoret, an sit 
 Corpus, an illud ebur: nee ebur tamen esse fatetur. 
 
 to %tt JJrtorg* 
 
 This Poem, without the Woodcuts, has been printed in the Rev. F. Dibdin's 
 
 Decameron. 
 While Pity mourns the youthful friend. Edward William George Brydges, 
 
 who died at Lee Priory on the 13th of June, 1816, in his sixteenth year. 
 
14 .... 
 
 The Seat of Mr. Parnell Hayes, in the County of Wicklow. It lies between 
 Rathclrum and the Meeting of the Waters. 
 
 Though Arklow's woodlands proudly sweep, 
 And Aghrim boasts its golden ore; 
 Though wild is Cronroe's rocky steep, 
 
 And wilder yet is lone Genmore. 
 
 These are all places of attraction in 
 
 Wicklow. Glenmore is usually called the Devil's Glen. The small river 
 Vartrey runs through it. 
 
 Since young Catullus sung its praise. 
 
 " Little, the young Catullus of his day." 
 
 of tfie Seben 
 
 Glendalough, or the Valley of the Two Lakes. Pronounced almost like 
 GlandaZoc/c- A tradition related of Saint Keivin in this vale is the subject 
 of one of Mr. Moore's Songs. 
 
 " By that lake whose gloomy shore 
 Skylark never warbled o'er." 
 
Notes. . .15 
 
 Stomut &===JWttruu 
 
 Though the most ancient monuments exhibit Medusa with the distorted and 
 dreadful features commonly ascribed to her by the Poets, later Artists, and 
 particularly the Lithographers have delighted to represent her not only 
 with that fatal loveliness which captivated " the stern God of Sea," but 
 with traits of additional interest suggested by the peculiarity of her punish- 
 ment. Sometimes she appears only with an expression of mild though 
 deep dejection on finding the serpents in her beautiful hair: often with all 
 the wildness of rage and frenzy, but accompanied with so much charm of 
 countenance and so tempered by an air of consciousness and agony, as to 
 excite commisseration rather than horror. Several specimens may be seen 
 in Worlidge's Gems. 
 
 Could the Parthenian Goddess, fyc. Juno is also sometimes called Parthenos, 
 as well as Minerva; but the appellation seems more applicable to the latter 
 Goddess on every account. 
 
 Sonnet 3HBL 
 
 Her song excelled the Thracian nightbird's warble. The people of Mount 
 Libethrus in Thrace claimed the distinction of possessing the ashes of 
 Orpheus, and boasted that the Nightingales which built their nests near his 
 tomb surpassed all others in the melody of their notes. 
 
16 "Note*. 
 
 But like Aurora when her summer car 
 
 Bore that beloved one to the floating isle. 
 
 Aurora carried Orion to the Island 
 
 of Delos that she might there enjoy his company unobserved. 
 
 Of these three Sonnets the rhythmical arrangement of the second only 
 is strictly according to rule. 
 
 There's a green sunny isle on the depths of Lough- Mask, 
 of Ireland. 
 
 A Lake in the West 
 
 In conclusion I think it proper to observe that I am solely answerable for 
 whatever sentiments may be found in this volume. The Editor of the Lee 
 Priory Press has been for some time on the Continent; and is now making the 
 tour of Italy. Most of the contents therefore of this publication will be quite 
 new to him, though it has of course been carried on with his knowledge and 
 concurrence. I had hoped to be able to offer to that respected Friend and to 
 the Subscribers to the Press something better, but it is easier to form good 
 hopes, than to write good verses. 
 
ERRATA. 
 
 Preface. Page 3. Last line of Note for him read the Printer. 
 
 10. First line of Note for good read merit. 
 
 11. Fifth line dele comma after additions. 
 Eighth line dele comma after which. 
 
 Ode to the Muse. Line 1 of Stanza 9 for cloudier read cloudy. 
 
 Maid that loved the Moon. Line 2 of Stanza 14 dele the word feet. 
 
 Captive Lion. Line 6 of Stanza 2 dele apostrophe after princes. 
 
 Address to Wisdom. Line 6 of Stanza 2 for transcendant read transcendent. 
 
 <>c>o<>o<>e>c>oo>o<> 
 
 Printed by John Warwick, 
 At the private Press of LEE PRIORY, Kent. 
 
ARRANGEMENT AND LIST OF FIRST LINES ; 
 
 TO SERVE AS A DIRECTION TO THE BINDER. 
 
 Half Title. 
 
 Title. 
 
 Preface. 
 
 Spirit of Heaven, immortal Child/ 
 
 In vain thy glorious voice they heard. 
 
 Or if, when Pride so high aspires. 
 
 Oft from his couch of cloudy dreams. 
 
 He knows thee by his panting breast. 
 
 Daughter of Memory and Jove. 
 
 And by that Chseronean just. 
 
 Goddess of the green retreats. 
 
 Where the light and frolic fawn. 
 
 I have found the young Gleaner, the Cherub 
 
 of Morn. 
 
 How sleeps the Squire who sinks to rest. 
 Come away to the greenwood bowers. 
 Who with me will wander? 
 Poets loiter all their leisure. 
 
 Throw back the locks redundant from those eyes. 
 Who with bland voice repaid them, and, the 
 
 while. 
 
 O Thou, of Genius Eldest-born. 
 We are hunting the Fairy all day long. 
 Shame afflict thee, Slave of Riot. 
 Reclined upon a bank of moss. 
 She, with her treacherous smile serene. 
 O Who, near the throne of the Mistress of Ocean. 
 At the masque, or the sylvan fantastical sport. 
 The Lion of the sacred hill. 
 O fair is Matlock's rocky hill. 
 The cottage of Monksdale looks gay with its 
 
 roses. 
 
 Health, and for ever! e'en the Grave. 
 'Tis now the hour the Wanderer strays. 
 Where is thy glory, Sudeley ? though thy wall. 
 
 Now savage elders nourish in thy courts. 
 Brydges, the proud tear in thy dark eye swells. 
 Yet why repine ? no more the Lydian stream. 
 Of briers the earth, of clouds the heaven to clear. 
 Time strikes his bell in Grandeur's halls. 
 Unblest is Woman when she roves. 
 From the wing of young Love, as on roses he 
 
 slumber' d. 
 
 Fair Land, when with her Cross, of yore. 
 O why is thy brow, young Knight. 
 Be merry, be merry in Clifton Halls. 
 O Thou, the Maid divine. 
 Adieu, the pensive still retreat. 
 For not to him a sunny glade. 
 Most in that magical recess. 
 'Tis softer yet to turn and mark. 
 Far be from me such dreary bliss. 
 Adieu, fair Lee, a gem of thine. 
 Boy ! wouldst thou have thy suit prevail ? 
 Though Vartrey lightly bounding goes. 
 When, passing greener vallies by. 
 E'en yet, amidst thy mellow gloom. 
 'Tis said there is a blessed charm. 
 There is a pensive sweetness on her cheek. 
 Beautiful Maniac of the locks enchanted. 
 Her form was like a Grace of Parian marble. 
 Let us go to some place of rest, my Soul. 
 Where the wild-daisy springs, there all fresh 
 
 from his flight. 
 There's a green sunny isle on the depths of 
 
 Lough-Mask. 
 
 When the stars shine out in the clear blue sky. 
 Notes. 
 
 Arrangement and List of First Lines. 
 Errata. 
 

 

 : 
 
RmCTB-WHEATLEY 
 LIBRISTEGVMINE ; 
 1LLVSTRIORIBVS.