*\ 
 
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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 RURAL 
 
 AND OTHER 
 
 POEMS.
 
 RURAL 
 
 AND OTHER 
 
 POEMS, 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. CHADWICK. 
 
 LONDON 
 
 LONGMAN, REES, ORME, BROWN, AND GREEN; 
 
 AND PROCTER AND JONES, LUDLOW. 
 
 MDCCCXXVIII.
 
 £3 
 
 TO 
 
 DR. CHADWICK, 
 
 THE AUTHOR DEDICATES HER RURAL 
 
 AND OTHER 
 
 POEMS, 
 
 A SLIGHT, BUT SINCERE TRIBUTE OF 
 
 MATERNAL AFFECTION. 
 
 Ludlow, December 31, 1827. 

 
 POEMS. 
 
 ON SOLITUDE. 
 
 Hail ! sacred solitude ! serene retreat ! — 
 
 I woo thy grateful shades with hallowed thoughts 
 
 And reverential awe. The ruffled breast 
 
 Oft meets in thy pure haunts a soothing balm, 
 
 A transitory gleam of calm repose. 
 
 Congenial is thy covert to the muse ; 
 
 And mine was nurtured in thy fostering lap : 
 
 'Twas thou first taught her humble strain to sound 
 
 To cheer the moments of a leisure hour. 
 
 O much loved muse ! bend hither now thy flight ! 
 Borne on the downy wing of placid thought 
 By ev'ry kindred gale urged on, O come ! 
 Assist the soaring thought in Solitude, 
 
 To sing unsullied all her chaste results ! 
 
  
 
 2 ON SOLITUDE. 
 
 O Solitude ! how often have I rov'd 
 Amid thy deep recesses, — far from man ! 
 Tasting- thy honied treasures ; with thee walk'd 
 In all the changing seasons as they've roll'd ; 
 In rosy Spring, in Summer's sultry hours, — 
 In richer Autumn, — and midst Winter's snow. 
 In all, it is thy rare prerogative 
 Through each revolving change, to give delight. 
 
 Fanned by the gentle breezes of the spring, 
 Which blow propitious to the varied tribe 
 Of vegetation, — how sweet to wander 
 Thro' the deep grove made vocal by the birds, 
 Or on the plain inhale reviving air ; 
 Or to look nicely on each vernal charm 
 When bursting from the womb of Mother earth. 
 Can man observe the plants spring up afresh, 
 Or renovated trees put forth their leaves 
 Without reverting to that awful day 
 When all shall break the confines of the grave ? 
 Inanimate creation thus have slept 
 During the wintry hours : but cheerly now 
 A general resurrection is display'd. 
 
 Come forth ye little songsters of the wood, 
 And warble hymns of gratitude to Him 
 Who taught ye all to swell the vocal strain ! 
 Ye woodlands all, give praise ! — Ye fertile show'rs,
 
 ON SOLITUDE. 3 
 
 Descend and weep for joy ! — Ye rivulets, 
 
 And larger streams that glide your wonted course, 
 
 Proclaim His love, e'en in your rippling sound ! 
 
 Ye mountains huge ! — and verdant hills, and dales, 
 
 And flocks, and herds, that taste such sweets, give 
 
 Let one united strain resound from all ! — [praise ! 
 
 While mimic echo 'gain repeats the song. 
 
 Ye woods, and rocks the whisp'ring cadence catch ; 
 
 Echo reverb'rate the departing sound ! 
 
 While universal nature smiles around. 
 
 Or when the effulgent rays of summer's sun, 
 Embrown the mountain tops, and heat o'erpowers, 
 And strength impairs, how cheering 'tis to seek 
 The peaceful shade of solitude's abode. — 
 There, air breathes balmy odours ; and where e'er 
 We tread, — or whither bend our course, 'tis but 
 To catch the mingling graces which combine 
 To fall in contact with the ravished sight, 
 To lure the sense, — attune the soul to love, — 
 The love of nature, — and of nature's God. 
 
 The verdant hue so recently beheld 
 Soon flits away, and Autumn with her saffron robe 
 Usurps dominion, — pours her richest stores, 
 Britannia ! o'er thy highly favoured Isle. 
 See how thy beauteous hills, and fertile vales, 
 Teem with the golden grain, — O rapturous sight !
 
 4 ON SOLITUDE. 
 
 What heart, untouched with gratitude can beat? 
 Thus varied are thy charms, sweet solitude ! 
 
 Even in winter thou canst yield delight ; 
 Then, oft, well pleased, I've visited thy paths, 
 When ev'ry spray was crystalized with hoar, 
 And nature silent, save the Cotter's hut 
 Confiding red-breast : he still swell'd the strain. 
 
 Yes solitude, whatever season rules 
 The purest virtues thou canst inculcate, 
 And the pure heart must purer be from thee ! 
 Yet when my duty shall command my steps 
 To join the multitude in busier scenes, 
 The mandate I'll obey, — The debt is due. 
 But may I ne'er approach these silent scenes, 
 Or share the fancied pleasures of mankind, 
 But as stimula giving double zest 
 To other duties and more solid joys : 
 Tho' not to dwell alone! — No, to possess 
 A friend to share in ev'ry sylvan walk; 
 To whom when purest thoughts impart a joy, 
 To say, — "My friend how sweet is solitude!"
 
 CORRIDON S COMPLAINT. 
 
 CORRIDON'S COMPLAINT. 
 
 Farewell to the valley once loved, 
 Farewell to its peaceful retreat; 
 
 The gem once beloved is removed, 
 That treasure no more shall I greet. 
 
 No more shall the vale then resound, 
 With Daphne's wild musical note, 
 
 For ah ! she is laid in the ground, 
 And Corridon 'reft of all hope. 
 
 Oh Death ! thou hast torn from my breast, 
 Such a treasure the world cannot boast 
 
 But is she not ranked with the blest? 
 While I in a chaos am lost. 
 
 Ye choristers sweet of the grove, 
 
 Ah! now who will list to your strain? 
 
 Ye can warble no more to my love; 
 Your melody now is in vain. 
 
 If Daphne e'er water'd a flow'r, 
 
 It seemed with fresh beauty to glow ; 
 
 'Twas Daphne who gave it its pow'r, — 
 'Gain to please me it never will blow. 
 
 How soothing this rivulet seemed, 
 
 How grand this cascade then appeared ; 
 
 Ah ! then I could never have dreamed, 
 That to me they would be less endeared.
 
 6 corridon's complaint. 
 
 Who e'er in the dance on the green , 
 As Daphne was modest and fair? 
 
 She looked as me thinks doth a Queen : — 
 All was rapture, — if Daphne were there. 
 
 No more in the dance shall I join ; 
 
 The sound of the harp cannot cheer; 
 All is fled that I hoped to prove mine ; — 
 
 My fair one no longer is near. 
 
 I heard the sad funeral knell : — 
 I saw the corse laid on the bier; 
 
 It passed thro' yon beautiful dell — < 
 And gently was borne and laid here. 
 
 Yes ! — those faded flowers were strewed 
 By maidens o'er Daphne's cold breast ; 
 
 They dropped them while tears bedewed 
 The grave where the charmer must rest: 
 
 All ! these flow'rs are emblems of thee ! 
 
 How soon they have sickened and died ; 
 This lily not fairer could be 
 
 Than she of the valley the pride. 
 
 Thy tint, lovely rose too is fled ; 
 
 Yet how fragrant is still thy perfume! 
 Like thee, — is my Daphne tho' dead ! — 
 
 She charms tho' enshrined in the tomb. 
 
 This thorn which hangs over her tomb, 
 Presents what my Daphne may be ! — 
 
 It appears with fresh vigour to bloom, 
 While lost is her beauty to me.
 
 CORRIDON S COMPLAINT. 
 
 Instead of retiring to rest, 
 
 When safely I've folded my sheep, 
 "Tis here I will soothe my sad breast! 
 
 Till these eyes have forgotten to weep.
 
 8 A PASTORAL. 
 
 A PASTORAL. 
 
 could I call Diana mine, 
 Pd envy not the great ! 
 
 For happiness they oft repine, 
 Midst pageantry and state. 
 
 1 own not wealth — that gives not bliss— 
 But competence was given ; 
 
 Most grateful feels my heart for this, 
 To thee all bounteous Heaven : 
 
 A gift more dear thou canst impart, 
 
 add it to my store ; 
 
 give me but Diana's heart, 
 
 1 will not ask for more. 
 
 All I possess dear gentle fair, 
 
 My flocks, — my herds, — my cot, — 
 
 1 would with thee most freely share, 
 And bless my happy lot. 
 
 Were I to call thee truly mine, 
 
 I would nor care nor woe 
 Should ever wound that breast of thine, 
 
 Or happiness but know. 
 
 If too oppressive proved the heat 
 
 Of summer's sultry hours, 
 Thou then should'st find a cool retreat, 
 
 Amid my myrtle bowers.
 
 A PASTORAL. 9 
 
 Oft in the evening we would stray, — 
 P'rhaps wander through the grove ; — 
 
 Thus, sweetly wile the hours away 
 In innocence and love. 
 
 For thee the fruits my garden yields, 
 
 I'd cull with nicest care ; 
 Sweet flowers that deck th' enamelled fields, 
 
 Should decorate my fair. 
 
 With thee would prove a Heaven below ! 
 
 A Paradise indeed ! 
 Without thee all be care and woe, 
 
 A wilderness of weed ; 
 
 Then the sweet songsters of the vale 
 No more could charm mine ear ; 
 
 The shepherd's lively simple tale, 
 No more my bosom cheer. 
 
 My flocks I never more could tend, 
 
 My lute would be forgot, 
 No more could I my herds attend, 
 
 Neglected be my cot. 
 
 But why droop thus my doubtful heart? 
 
 On Heaven alone rely ; 
 It can and may this bliss impart 
 
 For which my soul doth sigh. 
 
 That dear Diana will be mine, 
 
 O God assurance give, 
 That I shall yet my fate entwine 
 
 With her's for whom I live !
 
 10 A PASTORAL. 
 
 Yes ! much loved fair I live for thee ! 
 
 That life in pity spare ; 
 Quit thou thy native vale for me ! 
 
 My destiny to share.
 
 A PASTORAL. 11 
 
 A PASTORAL. 
 
 When in my native vale I strayed, 
 I then was free from toil and care ; 
 
 Adorned but as a rustic maid, 
 
 All was sweet peace, — and pleasure there. 
 
 How oft has Colin with me roved, 
 Ah ! then no maid more blest than I, 
 
 When by that rural swain beloved, 
 I thought with him I'd live and die. 
 
 And in the rosy morn of spring, 
 Together did we tend our flocks ; 
 
 He touched his lute and I would sing, 
 And love was echoed from the rocks. 
 
 The lily of the vale he'd bring, 
 
 "Wear this" — he'd say "my love for me, 
 
 "It is an emblem of the spring, 
 "And of my Flora's purity." 
 
 If e'er I chanced alone to rove, 
 
 Rapturous theme it proved to me ! — 
 
 Along the elm tree's shady grove, 
 F was carved on many a tree. 
 
 O yes ! 'twas carved by Colin's hand, 
 And meant for Flora's name to be ; — 
 
 Engraven on the river's sand 
 
 Full oft I Flora ! there could see.
 
 12 A PASTORAL. 
 
 Happy hours ! — ye now are fled ! — 
 
 And fled is peace too from my breast !■ 
 
 Care, never then attack'd my head, 
 I then my heart at ease could rest. 
 
 Ungrateful I to Colin's love, 
 
 Why was I tempted e'er to roam ! 
 
 O guard him all ye pow'rs above ! 
 O ! give him happiness at home.
 
 A PASTORAL. 13 
 
 A PASTORAL. 
 
 Long, — -long hath the sun been gone down ; 
 
 The cattle to covert are fled ; 
 The woodman his axe hath laid down ; 
 
 And guilt bent on ill, leaves his bed. 
 
 The shepherds have folded their sheep ; 
 
 The nestlings lodged safe 'neath the wing ; 
 All nature's preparing for sleep, 
 
 Whilst Philomel sweetly doth sing. 
 
 Ah ! plaintive indeed is thy strain, — 
 
 As it vibrates, it soothes my sad breast ; 
 
 Thou seek'st not lost peace, — 'tis in vain !- 
 Like thee I'm bereaved too of rest ! —   
 
 I'll mingle my sorrow with thine ; — 
 I'll sing of my Philis so fair ; — • 
 
 But oh ! — she no longer is mine ; 
 I'm forsaken, — and left to despair. — 
 
 What swain on the mountain so blest, 
 As Strephon when Philis was kind ! 
 
 Then peaceful, I sweetly could rest ; 
 Contentment then dwelt in my mind. 
 
 At eve we've oft strayed through the vale, 
 There vowed to each other, we'd love 
 
 As long as the stars should prevail, 
 
 Or the moon in her circle should move !-
 
 14 A PASTORAL. 
 
 But thou hast forgotten thy vow, 
 I cherish remembrance of mine : — 
 
 Submissive to Heaven I bow, 
 
 But Philis, — what frailty is thine ! 
 
 How oft have I wished for thy sake, 
 That wealth had been granted to me ; 
 
 So lovely ! — I thought thou would'st make 
 What my heart fondly wished thee to be : 
 
 My soul checks this thought in my breast ; 
 
 Had this shepherdess but been less fair ; — 
 1 had not been robbed of my rest, — 
 
 Or gold been to Philis a snare. 
 
 Ah ! — fatal to me was that day, — 
 
 When the mountain pipe thrill'd thro' the air ; 
 The nymphs and the swains appeared gay, 
 
 To attend to the altar the fair ! — 
 
 The nuptial-peal wrung my sad soul, — 
 
 Then Philis had given her hand 
 (The sound of mirth told me the whole,) 
 
 To one who had flocks, herds, and land. 
 
 I must not arraign thy decree 
 
 O God ! though to me thou'st denied 
 
 This loved one ! — Thou knew'st I should be 
 Too happy were Philis my bride. 
 
 But memory can never forget 
 
 Those moments of bliss which are fled ; 
 Pll cherish them, till my sun's set, 
 
 Till my name is enrolled with the dead.
 
 e.mma's breathings of love. 15 
 
 EMMA'S BREATHINGS OF LOVE. 
 
 Sleep on, sleep on my Frederic dear, 
 Thy Emma guards — thou'rt safe — recline ! 
 
 E'er sleep as undisturbed by fear 
 
 As now, beneath this clustering vine. 
 
 Thou brilliant orb of Heavenly day, 
 O shine not thus upon his form ; 
 
 This foliage green shall veil thy ray, 
 These tendrils curled his brow adorn. 
 
 More soft ye birds, — your song may wake 
 This graceful sleeper ere tis time ; 
 
 My lyre I strike not for his sake, 
 Though he declares the tone divine ! 
 
 Thou busy insect hence, away,— 
 If sweet his lips, thou must not sip 
 
 Sweets, sweeter far than flowers in May, 
 Or honey stilled on Plato's lip ! 
 
 Play light ye zephyrs o'er his brow, 
 Glide gently by thou silver stream, 
 
 Lest ye disturb my Frederic now ; 
 He may of love, and Emma dream : 
 
 Dream on — pure vision — of thy fair, 
 May fancy's pencil-touch pourtray 
 
 Her charming, soothing every care, 
 To form thy life one blissful day !
 
 16 emma's breathings of love. 
 
 Aye, she would cheer, and sweetly tend, 
 Renounce the world for Frederic's sake ! 
 
 But O ye shades your covert lend ; 
 Now stirs my love, he will awake ! 
 
 This truth my lover ne'er shall know — 
 
 O'er my weak heart he hath such sway- 
 Till fate unite us ; never, no ! — 
 
 He wakes! — he wakes! — I must away. 
 
 /
 
 SONNET TO A ROBIN. 17 
 
 SONNET TO A ROBIN. 
 
 Now winter's ruthless blasts are o'er, 
 
 And green-robed spring resumes her smiles; 
 
 Ah ! Robin, thou hast shunned my door : 
 Thy melody no more beguiles. 
 
 'Gain to thy native haunts thou'rt fled, 
 To join thy fellows -midst the grove ; 
 
 There, thou'lt forget the hand that fed, 
 And warble forth thy notes of love. 
 
 Thou hadst no power to disobey, 
 Familiar bird, pure nature's call ! 
 
 But thou shalt have next winter's-day, 
 The crumbs strewed on my garden wall : 
 
 If snows descend, thy pittance scant ! 
 
 Return ! Sweet Robin shall not want. 
 
 c
 
 Hi SONNET TO SLEEP. 
 
 SONNET TO SLEEP. 
 
 Sleep ! thou restorer of the troubled breast, 
 The slave of Afric's burning coast in thee 
 
 A respite finds from galling chains ; — 'tis rest, 
 When folded to thy bosom dreams he's "free!" 
 
 The wretched felon in his dark lone cell, 
 By grim Despair accompanied each day ; 
 
 No human effort can his woes repel, 
 
 But Sleep, sweet soother ! chaseth all away. 
 
 Thou driest the orphan's tears ; the mourner's cry 
 Is hushed to peace, encircled by thy arms ; 
 
 The power is thine, to check the rising sigh, 
 To still the tumult e'en of war's alarms : 
 
 To all mankind, whate'er their sufferings be, 
 
 Thou yieldest rest ! — for all is peace with thee.
 
 SONNET TO A DEPARTED CHILD. 1.9 
 
 SONNET 
 
 TO A 
 
 LOVELY DEPARTED CHILD. 
 
 This lovely bud that bloomed so fair 
 Whilst resting on its parent flower, 
 
 Which was kind Heaven's peculiar care, 
 Seemed formed to deck an earthly bower ; 
 
 But cherubs from their blissful seat 
 Descend, commissioned from on high, 
 
 To pluck the graceful budding sweet, 
 For full expansion 'bove the sky : 
 
 There, were it viewed by mortal sight, 
 With heav'nly dew besprinkled o'er, 
 
 So great would be the heart's delight, 
 
 None, would this much-loved flower deplore ! 
 
 An odorous wreath in part it forms, 
 
 Which Christ our Saviour's brow adorns.
 
 *20 MARY, A BALLAD. 
 
 MARY, A BALLAD. 
 
 Ivy, woodbine, and wild brier 
 Entwine around yon mossy cell, 
 
 Where Mary and her aged Sire, 
 In calm repose and virtue dwell. 
 
 Sweet Mary now reflects the charms, 
 Her gentle Mother once possessed ; 
 
 Her Father's heart feels new alarms, 
 And fear lurks in his aged breast. 
 
 Soon soon alas ! Virando knows, 
 That wearied nature must dissolve ; 
 
 He soon must in the tomb repose, 
 To whom must Mary then devolve? 
 
 His child a stranger to the world, 
 May fall a wretched victim there, 
 
 To all the ills that are unfurled, 
 For she indeed is far too fair ! 
 
 "Forbid it Heaven,"' her Father cries, 
 "That Mary's steps should ever stray ; 
 
 "May He who is as good, as wise, 
 Protect her in her lonely way/' 
 
 Virando to his lovely child, 
 
 Doth all his valued powers impart ; 
 Such is sweet Mary in this wild, 
 
 Excelling in each pleasing art.
 
 MARY, A BALLAD. 21 
 
 To view the beauties of the scene, 
 The graceful Edwin hither strays ; 
 
 The cot tipt with a sunny gleam, 
 
 The thatched and lowly roof displays : 
 
 The wicket easily gives way, 
 
 And to the door young Edwin hies ; 
 
 The latch he lifts, when fair as May, 
 The lovely Mary meets his eyes : 
 
 He stands aghast, disturbed, confused, 
 "Forgiveness grant a stranger rude ; 
 
 "For common rules I have not used, 
 "But boldly here I thus intrude." 
 
 A heart that stranger was to guile, 
 Quickly determined what to say ; 
 
 "Be pleased to take a seat awhile, 
 
 "I fear that you have lost your way?" 
 
 Before the Stranger could reply, 
 The owner of the cottage came ; 
 
 But Mary caused the youth to sigh, 
 And kindled in his breast a flame. 
 
 "This bold intrusion sir fonrive!" 
 Virando knows his youthful guest ; 
 
 "And does my Henry's Edwin live?" 
 He clasps him fondly to his breast ! 
 
 "Thy father, Edwin, was my friend: 
 "A brother soldier too was he ; 
 
 "We did each joy and sorrow blend ; 
 "He dying left a charge to me :
 
 22 MARY, A BALLAD. 
 
 "He fell iii battle by my side, 
 
 "And whispered with a fault'ring tongue, 
 "Protect my son! then sighing, — died. — 
 
 "But adverse fate hath done me wrong 
 
 "An exile from my native land, 
 "I many tedious years have been, 
 
 "But now we're met come take my hand, 
 "And pleasure be our only theme." 
 
 "I offer here an honest heart, 
 
 "Fair lady, — may I hope to live? 
 
 "Can you dear sir, this gift impart, 
 "Can you this valued treasure give?" 
 
 "What says my Mary?" ask'd her sire; — 
 "Can she return young Edwin's love?" 
 
 She answers, "If 'tis — your — desire; 
 "My father must himself approve." 
 
 "Come Edwin take her from my arms, 
 "She's worthy of thy noble love ; 
 
 "She's rich indeed in mental charms,— 
 "O ! bless them all ye pow'rs above !" 
 
 Edwin salutes the blushing fair, 
 
 And takes her to his manly breast; 
 
 Sweet Mary finds protection there, 
 And with her Edwin she is blest.
 
 ADVICE TO BELINDA. 23 
 
 ADVICE TO BELINDA. 
 
 Like the bee, my dear Belinda, 
 For mellifluous sweets you roam ; 
 
 With that gay coquette, Dorinda, 
 Ever straying from your home. 
 
 From one scene of dissipation, 
 
 To another lofty dome, 
 All deceive the expectation ! 
 
 None prove like the sweets of home. 
 
 Parties oft are formed for pleasure, 
 Pleasure which you may bemoan ; — 
 
 How more wise it is to treasure 
 In the breast, — a love of home; 
 
 In the pure domestic meeting, 
 Ecstatic rapture dwells : a mome 
 
 Is he who's vainly seeking 
 Happiness apart from home. 
 
 In the bosom of each creature 
 That is human, seeds are sown, 
 
 Vegetate and grow, — 'tis nature ! — 
 And entwine us with our home. 
 
 They who travel e'er for pleasure, 
 
 Though they o'er the globe may roam, 
 
 Still their bosoms sweetly treasure 
 Bliss connected with their home.
 
 24 ADVICE TO BELINDA. 
 
 Stray you to display your beauty? 
 
 Know superior charms will bloom 
 Effulgent, in domestic duty, —   
 
 In the duties of your home. 
 
 In th' endearing ties of nature, 
 There is something which alone 
 
 Gives to life a pleasing feature, 
 Gives a double zest for home. 
 
 Is your view to win affection? 
 
 Expect it not: — men though they roam 
 Ne'er wish to form a life connexion 
 
 With one who's rarely seen at home. 
 
 The flower is sought which blooms retiring, 
 The scent exhaling where His grown ; — 
 
 The virtuous maid, the unaspiring, 
 Is sweetest far when found at home. 
 
 Cease Belinda, then to wander! 
 
 Cease from place to place to roam ; 
 All the joys you vainly seek for, — 
 
 More than all, are found at home.
 
 ADVICE TO THE FAIR. 25 
 
 ADVICE TO THE FAIR. 
 
 "Beauty when unadorned, — adorned the most," 
 
 Why then ye Fair allured by fashion's boast, 
 
 Adopt each change that fickle fancy sends, 
 
 When to distort the form it sometimes tends ? — 
 
 Why veil the native charms you may possess? 
 
 And why not use simplicity in dress? 
 
 The mind may be depicted by the garb; — 
 
 And nature be by costume strangely marred. 
 
 Attire with neatness in celestial blue, 
 
 Or pink, or lilac, of the faintest hue, 
 
 Or cautious mix them ; oft the choice betrays 
 
 A want of taste, and makes the vulgar gaze : 
 
 A modern dress I'd ever recommend, 
 
 But yet I must advise you as a friend, 
 
 In fashion never yield to the extreme ; —   
 
 And, "keep to neatness," is my constant theme. 
 
 Allow no artifice; it may disgust,— 
 
 'Tis never used, but by the weak, I trust. 
 
 Where sense pervades the lovely fair-one's mind, 
 
 She loathes deception, and will ever find 
 
 That nature's self, a pleasure can impart, 
 
 Far, far beyond the petty means of art ; 
 
 Be like the pearl,— seek not the eye to lure;— 
 
 Be like the pearl, — intrinsically pure.
 
 20 A DREAM. 
 
 A DREAM. 
 
 Quite oppress'd with the sultry gleams, 
 One noon as I strayed through the glade, 
 
 With such force Sol darted his beams, 
 I sought a retreat in the shade. 
 
 I saw there a path in the grove, 
 The woodlark was chanting his song, 
 
 I thought down the path I would rove, — 
 A streamlet ran smoothly along. 
 
 I looked for a place to recline, 
 Fatigued as I was by the heat ; 
 
 A grotto grown round with woodbine, 
 Freely offered a stranger a seat. 
 
 But I had not retired there long, 
 
 Ere Morpheus threw round me his cloak ; 
 
 I dreamed that a stream flowed along, 
 And on it a beautiful boat. 
 
 A figure in female attire, 
 
 Held out her white hand while she gazed ; 
 But how was my bosom on fire 
 
 When a veil the same moment she raised? 
 
 She said, — and the voice thrilled my ear, — 
 
 "My name it is Pleasure! I go 
 From Discretion, a mistress I fear; 
 
 Assist me sweet youth then to row. 11
 
 A DREAM. 27 
 
 My pity I could not express : — 
 
 "I vowed I would ever befriend 
 Such loveliness when in distress ; 
 
 Her steps I would ever attend!" 
 
 I vaulted then into the boat, 
 
 And siezing the oar from her hand, 
 
 Down the stream we began swift to float, 
 When a maid loudly hailed us from land : 
 
 And as she approached to the view, 
 I saw she was lovely and neat; — 
 
 Her garb was ceolian blue, — 
 Her aspect majestic and sweet : 
 
 "Stay stay ! gentle youth !" she exclaimed, 
 "My name is Discretion ! I hied, 
 
 "I saw you with Pleasure enslaved, 
 "And wished to be Fiona's guide : 
 
 "But if you're determined to sail 
 
 "With her whom you think is so fair, 
 
 "My counsel will little avail, 
 
 "In her port know destruction is there!" 
 
 To leave Pleasure, wholly I tried, — 
 
 Alas ! ev'ry effort was vain ; 
 The thought was too much, and I sighed, — 
 
 To lose her would give me deep pain. 
 
 My fondness Discretion espied ; — 
 
 She found that I loved the fair maid; 
 
 So begged that "she might be my guide, — 
 My freedom she would not invade."
 
 28 A DREAM. 
 
 Fair Pleasure appeared to be vexed ; 
 
 My senses I own were afloat; — 
 I confess that I felt much perplexed; — 
 
 Then Discretion stept into the boat. 
 
 What mortal more happy could be ! 
 
 I seemed with two angels to sail ; — 
 I wished not again to be free ; — 
 
 We sailed with a brisk blowing gale : 
 
 This seeming delight was soon o'er, 
 
 I awoke, — and behold 'twas a dream ! — 
 
 My mind was as never before ; — 
 Such loveliness never was seen. 
 
 I vowed, that henceforward, if e'er 
 
 Fair Pleasure should tempt me to stray, 
 
 Discretion should guide ! — for I ne'er 
 Can the precept forget of that day.
 
 THE SEPARATION. 29 
 
 THE SEPARATION. 
 
 And must I bid my dear Cordelia go, —   
 And leave me whelmed with sorrow and despair, 
 A prey to all the agony of woe ; 
 And all the anguish of privation bear? 
 
 My dearest friend ! — we will not bid farewell ! — 
 That lacerating word too keen would prove. — 
 Can language paint, — or I, Cordelia, tell, 
 How much she shares her faithful Ella's love? 
 
 How oft depicting fancy will pourtray 
 To Ella's pensive mind, thy absent form, 
 When thou art far — oh yes ! so far away ! — 
 When to another kingdom thou art borne. 
 
 '&' 
 
 Ye Gallic daughters, welcome with your smiles,- 
 And may propitious gales waft gently o'er, 
 One of the brightest gems of Britain's isles ! 
 O cheerly welcome ! — -when she treads your shore. 
 
 Ah ! this foreboding of my beating heart !— 
 This direful throbbing in my ruffled breast, — 
 Declares, that 'tis for ever that we part; — - 
 This hour bereaves thy Ella's soul of rest. 
 
 "My friend, — my Ella ! let your fears subside ;- 
 "Disperse the sad effusion in your eye : — 
 "Tho' fate and distance powerfully divide, 
 "We yet can love, — my Ella, why thus sigh?
 
 30 THE SEPARATION. 
 
 "Ah ! why so sadly thus depress your soul, 
 "Why act against your better judgment's sway ? 
 "Reason, usurp the empire of control, 
 "And chase my Ella's dismal fears away. 
 
 "Religion's duty we were early taught ; — 
 "Our mothers' best example, ours should prove :— 
 "Their pious lessons, Ella knows, were fraught 
 "With resignation to that pow'r above, 
 
 "Who ruleth all, — and wisely judges best ; 
 "And 'tis our portion, Ella, to be riv'n; — 
 "This moment puts us to the sacred test, — 
 "Are we submissive to the will of Heaven? 
 
 "Farewell my Ella!" — Cordelia, Love, farewell!— 
 Your reasoning has most justly calmed my woe. — 
 But oh ! this heart again begins to swell ! — 
 This starting tear,— but go ! Cordelia, — go ! —
 
 MAY- DAY. 31 
 
 MAY-DAY. 
 
 Nature gladdens and looks gay, 
 Welcomes in the charming May ; 
 Tints the cheek with roseate hue, — 
 Sparkles more the eye of blue; 
 Tinges deep the ruby lip, 
 Where the loves their nectar sip: 
 Come then smiles and aspects sweet, 
 Hie the Queen of May to greet. 
 The fleecy charge let shepherds deck: 
 Wreath with flow'rs the gentle neck; 
 And the sportive lambkins bring, 
 Living proofs of lovely spring : 
 Come and make the scene more gay ! 
 Chant a cheerful roundelay. 
 
 Rural maids, and swains too, bring 
 Verdant emblems of the spring ; 
 Deck a garland for May hours;— 
 Flora gives us lovely flow'rs — 
 Snow-drops pure of spotless wnite, 
 Crocuses of gold so bright ; 
 Violets from the sylvan shade ; 
 Cowslips from the open glade ;
 
 32 MAY-DAY. 
 
 Anemonies of richest hue; 
 And hyacinths of lovely blue ; — 
 Cull with care the choicest flow'rs, — 
 Consecrate them to May hours ! 
 Then select the ribbons gay, — 
 (Dress the garland of the day ;) 
 Let their varied hues when tied, 
 Emulate the rainbow's pride. 
 
 Soft descend ambrosial dew ! 
 Clothe the lawn with verdant hue ; 
 Nature's carpet softer make, 
 For the rural Monarch's sake; 
 Deck it o'er with florets meet, 
 Fully blow the hawthorn sweet ; 
 Spring around, — -sweet eglantine, 
 Scent the air, the power is thine; 
 Dulcet warblers of the grove, 
 Fill the air with strains of love ; 
 Hovering larks who soar so high, 
 Sing your matins in the sky. 
 Straining too its dulcet throat, 
 Hark ! how shrill the blackbird's note ! 
 Vocal notes the rocks resound, 
 Echoing sweet music round. 
 
 Now a nymph of graceful mien, 
 Suited for the vernal Queen,
 
 MAY-DAY. 33 
 
 Chosen from the rural tribe, — 
 
 Of the country round the pride, — 
 
 Behold her in her best array ; 
 
 Dressed to act the Queen of May. 
 
 With her comes the rural throng, 
 
 Smiling as they step along; 
 
 Music hails the festive line, 
 
 Hautboy, harp, and lute, combine 
 
 With "the trumpets martial sound." — 
 
 Hark ! — for echoes here abound ! 
 
 Fading in the sunny ray, 
 Mark the garland of the day, 
 Sweetly pleasing in effect ! — 
 Village taste the garland deck'd, 
 And in honour of the day 
 Named, "the garland of the May." 
 
 In superior taste is seen, 
 Nature's pride, the lovely Queen ! 
 Matchless charms to her belong ; 
 Gracefully she moves along 
 In a simple robe of white, 
 Pure as dazzling to the sight ; 
 And her fine-turn'd slender waist, 
 With an argent girdle graced ; 
 Whilst her lovely iv'ry neck 
 Pearls of purity bedeck ; 
 
 D
 
 34 MAY-DAY. 
 
 And the roses round her head, 
 Pluck'd from Flora's fav'rite bed, 
 Form a chaplet for her hair, 
 Show her polished forehead fair, 
 Whilst her health-tinged cheeks disclose 
 Cause for envy in the rose; 
 And her mildly-beaming eyes 
 Emulate etherial skies. 
 When she joins the rural dance, 
 Raptures ey'ry heart entrance ; — 
 Learned wights would raise the cry, 
 "Venus sure, hath left the sky!" 
 See spring's sovereign's flowing vest, 
 Borne by damsels gaily drest : 
 Shepherds, nymphs, and old and young 
 Join the happy rustic throng. 
 Hail ! all hail ! the jocund day ! 
 Gladly hail the first of May !
 
 REFORMATION. 35 
 
 REFORMATION. 
 
 Come dearest Delia, lets away! — 
 The evening is serenely gay, 
 
 All nature breathes delight; 
 The feathered choir in concert join, 
 The sylvan melodists combine 
 
 My Delia to invite. 
 
 The sun the west horizon gilds, 
 
 And streaks with glory e'en the fields; 
 
 Hills, vales, and meadows smile. 
 'Tis sweet t'inhale the ambient air, 
 It will refresh my Delia fair, 
 
 Come forth ! an hour beguile. 
 
 Say, whither shall our steps incline, — 
 My Delia's happy choice is mine? 
 
 Shall we explore the grove? 
 Or climb the mountains craggy height, 
 Where prospects sweet the eye invite? 
 
 Or through the valley rove? 
 
 Say, shall we Ceres' wealth survey? 
 The fields of golden grain look gay, 
 
 And Heaven's vast bounty show. 
 Thou lov'st to wander by the Dee, — 
 (All scenes can please alike with thee,) 
 
 Say, thither shall we go?
 
 36 REFORMATION. 
 
 Or would my Delia rather choose 
 
 To bend her course, where she can muse? 
 
 The church-yard path invites : 
 Amid the graves thou lov'st to roam, 
 There, moralize on ev'ry tomb ; — 
 
 This theme I know delights. 
 
 'Twas such an eve, methinks as this, — 
 O ! 'twas to me an eve of bliss ! — 
 
 When Delia sweetly said 
 Whilst seated 'neath the ancient yews, 
 "Lorenza ! dost thou ever muse, 
 
 "When treading midst the dead ? 
 
 "Each grave a lesson can impart : 
 "Come now, infix upon thy heart 
 "What's 'graved on every stone. 
 "These shew thee all is futile here; 
 "That friends must part! — however dear!— 
 'Are we exempt alone?" 
 
 << 
 
 I gazed till fancy in my breast 
 
 As real, had this thought impressed, 
 
 That Delia was transformed ; 
 An angel she, — and I forlorn ! 
 From vice that moment I was torn! — 
 
 And I was thence reformed.
 
 THE ORPHAN BOY. 37 
 
 THE ORPHAN BOY. 
 
 Friendless and forlorn and weary, 
 'Reft of parents, — doomed to roam, 
 
 See a suppliant entreating, — 
 
 Wrenched from all the joys of home. 
 
 From morn till dewy-eve I wander, 
 Oft unpitied, some deride ; — 
 
 To myself I strangely ponder 
 
 Why the boon implored's denied? 
 
 Spare, O spare ! — though but a morsel 
 Of the good which you enjoy : 
 
 Give an unprotected stranger, — 
 Give a wretched orphan boy. 
 
 Fortune once smiled most benignly 
 
 On my ever valued sire; — 
 But an adverse gale assailing 
 
 Brought his son to famine dire. 
 
 Ever gen'rous and warm-hearted, 
 Feeling in his bosom dwelt ; 
 
 Nor to the wretched breast imparted 
 Panes ! that I, his son, have felt. 
 
 •s> v 
 
 One cold eve I well remember, 
 
 At our hospitable door, 
 Hard beset with direful famine, 
 
 One who wretched was and poor :
 
 38 THE ORPHAN BOY. 
 
 Drenched with rain her tattered vestment, 
 Pale and shivering she implored 
 
 "A little boon," the right of sorrow : — 
 "Something from our plenteous board." 
 
 Pity in the gentle bosom 
 
 Of my mother ever dwelt ; 
 At an object of misfortune 
 
 All her tenderness would melt. 
 
 She said, and to this meagre outcast, 
 "Come sad suff'rer to the fire;" — 
 
 The ready luncheon and the garment 
 Were quickly brought by her desire : 
 
 Cold and hungry when she entered, 
 Tattered clothing then she wore; 
 
 Warm and clothed, and fed, departing 
 Happy from my parent's door. 
 
 Deign a look of sweet compassion ! 
 
 Listen to my plaintive cry ! — 
 As I stroll through town and city, 
 
 Succour me an orphan boy.
 
 THE ORPHAN GIRL. 39 
 
 THE ORPHAN GIRL. 
 
 Hark ! listen to those plaintive notes, 
 Ah ! — 'tis the orphan's voice we hear ; 
 
 How sweetly in the air it floats, 
 It draws the sympathetic tear : 
 
 How soft the tender dulcet tone, 
 
 How sweet she warbles "Home sweet Home !" 
 
 Yes "home is sweet! 5 ' but thou lost child, 
 Know'st but "tis sweet" from words alone; 
 
 What eye can view thine aspect mild 
 
 Whilst warbling "there's no place like home !" 
 
 Without the wish formed in the breast, 
 
 That thou could'st own a home of rest? 
 
 I feel an interest in thy fate, 
 
 Like thee when young, an orphan I ; 
 
 The hour that made me such, I date 
 The period I first learned to sigh ; 
 
 A father lost! I e'er must mourn, 
 
 But I had friends and "Home ! sweet Home ! 
 
 Poor orphan girl, could she whose breast 
 
 Thou rested on in happier days, 
 See thee but now, so meanly drest, 
 
 And hear thee sing such pensive lays ; 
 From anguish she would loudly moan, 
 And weep to know thou hadst no "Home!"
 
 40 THE ORPHAN GIRL. 
 
 Thine's a poor pittance, small thy gain 
 To brave the storm upon thine head ; 
 
 Cold apathy listens to thy strain, 
 
 And hears thy tongue implore for bread I 
 
 Yet can withold the boon to cheer, 
 
 Nor give the tribute of a tear. 
 
 Here take this trifle, His the meed 
 Poor melodist, for strains so sweet ; 
 
 O were a better state decreed 
 
 To thee, than warbling in the street ; 
 
 Methinks, thy vocal powers alone, 
 
 Should free from want, procure a "Home ! 
 
 yy 
 
 Fancy depicts thy form, (pale cheek,) 
 When weary, pillowed on thy bed, 
 
 At ease beneath the wing of sleep, 
 
 Thy state forgot ! nor aches thine head, 
 
 But p'rhaps thou wak'st at break of morn, 
 
 Alive to ills, and woe, forlorn. 
 
 Craving for bread, and meanly poor, 
 Infer not child 'neath fortune's ray, 
 
 Though such privation, want, endure, 
 They feel not keen life's bitter day; 
 
 Hear not in vain this orphan's tone, 
 
 O ye who have a "Home! sweet Home!"
 
 THE SOLDIER'S DAUGHTER. 41 
 
 THE SOLDIER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Old Darwin who owns the white cot in the valley, 
 Is endued with a heart that is tender and kind ; 
 
 Thrice happy is he, being blessed with his Sally, — 
 Pure love once cemented, time closer doth bind. 
 
 'Tis true, they are strangers to aught that is dainty, 
 But blest with sufficient, and something to spare; 
 
 Being grateful in heart, they imagine they've plenty, 
 O man, but think this, and thou'st luxuries rare ! 
 
 One night in the month of November so dreary, 
 A slight tap was heard at the cottager's door : 
 
 Whilst a voice faintly cried, "I am hungry and weary, 
 "In want of a lodging and wretchedly poor.'* 
 
 Enough to induce, and the taper was lighted, 
 Old Darwin most cheerfully sped in a trice 
 
 To let in a being so poor and benighted ; 
 
 On opening the door a sweet tremulous voice 
 
 Said "pity, oh ! pity, and grant a night's shelter; 
 
 Oh! shield me I pray from this merciless storm!' 
 In her was beheld, a once brave soldier's daughter 
 
 Whom misfortune had render'd completely forlorn. 
 
 "My father was slain in the field; 'twas call'd glory ! 
 
 "But ah ! how unlike it it seemed then to be ! 
 "My mother in agony heard the sad story, 
 
 "And she soon bade adieu to the world and to me."
 
 42 the soldier's daughter. 
 
 The stranger was lovely ; this interest engendered 
 In the bosom of Sally, and Darwin the good ; 
 
 Hospitality pure to poor Stella was rendered ; 
 And she finds a kind home in the cot in the wood. 
 
 Poor Stella's no longer depressed by fell sorrow ; 
 
 Now morning's bright dawn no anxiety brings ; 
 She feels not one care for the fare of the morrow : 
 
 With her wild dulcet note the sweet valley oft rings. 
 
 Contented and happy, each day smoothly gliding 
 Adds the pure placid smile to her countenance sweet; 
 
 Tranquillity thus, in her bosom presiding, 
 Gives the soft blush of health to her oncepalid cheek. 
 
 She cheerfully spins at her wheel by old Sally, 
 
 Or employed mid the woodlands the faggots to bind; 
 No cot is there now in the midst of the valley, 
 That owns such enjoyment, as Darwin's the kind.
 
 THE COTTAGER'S DAUGHTER. 43 
 
 THE COTTAGER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 "Though thatched is my humble-roofed cot, — 
 "Though fortune ne'er smiles at my door, — 
 
 "I still feel content with my lot, 
 
 "Though destined by fate to be poor. 
 
 "The rich and the great I can view, 
 "Yet envy ne'er enters my breast, 
 
 "For riches I never will sue: — 
 "They never can add to my rest. 
 
 "Though dressed in my bodice of green, 
 "My coats but of woollen are made; 
 
 "Can I not be blest as a Queen 
 "In gorgeous apparel arrayed?" 
 
 Thus sang lovely Jane in the wood, 
 Contentment I can but admire; — • 
 
 I viewed her fine form while she stood, 
 Her faggots to bind for the fire. 
 
 'Tis pity indeed ! I exclaimed, 
 
 Such loveliness e'er should be poor, 
 
 At the bar of misfortune arraigned, 
 Or poverty Jane should endure. 
 
 I would not pour this in thine ear, 
 For all that the Indies can boast; 
 
 Nor would I then make it appear, — 
 Thy charms are in solitude lost.
 
 44 the cottager's daughter. 
 
 Insensible thou of thy power, 
 To allure never enters thy breast ; 
 
 Ah ! luckless must be the sad hour, 
 Bereaving such virtue of rest. 
 
 Like a flower in this rural abode, 
 
 Dwell still in thine own native shade; 
 
 In the valley thou ever hast trode, 
 In security dwell gentle maid.
 
 THE RUSTIC MAID. 45 
 
 THE RUSTIC MAID. 
 
 Soon as the lark resumes her lay, 
 Or nature hails the welcome dawn ; 
 
 Or purpled east its charms display, 
 To lend a grace to dewy-morn ; 
 
 Is seen to pass through yonder glade, 
 
 A poor, but happy, rustic maid, 
 
 To milk her kine. She trips along, 
 
 In sweet simplicity of mind, 
 Warbling aloud a sylvan song ; 
 
 In this her guileless soul can find 
 Amusement, whilst beneath the shade. 
 O ! enviable rustic maid. 
 
 Thy wishes few, — they're all supplied ; 
 
 No artificial wants are thine ; 
 Thou art not tainted with false pride ; 
 
 Thy views are bounded by a line ; 
 Of poverty thou rt not afraid, 
 Though 'neath its blast, sweet rustic maid. 
 
 Few pleasures more than wake, or fair, 
 Hast thou thy gentle breast to cheer; 
 
 Thou meet'st with all thou wishest there, — 
 The swain who is to Phoebe dear ! 
 
 Then all the world is there displayed : 
 
 At least, so thinks this rustic maid.
 
 46 THE RUSTIC 1N1AXD. 
 
 The pastime o'er, it long affords 
 Sweet matter for her simple muse ; 
 
 Long in her heart's recess she hoards, 
 And oft, in pleasing fancy, views 
 
 Past pleasures which are so arrayed, 
 
 As to delight this rustic maid. 
 
 Deride her not ye fair, refined ! 
 
 Had she been cultured, p'rhaps like you 
 She had possessed a polished mind, 
 
 And with it striking beauty too. 
 Though far from fashion's gay parade, 
 She charms ! though but a rustic maid. 
 
 No affectation spoils her face, 
 
 Or studied attitude her form ; 
 In her mild peaceful aspect, trace — 
 
 What, lovely woman most adorn — 
 Graces which ne'er from time can fade : 
 Such graces has this rustic maid. 
 
 May she refinement never know, 
 Or life, — beyond her happy sphere ; 
 
 The breeze which taught her cheek to alow, 
 Vibrating, whispers, "peace is here. 
 
 May care-corroding ne'er invade 
 
 The bosom of this rustic maid. 

 
 THE GIPSY GIRL, 47 
 
 THE GIPSY GIRL. 
 
 An artful young gipsy one evening I met, 
 Who'd something genteel in her air; 
 
 Her aspect was pleasing, her eyes black as jet, 
 Like ebon, in shade was her hair. 
 
 She dropp'd me a curtsey, I thought with much grace, 
 A smile o'er her countenance played ; 
 
 Her expressive dark eyes were intent on my face, 
 And thus spoke the cunning brown maid : 
 
 "Allow me fair lady to look at your hand?" 
 
 I did not refuse her request; 
 "This line says you'll marry a lord of the land, 
 
 "And in sumptuous apparel be dressed. 
 
 "Besides you'll be happy, this curve doth declare; 
 
 "And happiness seldom is given 
 "With grandeur, and riches, and beauty so rare ; 
 
 "But you are the favorite of heaven." 
 
 "Thou'st told me sufficient !" I tartly exclaimed, 
 
 "Too much for me e'er to enjoy ; 
 "Thine end is accomplished ! a trifle obtained ;" 
 
 She smiling, then bade me "good bye." 
 
 How perverted is nature ! 'Tis pity this maid 
 Should be thus abandoned to gain 
 
 Precarious support by fraudulent trade, 
 Industry would better maintain.
 
 48 A SONG. 
 
 A SONG. 
 
 Fair as the lily that blooms in the valley, 
 And modest as daisies that dapple the plain, 
 
 Is the pride of the hamlet, the beauteous Sally ; 
 Nor is she like many affected and vain. 
 
 Behold the white cot which that swallow is quitting, 
 That's partially clad with the green ivy o'er; 
 
 At the door sits sweet Sally, industriously knitting, 
 To support her dear father who's aged and poor. 
 
 Contentment is sweetly expressed in each feature, 
 
 Her aspect is ever bedecked with a smile ; 
 E'en envy must own her indeed a fine creature, 
 * Not formed as in common, for hardship and toil. 
 
 Unlike the gay world, is sweet lovely young Sally ; 
 
 In the pure act of duty she's happy and gay ; 
 (The boast of the hamlet, the pride of the valley,) — 
 
 Though existence depends on the toils of the day.
 
 THE WINTER'S DAY. 4v0 
 
 THE WINTER'S DAY. 
 
 As strolling out one winter's day, 
 The crimping ice beneath the feet; 
 
 The robin perched upon the spray, 
 His song as cheering was as sweet. 
 
 The prospect was sublime to view, 
 
 Tho' verdure hid ; hills capp'd with snow ; 
 
 The concave sky etherial blue; 
 
 And frost forbade the rills to flow. 
 
 Translucent drops adorned each spray, 
 
 As if the work of fairy hand ; 
 The spiral icicles looked gay, 
 
 Pendant from the broken land. 
 
 The sun tho' oblique was his ray, 
 
 Made the wild landscape bright appear; 
 
 Made pleasant e'en a winter's day, 
 And ev'ry object seemed to cheer. 
 
 Short lived the moments are of joy, 
 An instant and misfortune's child 
 
 With trembling step and broken cry 
 
 Approached and gazed with aspect wild : 
 
 She on her head no cov'ring wore, 
 Her hair hung matted to her waist ; 
 
 The Idiot's feet were red with gore, 
 And tattered was her wretched vest. 
 
 E
 
 50 THE WINTER'S DAY. 
 
 Her state forlorn drew from mine eyes 
 Soul-formed the sympathetic tear; 
 
 My bosom heaving heart-drawn sighs, 
 I said, — to some one thou art dear. 
 
 Go home poor girl, — some friend will there 
 Chafe thy numb limbs and give thee food : 
 
 Alas ! she hath no home ! ah ! where 
 Can rest those feet with blood imbrued? 
 
 She's gone ! the poor (orlorn is gone ! 
 
 O ! God, protect her on her way ; 
 Thou art her friend ; save Thee she's none 
 
 To bear her through life's wintry day.
 
 MATILDA. 51 
 
 MATILDA. 
 
 Smiling as Hebe, pure as gentle gale, 
 
 The young Matilda blooms mid Shannon's vale, 
 
 Unknowing, and unknown ; an orphan child ; 
 
 Fair as the lilies in her native wild. 
 
 Her sire's instructions were with wisdom fraught ; 
 
 Her gentle mother softer science taught; 
 
 Thus formed, she grew accomplished as the throng 
 
 Hibernia's bards immortalize in song : 
 
 But Shannon's shades no longer can secrete 
 
 This native gem ; her nineteenth year complete, 
 
 The valiant Henry saw, admired, obtained 
 
 (For deeds of arms was noble Henry famed) — 
 
 Those precious gifts, Matilda's heart and hand ! — 
 
 Crowned with felicity, to this fair land 
 
 He bears his charge ! here, love and friendship smile 
 
 A sweet reception to the sister isle. 
 
 Behold her chastely 'domed in native grace — 
 (A heaven-approving conscience speaks her face 
 Transparent mirror of her lucid mind,) — 
 Adorn the ring of elegance refined ;
 
 '~>2 MATILDA. 
 
 Each virtuous pleasure charms her soul serene, 
 And life seems like a fancy-pleasing dream : 
 But ah ! — so calm is her too cloudless sky, 
 It well presages tempests drear are nigh ; 
 Britannia claims her son ! — he must away 
 (In glory's cause) her mandate to obey. 
 The smiling Anna on her bed asleep, 
 Receives unconscious, on her glowing cheek 
 The impress of a kiss, his seal of love ; 
 (What sweets unnumbered hath affection wove !) 
 Her mother's trembling hand he long retains ; 
 Long to his generous breast her form he strains ; 
 His tongue is mute, but language-speaking eyes 
 Turn with deep import to cerulean skies : 
 Matilda's soul responds his silent prayer, 
 "That heaven his life for her dear sake will spare !" 
 Scarce have three silvery moons adorned the sphere, 
 When mild Matilda mourns her Henry dear; 
 Wounded, — ere victory's sound could reach his ear; 
 Friends saw him breathless on the soldier's bier. 
 Weak is description ; thus the scene we veil 
 When sweet Matilda learns the truthful tale; 
 But happy she, O blest, supremely blest, 
 When grief subsiding, she her child caress'd; 
 Her soul's best energies that slept, awake, 
 Revive, react, for dearest Henry's sake :
 
 MATILDA. 53 
 
 His Anna, child of Reason, claims her care — 
 Meek resignation conquers fell despair — • 
 She notes with rapture intellect's bright dawn, 
 And hails with gratitude young life's fair morn ; 
 Reflection points to scenes where yet pure joys 
 May still exist — such joys she'd learnt to prize — 
 And to a mansion midst her native wild, 
 Retires Matilda with her Henry's child. 
 Here from gay scenes of life far far apart, 
 Instructs her Anna in each pleasing art; 
 The enchanting power of music wiles away 
 Some passing hour of each returning day, 
 Sacred, or gay, whate'er the happy choice, 
 'Tis oft accompanied by sweet Anna's voice. 
 Thus are a mother's cares divinely soothed — 
 Her mind's best efforts by her heart approved — 
 She views her pupil growing in each grace; 
 Her father lives in her expressive face; 
 Her cadence his, her genius his confessed : 
 A taste for poesy pervades her breast. 
 
 A tuneful linnet Anna long had kept 
 Which sickening, died ; she oft his loss hath wept. 
 Seated at even in her latticed bower, 
 Forming a wreath with many a fragrant flower, 
 Which when entwin'd she meant should graceful deck 
 A wanton fav'rite lambkin's silken neck,
 
 54 MATILDA. 
 
 She hails her muse ! — her theme, the bird she mourns, 
 And sweetly tender are the thoughts she owns. 
 
 "My graceful bird that decked my bower, 
 Companion of my leisure hour, 
 
 Thy form's for ever fled ; 
 I caged thee from thy downy nest, 
 Thy cry for food mine ear addressed, 
 
 Thy watchful parent dead : — 
 
 By wanton hands she breathless lay 
 On daisied bank ! — where I at play 
 
 Was plucking flowers so fair ; 
 'Twas then I heard thy plaintive cry, 
 I found thee, wept and heaved a sigh ; 
 
 Vowed with maternal care 
 
 I'd tend, and feed, pure water give, 
 
 Caress thee sweet, whilst thou should 'st live, 
 
 Feel grateful for thy strain ! — 
 But ah ! — thy notes are hushed in death ! — 
 I saw thee draw thy last sad breath, 
 
 And oh ! regrets are vain." 
 
 Completed, Anna to her mother brought 
 Her soul's pure breathings with much feeling fraught; 
 The tender parent smiles, approval gives, 
 "And may my Anna cherish while she lives 
 This heaven-born sympathy ! 'twill prove more sweet 
 Than all the joys her heart can ever greet."
 
 MATILDA. 55 
 
 Happy Matilda owning power to impart 
 Matter like this, to — nature's key — the heart : 
 Noting each subject, from it strives to find 
 Some philosophic lore for Anna's mind ! — 
 The elements, — the skies, — the flower and field, 
 Prove themes of pleasure and instruction yield. 
 
 Some circling years are past ; fresh, Anna's bloom, 
 Matilda's form is sinking to the tomb ! — 
 The moral precept given in early years, 
 Now life fast ebbs, her drooping spirit cheers ; 
 Her numerous virtues, and affections kind, 
 Are all reflected in her Anna's mind, 
 Who feels, acknowledges, "a moral part, 
 Is sweet to act, proves safety to the heart." 
 
 This truth Matilda's life exemplifies ! — 
 Now she is gone to realms beyond the skies ! 
 And in the valley washed by Shannon's tide, 
 The vale she valued, and in which she died, 
 Repose her ashes ! — To the sacred ground 
 Oft Anna bends her steps, her thoughts profound, 
 With one dear friend, to view the flowers (which bloom) 
 Her hand hath planted round her mother's tomb ! 
 A cypress marks the spot where she's enshrined ; 
 Inscription, breathes the lore of Anna's mind :
 
 56 MATILDA. 
 
 "Matilda's corse lies mouldering here., 
 A tender wife, — a parent kind ; — 
 
 Affection drops a sacred tear, 
 Recals the virtues of her mind : 
 
 Her form a beauteous casket pure, 
 Enriched within with many a gem !- 
 
 Such brilliants only can endure ! — 
 Such grace in heaven, a diadem."—
 
 A SKETCH. 57 
 
 A SKETCH. 
 
 Dreary the night, the rough sea beating high, 
 The waves 'gainst a vessel are dashing ; 
 
 No star shining forth to illumine the sky, 
 And the lightning is fearfully flashing. 
 
 The fierce winds and floods infuriate blend, 
 And o'er the toss'd Monarch are raging; 
 
 The high-jutting cliffs her broad gallant side rend 
 With crashes destruction presaging. 
 
 The thunder is mocking the guns of distress, 
 
 The rocks with deep echos rebounding ; 
 To the boats the wild crew indistinctively press, 
 The high-foaming billows surrounding. 
 
 The ship is gone down ! from each agonized breast 
 Prayer for mercy to heaven's ascending ; 
 
 The last shriek is heard ; they are gone to their rest ! 
 The merciless torrent o'erwhelming. 
 
 Soon nature is calm like the pitiless world, 
 Too reckless what bosoms are rending ; 
 
 Whose arrows of slander with vengeance are hurled 
 On the form fell misfortune is bending: 
 
 Aye waves smoothly glide as tho' nothing had been 
 To disturb the repose of the ocean ; 
 
 On the mirror of waters like magic are seen 
 The moon-beams in fanciful motion.
 
 58 THE SILENT TEAR. 
 
 THE SILENT TEAR. 
 
 Ah say, my gentle Anna, why 
 
 Thy spirit's thus depressed? 
 Why heaves that bosom with a sigh, 
 
 Where peace was wont to rest? 
 Why on thy lovely cheeks appear 
 The sign of grief, the silent tear? 
 
 Unbidden once thou would'st impart 
 
 The sorrows of thy breast : — 
 Lay open now thy inmost heart ! — 
 
 Say why art thou distressed ? 
 Reveal the source then Anna dear 
 Of that afflictive silent tear. 
 
 I would not Anna seem to chide, 
 
 Ah no, I love too well ! — 
 Yet friendship thinks thou should'st not hide 
 
 But confidently tell 
 Thy valued friend each hope, and fear, 
 Then say why drops that silent tear? 
 
 Unbend each agonizing thought, 
 
 Unbosom every care, 
 For friendship hath thy Julia taught 
 
 Her Anna's woe to share ; — 
 'Twould be pure bliss thy soul to cheer, 
 To chace away that silent tear.
 
 THE SILENT TEAR. $9 
 
 But if thy Julia sue in vain 
 
 Thy present grief to know, 
 There's one can mitigate thy pain, 
 
 Observant of thy woe : 
 It is a friend that's ever near, 
 Yes, He can stay that silent tear. 
 
 Where roses never cease to blow, 
 
 Where summer ever reigns, 
 To that fair clime shall Anna go ; — 
 
 When landed on its plains 
 Angels will whisper in her ear, 
 "No tears, but those of joy, spring here."
 
 60 A MORNING IN MAY. 
 
 A MORNING IN MAY. 
 
 How charming the morn is ; how brilliant the sun ; 
 
 Crude winter no more shall appear, 
 Till the lovelier seasons revolving have run 
 
 Their course to enliven the year. 
 
 How welcome to me is thy presence loved spring ! 
 
 Thou cheer'st like the face of a friend ! 
 How placid thine aspect ! Sweet airs thou dost bring ! 
 
 They await thee where'er thy steps tend. 
 
 Now Vertumnus presides, see the meadows look gay ; 
 
 The breeze blows propitious around ; 
 Full many a sweet flow'r, the offspring of May, 
 
 Bursts its cell, to enamel the ground ; 
 
 Emulative appearing, to rapture the eye, 
 Whilst sweet odour delight doth impart ; 
 
 The tints softly blending of nature's pure dye, 
 Far excelling the pencil of art. 
 
 Mine ear greets with pleasure the cuckoo's short note, 
 Spring's return is conveyed in the sound ; 
 
 All nature gives promise, the bosom breathes hope 
 That plenty ere long will abound. 
 
 Ye tenants of every sweet valley, and grove ; 
 
 Attune your soft notes, — all combine 
 To welcome this season ! — the season of love ! — 
 
 And echo, soft echo shall join.
 
 LINES WRITTEN FOR A LADY. 61 
 
 LINES WRITTEN FOR A LADY 
 
 TO PRESENT WITH A DRAWING OF A GROUP OF 
 
 FLOWERS. 
 
 See nature on this sheet doth live, 
 
 Some lovely flow'rs are here pourtrayed ; 
 
 The lapse of time may dimness give, 
 Tis that can make them wither, fade. 
 
 Transmitted from fair Flora's bow'r, 
 The gay parterre was culled for you; 
 
 Each effort in the artist's pow'r, 
 Was used to keep to nature true. 
 
 The gay originals are dead ! — 
 Beauty is transient as the flow'r ; 
 
 And oh ! ye fair, when that is fled — 
 And it is fleeting as the hour — 
 
 What then can charm, what give delight? 
 
 Good sense and virtue both can charm ; 
 They both are stars of lustre bright : — 
 
 Beauties that time can never harm.
 
 62 
 
 A FABLE. 
 
 A FABLE. 
 
 A tulip richly gaudy dress'd, 
 
 Elated much with pride, 
 A daisy haughtily address'd, 
 
 Meek, blooming at its side. 
 
 "How insignificant thy mien ! 
 
 "How paltry thy attire! 
 "In dignity, I'm like a queen! 
 
 "My presence all admire. 
 
 "I wonder such a groveling thing 
 "Dare near me thus presume; 
 
 "Thou would'st pollute, or I would fling 
 "Thee, where thou ought'st to bloom. 
 
 "A dunghill would befit thee best, — 
 "Twould with thy birth agree; 
 
 "Think'st thou, that I, so self impress'd, 
 "Will deign to notice thee?" 
 
 "Check gaudy flower, thy pride intense!" 
 
 The modest flow'r replied, 
 "To grandeur I make no pretence, — 
 
 "But why should'st thou deride? 
 
 "Know scorner though I humble be, 
 
 "I act the part assigned ; 
 "The hand that formed thee formed me, 
 
 "And perfect in my kind."
 
 A FABLE. 63 
 
 From this a moral may be drawn, 
 
 Which oft may be applied : 
 The truly great, — though nobly born, 
 
 The humble ne'er deride.
 
 64 the poet's ramble. 
 
 THE POET'S RAMBLE. 
 
 With smiling aspect breaks th' autumnal morn, 
 The spangling dew-drops waving sprays adorn, 
 In hues diversified are clothed the trees — . 
 Their dress as fanciful, as formed to please — 
 The ambient air breathes sweetness, every grove 
 Attunes the soul to harmony and love : 
 Villiers enraptured with his heart-formed plan, 
 On this sweet morn his little tour began. 
 Villiers with elegance of mind adorned, 
 Was for the social scheme supremely formed ; 
 But nature wooed him to her shades, alone 
 To admire, to meditate by all unknown ! — 
 The hinds they greet him as they hie to toil, 
 Their cheerful aspect, and gay song, beguile 
 His fancy, whilst he musing, dwells 
 On man, who thus, fatigue, and care repels. 
 What pure enjoyment, sons of sloth forego ! 
 E'en peasants taste a bliss they seldom know ; 
 Morning for their delight, oft dawns in vain : 
 Their pillow's pressed, yet. dire remorse, and pain,
 
 the poet's ramble. 65 
 
 Result of dissipation ! rack their head, 
 Cheating the purpose of a downy bed. — 
 
 Speak ye licentious ! do your pleasures give 
 One peaceful hour, or say, for what ye live? 
 They're all illusion, grasp them as ye may, 
 Fleeting as time, the phantoms of a day. 
 
 Yon laughing train of rustics will ere long 
 Enjoy the harvest-home, and rural song. 
 Observe that happy-looking reaper swain, 
 Viewing aslant the modest sidelong train 
 Of village maids ; — perhaps he one may see 
 With lovely face, and form all symmetry, 
 Who in the rustic's eye, at least, is seen, 
 As fair and graceful as the noblest queen. 
 Yet hath the mind such influence o'er the face, 
 That 'tis methinks a rarity to trace 
 Heart-searching, soul-formed features in a cot; — 
 They're seldom viewed in any humble lot; 
 'Tis cultivation only that can give 
 The magic touch which makes the beauty live: 
 E'en as the gem till art its lustre raise, 
 Not half its beauty, half its worth displays. 
 
 Villiers attracted by a charming maid, 
 In costume neat, her nut-brown hair in braid, 
 On a green bank reclines, beneath a tree, 
 To breathe a prayer, sweet peasant girl, for thee ;
 
 ©8 THE POET'S RAMBLE. 
 
 Whilst thou most gracefully, unconscious, weaves 
 The bands to bind the mellow-tinted sheaves. 
 
 Sonnet to the Peasant Girl. 
 
 "O happy peasant girl Pd weave 
 A chaplet fair, did fate allow — 
 
 May care for thee ne'er twine a wreath — 
 To decorate thy placid brow. 
 
 Yes, sylvan beauty, such a gem, 
 If polished by refinement's aid, 
 
 Would richly grace a diadem 
 However splendidly arrayed : 
 
 But still I would, thou ever bloom 
 Sweet floret, on thy native sod ; 
 
 O may it prove thy grassy tomb, 
 From thy loved valley soar to God ! 
 
 Chaste, cheerful peasant girl, so fair, 
 
 There safely breathe thy native air." 
 
 From the meridian sun to seek a shade, 
 Villiers now saunters 'neath a colonnade 
 Of ancient elms, whose twining branches wave 
 O'er a pure stream in which the cattle lave; 
 Here, soothed, he lingers; gentle zephyrs play 
 Fantastic o'er his brow; he wiles away 
 The sultry hours, alternately to pore 
 OVr Thomson, book of nature ! Cowper's lore ;
 
 the poet's ramble. 67 
 
 At length aroused from this, his darling theme, 
 By happy voices on the village green, 
 Arising from his couch, a violet bed, 
 Is to the busy throng instinctive led. 
 The village school broke up, the agile fry 
 In groups assemble with their favorite toy; 
 Some wade the brook, to them a pleasing treat, 
 The silver current rippling through their feet; 
 The sportive kid ne'er frolicks with more glee; 
 In freedom's land they breathe, — themselves as free. 
 Hail, Britain hail ! thou lovely spot of earth ! 
 Dear land of liberty, which gave them birth ! 
 May every art and every science smile 
 On thee, dear, happy, pleasant, fruitful Isle ! 
 Gardens and groves illumed on gala nights, 
 With party-coloured lamps, and brilliant lights, 
 Devised in fancied forms to lure the eye, 
 Display not beauty like the starry sky : 
 This truth acknowledged, Villiers hails the night — 
 (The air breathes softness, nature gives delight,) 
 Feels 'tis the hour for meditation meet, 
 And on a mountain seeks a rocky seat. 
 Hushed is the clamour of the rural throng, 
 And simple stanza of the rustic's song. 
 In regal grandeur bursts upon his sight 
 The moon's aerial car ; she, Queen of night,
 
 68 the poet's ramble. 
 
 Rides with a train, that sparkling in the sky, 
 Golconda's purest diamonds far outvie ! 
 He gazed till drowsiness his eyes half close, 
 When Villiers seeks a refuge for repose. 
 
 Incompetent is art to e'er pourtray 
 A landscape as beheld at break of day, 
 When nature's gilded with the rising sun —   
 The woodland choir their festive rights begun — 
 When the autumnal mist dissolves in air, 
 And washed with pearly dew's the floret fair: 
 Grateful to Villiers doth the scene appear; 
 But hark ! sweet notes steal gently to his ear, 
 It is the milkmaid chanting forth her strain; 
 Pure love hath taught, 'tis seldom raised in vain. 
 
 The Milkmaid's Song. 
 
 Though early I rise be the morn fair or rainy, 
 Yet fate hath decreed it, and humbly I bow ; 
 
 I will not repine, though with dew I'm wet daily 
 Whilst sitting beneath thee, my favorite cow. 
 
 The world, I am told, is beset with much danger, 
 In these wilds I've been known from an infant till now; 
 To their joys and dear home I will ne'er be a stranger, 
 Or to thee my poor Cowslip, my favorite cow. 
 
 I might be 'tis true decked with jewels the rarest, 
 But could these give happiness ? no ! then I vow 
 
 I'll quit not this mountain whose scenes are the fairest 
 I've known! still will I milk thee my favorite cow.
 
 the poet's ramble, 69 
 
 Nature's a work that ever charms anew; 
 Villiers delighted with the song, soft view 
 Of hills with flocks bedecked, a smiling vale 
 Dotted with cots, and breath of morn t'inhale, 
 Moves slowly on : wherever he may rove, 
 Fields breathe delight, music's in every grove. 
 
 In yon thatched cot in this sweet solitude, 
 Where seldom doth a stranger's foot intrude, 
 The lovely Rosa and old Dinah dwell — - 
 (Rosa the gay, the once attractive belle!) — 
 A safe, but solitary, still retreat, 
 Save when enlivened by the wild notes sweet 
 Of nature's choristers that flit along, 
 Or shepherd's pipe, or happy woodman's song. 
 Oft Dinah weeps for Rosa's piteous fate, 
 Her loss of reason and her wretched state. 
 To one sweet verdant bank, at close of day 
 Sweet gentle Rosa dearly loves to stray; 
 And on the mossy couch she oft reclines, 
 And sings from wretchedness, — sometimes she joins 
 With words, her soft guitar; to the sad theme 
 The Dryads listening, echo Hubert's name. 
 
 Song. 
 
 < 'Come lost peace, here take thy rest, 
 In poor Rosa's troubled breast; 
 Hither come with mangled wing! 
 I, of Hubert slain, will sing.
 
 70 THE POET'S RAMBLE. 
 
 Wild, I strike thy wires, guitar ! 
 Wild, I sing of cruel war ! 
 Wild, I tell that Hubert bled !— 
 Be his grave, poor Rosa's bed." 
 
 See yonder ivied edifice in sight 
 
 Raised to our God ! and spreading round his light ; 
 
 Villiers proceeds to scan the still retreat, 
 
 Where once-loved beings of the hamlet sleep, 
 
 To mark their graves with faded flowers strewn o'er, 
 
 Emblems of beauty that is now no more. 
 
 This turf sweet babe that circles o'er thy breast, 
 
 And rude engraven stone, both speak thy rest ! 
 
 An aged hermit from yon woody dell, 
 
 Reposes here within his narrow cell ; 
 
 Disgusted with the world, he made a vow — 
 
 And resignation sat upon his brow — 
 
 "To quit the scene of folly's giddy throng, 
 
 In yonder woods and wilds to dwell among; 
 
 Peaceful to live until the will of heaven 
 
 Bade life's free current cease; the signal given, 
 
 Humbly surrender, meekly yield his breath, 
 
 And sink unnoticed to the cave of death." 
 
 This tomb enshrines two faithful friends once dear, 
 Sweet Julia and her Anna moulder here; 
 Warmly attached were they, in early years, — 
 They blended all their little hopes and fears ; —
 
 THE POET'S RAMBLE. 71 
 
 Their morn of life, their infant sports beguiled, 
 
 They wept together, or together smiled ; 
 
 The direful time arrived when they must part, — 
 
 The tender bosom felt the cruel smart, 
 
 The word, "farewell," was grating to the ear, 
 
 Each little sufferer dropped a silent tear; 
 
 Absence, or time, can never change the heart; — 
 
 They felt affection, though decreed to part. 
 
 Year after year revolved ; — I still retrace 
 
 The sweets of meeting, and their warm embrace ! — 
 
 Transient as are the lilies of the vale, 
 
 Which give their sweetness to the gentle gale, 
 
 Was the existence of the mortal bloom 
 
 Of these fair flowers now mouldering in the tomb. 
 
 The sun was sinking to his western bed, 
 Ere Villiers left the mansions of the dead ; 
 But roused from musing by his parting ray, 
 And Philomela's sweetly plaintive lay, 
 Seeks her loved haunts, the deep sequestered vale — 
 Where maids oft tell their love-neglected tale — 
 Soothed by her strains, the rapture of his breast 
 In pencilled lines, is ardently expressed. 
 
 Sonnet to the Nightingale. 
 
 "Sweet bird of night, to woo thy shade 
 The thicket drear or thorny brake, 
 
 I'd quit the city's gay parade, 
 Its every tinsel joy forsake.
 
 72 the poet's ramble. 
 
 Chaste songstress, — elegant as sweet, 
 Thy music wakes within my breast 
 
 Ideas that are wont to sleep, 
 
 In all their magic colours dressed : 
 
 Tis but in solitude — like thee — 
 
 The poet freely breathes his lay ; 
 Were he to choose his state, now free, 
 With love near thee he'd pass life's day : 
 Thy song, these wilds would sooth my Eda's breast, 
 Lull our twin souls to all, save heavenly — rest/' 
 
 Can aught to an enthusiastic mind, 
 Be more congenial than the joys combined 
 Of mutual love, amid pure nature's scenes ? 
 Youth is the season for these waking dreams. 
 Wrought by th' enchantress of the night and grove, 
 To more than mortal bliss, to peace, and love, 
 Villiers 'neath sweet affection's soft control, 
 In gentle accent, breathes his inmost soul, 
 
 Soliloquy. 
 
 "O my loved Eda, thou for whom I breathe, 
 Purest of gems adorning fashion's ring, 
 Would'st thou wert here, to list to harmony 
 More sweet than ever yet hath charmed thine ear, 
 Thine harp attuned, to join the silver strain ! 
 Say, lovely Eda, were thy lover doomed 
 To pass life's day in the sequestered cot,
 
 the poet's ramble. 73 
 
 In wilds like these, O would'st thou share his fate ? 
 O yes, thou would'st ! thy soul is far too pure 
 For fell ambition to usurp his power. 
 Said I the "cot" my Eda sweet, would share? 
 She'd smile contentment in the dungeon's gloom 
 Were Villiers the poor captive there enchained : 
 But ah ! a fairer, brighter prospect dawns, 
 Kind heaven assenting, we our fates entwine. 
 And should that heaven permit — my valued fair — 
 The choice be ours, to dwell mid nature's scenes, 
 T' inhale such sweets as she alone can yield, 
 No sorrow should be thine, no cares oppress, 
 No sigh of anguish, or of sad regret 
 Swell the pure tenant of thy generous breast, 
 Villiers would check them, did he own the power. 
 But wheresoe'r she breathes, midst city scenes, 
 Or sylvan ; in stately mansion, or the 
 Lowly cot ; take charge of gentle Eda 
 O ye spirits pure, ye guardian angels ! — • 
 Strew flowers to cheer her in the path of life ; 
 Spread on her bed of death your downy wings, 
 To form a pillow for her last repose : 
 Then bear her hence, encircled by your arms, 
 "To scenes where love and bliss immortal reign."* 
 
 * Thomson's Spring.
 
 74 the poet's ramble. 
 
 The shepherd's call to fold his scattered flock, 
 The tinkling bell, and sound of village clock, 
 Arouse the lover. Nature points to rest ! 
 Few wish to combat with her mild behest, 
 Much less our traveller : in Morpheus' arms 
 He soon reclines, to dream of Eda's charms. 
 
 Set free thy votary, God of gentle sleep ! 
 Salubrious ether, and a morn most sweet, 
 Bid him come forth, — pursue his destined way, 
 His "Ramble" ending, with the close of day. 
 He hails the morn ! The merry, merry sound 
 Of village bells hath broke his rest profound ; 
 To celebrate in rustic pomp, is seen 
 A wedding party on the village green ; 
 Maidens and youths assembled, cheerly share 
 The jocund pastime of the happy pair. 
 The scene, the mirth, the music, all conspire 
 To gladden Villiers, and create desire 
 To join the group ! but no, 'twould give him pain, 
 Did he their mirth and simple song restrain ; 
 Drawing apart, in cheerful mood, he woos — 
 T'express his heart-felt hopes — his darling muse. 
 
 Song to the Bridal Pair. 
 
 "May their life prove serene, as the sky o'er yon 
 
 mountain 
 Bestudded with herds, where the flocks wanton o'er;
 
 the poet's ramble. 75 
 
 Their happiness pure, as the spray from yon fountain ; 
 Nor may penury bleak ever visit their door. 
 
 'Tis their cot where the woodbine with i vy 's entwining, 
 The jessamine sweet pending over the door ; 
 
 To enjoy the soft eve, there's a seat for reclining, 
 Placed 'neath the old oak ; a stream ripples before. 
 
 Their stock is not great, or they so discontented, 
 As to crave what they want not; this feeling alone 
 
 Assails the ambitious : such wishes invented, 
 
 Oft darken the view of what might be bright home. 
 
 Then may William possessing enough, with his Susan 
 E'er be happy as now ! tho' their hearts be less gay, 
 
 Their bliss must convince, that parade and confusion, 
 Can give not such joys as are witnessed to-day." 
 
 Villiers arousing from his musing dream, 
 Now views with rapture the surrounding scene; 
 Hills, valleys, groves, gothic church with spire, 
 And in the curling silvery clouds expire 
 The height of distant mountains ; there the stream 
 Of princely Thames, contracted, winds serene ; 
 Its limpid waves reflecting heav'nly day, 
 On which ride little barks with pennons gay. 
 No wonder thus employed, he wiles away 
 The mid -day hours, nor makes the least essay 
 To ramble onward ; here, his cultured mind, 
 Meets all it seeks for, — ecstacv refined.
 
 76 the poet's ramble. 
 
 But ah ! he tries some notes distinct to hear, 
 Borne on the wing of zephyr to his ear ; 
 Th' aerial messenger remands the strain, 
 Bears it to echo to restore again : 
 Listening, he music hears more soft, more sweet ; 
 O'er hill, through vale, now like the courser fleet 
 He bounds to Thames' sweet bank ; hid 'neath a shade, 
 Lists to the harp, and song from some fair maid. 
 
 Song to the Harp. 
 
 "Whene'er are touched thy magic strings, 
 
 Though e'en by sorrow pressed, 
 Borne on pure resignation's wings, 
 
 Peace soon becomes my guest. 
 
 One noble youth hath oft averred 
 
 "His soul owns music's power," 
 When he my dulcet harp hath heard 
 
 At even's soothing hour. 
 
 But O 'twas not my harp alone, 
 That charmed his generous breast ! 
 
 No, — 'twas the voice that joined its tone, 
 That lulled his soul to rest." 
 
 "The voice, the harp is Eda's !" quick exclaims 
 Th' enraptured Villiers, nor his warmth restrains 
 As, when approaching the pellucid stream, 
 In health, and loveliness his Eda's seen!
 
 the poet's ramble. 77 
 
 The graceful yacht that bears her form away, 
 
 Contains a party elegant, and gay, 
 
 Formed of the dear associates of his heart ; 
 
 Ah ! lovely Eda is observed to start ! 
 
 Her bosom heaves an unexpected sigh, 
 
 The tear of pleasure sparkles in her eye, 
 
 Her cheek is tinged with rapture's roseate hue ; 
 
 The hidden cause explained : Villiers in view ! — 
 
 Each voice on board is sudden heard to cry 
 
 "Villiers is here !" all, all is ecstacy ! — - 
 
 The beauteous vessel turned receives a form 
 
 Whom nature doth with magic grace adorn. 
 
 The friends rush forth, bid welcome as they meet, 
 
 Kind words are his, each valued friend to greet : 
 
 Eda approaches, her fair hand is pressed ! — 
 
 Words had not utterance, no, their eyes expressed, 
 
 More eloquent ! pure feelings of their breast,
 
 78 THE SNOWDROP. 
 
 THE SNOWDROP. 
 
 Springing from its lowly bed 
 With caution and with timid mien ; 
 
 The snowdrop rears its little head, 
 So spotless, white ; so lovely, green : 
 
 Why, meek flower, so jealous eye 
 The gay parterre ? no hand 'tis sure 
 
 Would hurt thy form. — No danger's nigh !- 
 Emblem of innocence so pure. 
 
 Be ye cautious, too, ye fair ! 
 
 Life's a dangerous stage to tread ; 
 Pleasure's maze conceals a snare : — 
 
 Many a wily net is spread. 
 
 Mere misfortunes, do not fear ! — 
 Like the snowdrop meet them all ; 
 
 Virtue's course, ye fair ones steer ! — 
 Listen to Minerva's call. 
 
 If misfortune then should come, 
 He that guides the snowdrop's way 
 
 Points the path to one bright home, 
 Brilliant with eternal day.
 
 ON THE LILY OF THE VALLEY. 7U 
 
 ON THE LILY OF THE VALLEY. 
 
 That lovely flower, emblem of innocence ! 
 Lies sheltered from the view beneath the shade ; 
 Its modest garb and scent delight the sense, 
 Its graceful form in elegance arrayed. 
 
 Like some fair virgin formed in beauty's mould, 
 Lovely as angels, with a mind as pure, 
 In humble station, who will not unfold 
 Her charms to view, and aims not to allure : 
 
 Such is the lily of the vale retired, 
 Whick shuns the eye, and often blooms unseen ; 
 Unlike the gaudy flowers, it ne'er aspired 
 To more than purest white, and lovely green. 
 
 Keep ever to thy lowly bed sweet flower, 
 The mind of sense and taste will seek to view 
 Thy native charms ; thou'rt formed so wondrous fair ! 
 Then make thine exit in the vale thou grew.
 
 ttO THE SMILES. 
 
 THE SMILES. 
 
 O there are smiles, sweet magic smiles! 
 
 And smiles deceptive, like the song 
 Of wily serpent that beguiles 
 
 Th' enchanted warbling feathered throng : 
 Smiles are as varied as the dyes 
 
 Whose beauties blend in heavens fair bow. 
 Smiles have their fountain in the skies, 
 
 Pure, till on earth alloyed they grow. 
 
 O there are smiles that touch the heart, 
 
 The smiles of infancy, which bright 
 With innocence so sweet, impart 
 
 More beauty than the waking light : 
 These artless witchings ever prove 
 
 Delightful to a mother's breast, 
 When bending o'er her child of love, 
 
 To clasp it from its bed of rest. 
 
 And like the gentle summer showers, 
 
 Descending on th' enamelled plain, 
 Sipped by the fragrant honied flowers, 
 
 There is a smile ne'er beams in vain 
 To one assailed by winds and storms 
 
 Of adverse fate ! this smile can chase 
 Away griefs tears, and mildly dawns 
 
 On friendship's sacred, soothing face.
 
 THE SMILES. 81 
 
 If ardent bosoms beat with love, 
 
 As native heaven, their passion pure, 
 Whose vows are sanctioned, sealed above, 
 
 To love so long as life endure ! 
 There is a spell whene'er they meet, 
 
 A smile which more than volumes speaks, 
 And kindling to bright glow the cheek, 
 
 Their mutual rapture mute repeats. 
 
 More lovely than the sun's soft ray 
 
 Benignly smiling in the west, 
 At close of sweet autumnal day, 
 
 To one with taste and feeling blest, 
 Is smile of charity ! to view 
 
 Such tenderness when mis'ry's form 
 Is claiming what from pity's due, 
 
 Must heart of feeling ever warm. 
 
 The veteran warrior long witheld 
 
 From his dear happy native land, 
 Feels time and absence have not quelled 
 
 The force of friendly smiles so bland ; 
 These meet him in each aged face! 
 
 He flings the rolling drops away 
 Which down his deep-lined features chase, 
 
 And then recals the youthful day. 
 
 The duteous wife in humble lot, 
 
 The smile that lights her brow must cheer, 
 When looking from her ivied cot, 
 
 She has a glimpse of one most dear, 
 That being whose approving smile 
 
 On coming home at close of eve, 
 More than rewards her daily toil, 
 
 And gives more bliss than gold can give. 
 
 G
 
 82 THE SMILES. 
 
 If while gathering flowers at play, 
 
 The lively child mishap should meet, 
 When soothed, her tears soon pass away, 
 
 She smiles, and O that smile is sweet! 
 Shine now her eyes like brilliant sun 
 
 Through gem-like drops, fast falling showers ; 
 And o'er the turf she's seen to run, 
 
 To quick regain her scattered flowers. 
 
 Yes, all these smiles are truly sweet, 
 
 But far far sweeter far than they, 
 Affection's smile ! O 'tis most meet, 
 
 To cheer an aged parent's day ! 
 If sorrow gloom life's closing vale, 
 
 The smile of duteous love can cheer, 
 Till heaven the sinking spirit hail, 
 
 And the bright morning star appear.
 
 THE DROOPING FLOWER. 83 
 
 THE DROOPING FLOWER. 
 
 What in nature half so pleasing, 
 As the fancy painted flower? 
 
 Yet can aught be more deceiving 
 Than its transitory power? 
 
 Pleased we view the bud unfolding ; 
 
 Pleased we see the flower full blown ; 
 Rapture seizes in beholding 
 
 Charms unique that are its own. 
 
 Scarce His seen to bloom and flourish, 
 Ere it sickens, fades and dies ! — 
 
 Its departure must admonish, 
 While the flower neglected lies. 
 
 Cannot man receive a warning 
 When he views the drooping flower? 
 
 He may flourish in the morning, 
 Blooming and replete with power. 
 
 Ere the evening hour o'ertake him, 
 Snapt may be the vital spring; 
 
 Ev'ry hour may prove uncertain, 
 Death is ever on the wing. 
 
 Let the lovely flower retiring 
 
 Loudly say "thou'rt frail as 1." — 
 
 But unlike the flower expiring 
 Man may bloom and never die.
 
 H4 THE DEW-DROP. 
 
 THE DEW-DROP. 
 
 Frances one beautiful morning in June 
 
 Plucked a rose from the bush where it grew ; 
 
 The flower was as yet not fully in bloom, 
 It was only half burst to the view. 
 
 The petals surcharged with a crystaline drop, 
 
 A drop of pure heavenly dew ; 
 Some time hath elapsed since, — but I've not forgot 
 
 A remark, my dear Frances, by you ; 
 
 "Here Mama ! — see this fragrant rose I have got, 
 I beheld on its sweet blushing cheek 
 
 A tear, as she tenderly styled the pure drop, 
 And it seemed to my fancy to weep. 
 
 I gazed on its elegant form for awhile, 
 Then determined the beauty to tend ; 
 
 And exclaimed, in my window sweet flower thou shalt 
 And there prove in thy Frances a friend ! — [smile 
 
 For this weeping foreboded I feared a sad doom, — 
 From the hand of some rude passer-by : —   
 
 In thine own native grace, in my chamber then bloom; 
 Till thy beauty shall wither, — and die/' 
 
 Even then, my dear Frances shall plainly descry 
 That in death, — it has power to allure ; 
 
 In its exit, — it ceases to pleasure the eye, 
 But its virtues, — they long will endure.
 
 THE DEW-DROP. 85 
 
 Like the rose then each talent contained in thy breast, 
 
 Is unfolding itself to the view ; 
 Be each as it spreads, — in simplicity dressed, 
 
 And be sprinkled with heavenly dew. 
 
 Then as thou hast befriended this delicate rose, — 
 
 Should affliction bedew with a tear 
 My Frances's cheek, — or disturb her repose, 
 
 She shall meet with a friend as sincere ; 
 
 And when like the rose she shall wither, — and die, 
 
 When death ev'ry tie shall divide, — 
 In the hour that my Frances is torn from the eye ! 
 
 Shall her virtues in heaven abide.
 
 86 Belinda's address to a robin. 
 
 BELINDA'S ADDRESS TO A ROBIN. 
 
 Unconscious of care, ever happy appearing, 
 In an evening thou carol'st, and early at morn ; 
 
 To me is thy melody welcome, and cheering ; — 
 Then warble full oft on thy favorite thorn : 
 
 Thou know'st not the term, or Pd say I am grateful ; 
 For thou'st sorrow beguiled, when its weight has 
 oppressed ; 
 When friendship has wavered, thou'st proved thyself 
 faithful, 
 By soothing the woe of my grief-laden breast. 
 
 Thou art not afraid, — then approach to my window ; 
 
 Thy song shall ensure a reception most kind ; 
 Thou'st nothing to fear from the hand of Belinda, 
 
 In her, tho' a stranger, a friend thou should'st find. 
 
 From her hand thou should'st feed, and it oft would 
 caress thee ; 
 A cup of pure water 'twould daily supply ; 
 
 I would not encage ! thou should'st ever be free ; 
 
 1 would bind by attention ; as now, thou should'st fly. 
 
 My kindness would win, I am sure, thy affection ; 
 Thouwould'st never, no never! thy fond mistress quit! 
 Sweet bird thou'd'st be happy beneath her protection; 
 Thou should'st lie in her bosom, and sip from her lip. 
 
 Then one friend upon earth, would be mine, I am 
 certain ; 
 
 Thy confidence gained, and thou'rt ne'er insincere ! 
 The world's fickle friendships, alas ! are uncertain ; 
 
 Deceit too oft lurks when we think them sincere.
 
 TO A CANARY BIRD. 87 
 
 TO A CANARY BIRD, 
 
 THE GIFT OF A DEPARTED FRIEND. 
 
 Warble, sweet, thy song is cheering, 
 How familiar, graceful, thou! 
 
 But what formed my bird endearing, 
 Gift of one who moulders now : 
 
 Patient on the bed of anguish, 
 Kind to ties by nature wove ; 
 
 Hearts were wrung to see thee languish, 
 Friendship wept ! — and sacred love ! — 
 
 Pure the bird I thus inherit, 
 
 Chaste, and warm was Mary's breast; 
 Peaceful sleep, sweet gentle spirit, 
 
 Virtue, purity must rest.
 
 88 affection's breathings. 
 
 AFFECTION'S BREATHINGS. 
 
 Farewell dearest Frances ! beloved one adieu ! 
 For a short space of time 'tis decreed we must part; 
 But Fancy's fleet wing shall oft bear me to you, 
 And memory pourtray thee, dear girl of my heart. 
 
 That countenance ever so placid, benignly 
 Illumed by the beam of thy soul-speaking eye, 
 That dimple of love, lost and seen so divinely, 
 Will ne'er be forgotten ! no, ne'er till I die. 
 
 Thine affectionate breathings — thine accents most 
 
 soothing —   
 Have oft'times like music arrested mine ear ; 
 The tenderest attentions, sweet being, oft proving 
 A spell to call forth, — who'd suppress it? — loves tear. 
 
 The pure reminiscence of all this, shall cheer me, 
 When thou art far hence, 'twill a rapture impart; 
 Five moons waned away, then I hope to caress thee : 
 Warmly press to my bosom the girl of my heart.
 
 a mother's address. 8!> 
 
 A MOTHER S ADDRESS TO HER 
 SLEEPING INFANT. 
 
 Sleep sound dear pledge of hallowed love ! 
 
 For guiltless is thy tender breast ; 
 Thy emblem is the gentle dove, — 
 
 Yes sleep ! — the innocent can rest. 
 
 Thou smil'st sweet babe ! — yes thou may'st smile 
 
 For thine's the smile of purity ! 
 Thou art a stranger to all guile, — 
 
 And may deceit ne'er dwell with thee ! 
 
 Dear lovely bud ! my tenderest care ! — 
 Thou, all thy mother's care requirest. 
 
 O ! heaven benign ! — my infant spare. — 
 
 Hope ! — thou its mother's breast inspirest ; — 
 
 O yes ! the hope of future joy, 
 
 My child ! of happiness in thee ! — 
 
 Yes ! thou my lovely infant boy, 
 Wilt prove a source of bliss to me.
 
 90 THE FAREWELL. 
 
 THE FAREWELL. 
 
 I've bid "farewell" to one most dear ! — 
 That word's a word of pain! — 
 
 Yet still one treasured hope doth cheer; — 
 We part, — -to meet again ! 
 
 This sweetly doth the pain repel, 
 
 Imparted by the word "farewell. " 
 
 Were we to meet no more on earth, 
 
 And I this truth must know, 
 What pangs would in my soul have birth ! 
 
 What agony and woe ! 
 But better thoughts my bosom swell, — 
 I hope again to bid "farewell." 
 
 That power who reigns in worlds above, 
 
 Secretes His wise decree; 
 Yet as a token of His love, 
 
 When last I looked on thee, 
 Kindly forbade the thought so fell, 
 That, that, must be our last "farewell," 
 
 But should we never, — never meet 
 
 Again whilst journeying here, 
 Still o'er the thought we will not weep, 
 
 But smile at one most dear, 
 Which in the breast can peaceful dwell, — 
 That when we've bid life's last "farewell,''
 
 THE FAREWELL. 91 
 
 We then shall rise where grief no more 
 
 Can rend the feeling heart! 
 On Eden's fragrant flowery shore, 
 
 We meet no more to part ! 
 O ! bliss ! O ! then,— I need not tell, 
 That there, we ne'er shall bid "farewell. "
 
 92 THE HAPPY DAYS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 THE HAPPY DAYS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 O, how dear the remembrance of life's early years, 
 
 When the mind is unfettered from woe ! 
 The pure reminiscence my bosom now cheers, 
 And draws from mine eye-spring- a stream of such tears, 
 Which, for worlds, O I would not forego. 
 
 The breast which cold apathy tints with her dye, 
 
 Is exempt in a measure from care ; 
 But it knows not the exquisite bliss of love's sigh, 
 Nor the thrills of delight when the bosom beats high, 
 Grief, or joy, with another to share. 
 
 Such sympathy sweet, dearest Ellen, was"mine, 
 
 In our juvenile days when we've met ; 
 Our sorrow, or joy, would most sweetly entwine : 
 But ah ! then how trifling the cause to repine, 
 A toy lost, enough for regret ! 
 
 How charming our strolls were, in summer at eve ! 
 
 Oft we've sat 'neath the white blossomed thorn, 
 When we've pluck'd from the hedge-rows wild florets 
 
 to weave — 
 The birds not more happy — a fanciful wreath 
 
 Our hats, or our hair to adorn. 
 
 Now pleasures unnumbered, rush fresh to my mind 
 Which I've often indulged in with you ; 
 
 'Tis in vain to expect more such pleasure to find ! 
 
 Yet one bliss remains ! 'tis the countenance kind ! 
 Which ever in Ellen I knew.
 
 ON HAPPINESS. 93 
 
 ON HAPPINESS. 
 
 Lives there a man within this vale of tears 
 However long he may have traversed life, 
 That e'er possessed a state of real bliss ? 
 Experience wisely teacheth all mankind, 
 Whilst passing through this sublunary scene, 
 That all must share distress — and care — and woe. 
 Man enters life buoyed up with flattering Hope 
 Which strews sweet flowers along the rugged path 
 Of life's, oft checkered, varied pilgrimage, 
 Tempting the traveller still to journey on, 
 Pursuing as he goes some darling scheme 
 Foster'd by Hope within the heart's recess. 
 
 Talent diversified adorns mankind, — 
 And various characters must be combined 
 To play Life's drama on the world's wide stage ; 
 Each hath a part assigned him here to act : 
 Widely their aims may differ, and their views 
 May vary as the colours in the bow 
 That arches the ethereal vault of heaven ; 
 Yet all dissention to one focus points : — 
 That phantom Happiness, each breast pursues ! 
 O ! seek her not amid tumultuous scenes ! —
 
 94 ON HAPPINESS. 
 
 Midst busy life ! — she seldom loves to dwell 
 Among the great — in cities, or in courts — 
 But more retiringly disposed, she seeks 
 The calmer haunts of men in humbler ranks. 
 But wheresoe'er she roams, in sylvan scenes, 
 O'er hills, through dales, or in the grove's recess, 
 Or on the verdant plain, she still eludes 
 The eager grasp of disappointed man ! 
 
 Depend not on a dire deceitful world, — 
 But point affection to a higher sphere ; 
 And boast a conscience void of all offence 
 Towards thy Creator and thy fellow-man. 
 Whatever part here called upon to act, 
 Use all exertion to perform it well ; — 
 Yet be not too ambitious of applause : 
 *Tis but a chosen few the audience clap ; 
 And when the curtain drops, — and man hath played 
 His arduous part, he then retiring falls 
 Behind the scenes. There, Life's garb thrown off, 
 Is his performance judged. — If acted right, 
 'Tis then is met a just reward for all, — 
 He has applause from the celestial band, 
 And gains what he has vainly sought below, 
 True Happiness ! — this, — heaven alone bestows.
 
 ON FRIENDSHIP. 95 
 
 ON FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 Come gentle muse, I woo thy gen'rous aid, 
 To string the lyre and harmonize its sound, 
 While I of friendship in weak numbers sing. 
 Exalted theme ! say from what source divine 
 Did friendship rise? 'tis pure ethereal dew 
 Sprinkled by heaven itself, to soften life ; — 
 A healing balm to many human woes. 
 Without a friend, the world would chaos prove; 
 All nature be a blank ; and worthless life ; — 
 For what of pleasure can the mind e'er taste, 
 Or of what value is the brightest thought, 
 Unless imparted to a bosom friend? 
 
 In early morn, to walk mid'st rural scenes 
 On vernal or autumnal days is sweet ; 
 But still to polished minds it lacks a charm 
 If no one dear participate the view, 
 To commune with us of creative pow'r, 
 And trace in nature's charms the hand of God. 
 
 If sorrow should assail with venomed shaft, — 
 There is a balm which softens ev'ry woe : — 
 The friend of all mankind can give a friend 
 To share our sorrows, and partake our joys.
 
 96 ON FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 A friend should have religion in the breast, 
 
 And harmony of soul with what it loves, 
 
 To make the fabric stand the test of time; — 
 
 Attachments perish soon, too hasty formed : 
 
 Then know the man before you call him friend. 
 
 Friendship is oft a name, and but a name : 
 
 The world in such delusions doth abound. 
 
 For let but fortune with her golden train, 
 
 Follow the steps of man, — his open gate 
 
 Will scarce admit the heavy press of friends ! — 
 
 Observe the eyes ! how eager all now seem 
 
 To add a blessing to the blessed man, 
 
 Anticipating ev'ry rising wish : 
 
 The ever-ready hand is now out-stretched 
 
 To offer affluence what it doth not want. 
 
 Yet let the gale blow adverse, — fortune frown ; 
 
 These friends all vanish ! — such friends instant fly 
 
 To some more prosperous child of fortune, 
 
 To fawn, and cringe, and dupe him in his turn. 
 
 But to possess that gem, a genuine friend, 
 
 Select it not for lustre ; — weigh it well ; 
 
 If naught is wanting, — treasure it for ever. 
 
 If there exist a miserable wretch 
 Homeless — friendless — hopeless — cheer his soul, — 
 Cheer, cheer the drooping soul ! All is not lost ; 
 He has a friend observant of his sorrow ; —  
 
 ON FRIENDSHIP. 97 
 
 But for a time can misery extreme 
 Oppress the body, and depress the soul ; 
 The now unpitied wanderer ere long 
 Shall find a shelter with the Lord of all. 
 O friend divine ! O friend omnipotent ! 
 Whilst thou permitt'st me to remain below, 
 Grant me to share the friendship of the good ! — 
 Instruct me how to walk, and how to act, 
 Most pleasing in thine eye — and to my friend : 
 And when my race is run — and death shall cut 
 The tie of life — of friendship — and of love — 
 O ! call me then to join the heav'nly choir, 
 And Thee my Father ! my eternal friend. 
 
 M
 
 5)8 A NIGHT IN DECEMBER. 
 
 A NIGHT IN DECEMBER. 
 
 'Twas gloomy all ! sullen the day has past, — 
 Save one faint effort of the god of day ; 
 The vapour-swollen clouds obscured his rays 
 And burst in torrents on the darkened plain. 
 The night commences with the cheerful blaze, 
 Exhilarating high to social glee; — 
 The semicircle of the friendly group, 
 Imbibe contagious cheerfulness around, 
 And converse free dispels the wintry gloom. 
 
 Behold the man who guides a little flock ; 
 In sweet retirement how serene he dwells ; 
 Few dwellings smile around his sweet abode, 
 But they contain a world ! — 'Tis friendship all. 
 When the day's task is o'er — by self imposed — • 
 To visit penury's chill cheerless hut, 
 And there excite by his all-bounteous hand, 
 Mid pallid wretchedness, a grateful smile, 
 Or, to assuage the anguish of the sick, 
 With pure religion's ever soothing balm, 
 Domestic happiness next claims his care. 
 
 "When night, in sable livery all things clad," 
 It is his wonted plan to read aloud,
 
 A NIGHT IN DECEMBER. 99 
 
 Whilst the fond partner of his cares and joys, 
 Plies with sweet cheerfulness the needle's art, 
 Their smiling offspring all engaged around. 
 But one who claims attention more than all, 
 Creating interest, by its tender years, 
 Sits on the carpet near its mother's feet, 
 There pricking paper simply with a pin, 
 Pleased with the thought of forming fancied flowers. 
 
 With this loved group the hours serenely glide ; — 
 They bid defiance to the outward storm, 
 Serene within. O ! 'tis most delightful, 
 To wile away a winter's evening thus ; 
 Instruction and amusement sweetly blend. 
 With such a character as here described, 
 Each dawn and close of day find him serene, 
 And with pure resignation he retires. 
 
 Rage on with fury thou incessant storm ! 
 Thou may'st with threat'ning vengeance beat the cot, 
 But canst not shake the harmony within. 
 Though fickle fortune hath witheld her smiles, 
 Though poverty invade the Cotter's hut, 
 The humble cottager may know such bliss, 
 As favourites of fortune seldom taste, 
 If he but bear within a grateful heart 
 For ev'ry little boon which heaven supplies. — 
 
 Oft doth the peasant when from toil set free,
 
 100 A NIGHT IN DECEMBER. 
 
 Enter with cheerfulness his clay-built cot, 
 
 And there is welcomed by the prattling throng; 
 
 The lively nut-brown group cling fondly round, 
 
 Eager to pour to his delighted ear, 
 
 The little exploits of the day revolved. 
 
 The infant on the cradle-bed awakes, — 
 
 Aroused from slumber by the well-known voice ; 
 
 In rapture it puts forth its puny arms, 
 
 Declaring sweetly its pure sense of joy, 
 
 By the soft pat upon the sun-burnt cheek ; 
 
 His cares are thus most happily beguiled, 
 
 And outward storms are totally forgotten: 
 
 All is amusement, whilst the wife prepares 
 
 The frugal, yet most cleanly, cheerful meal. 
 
 O moderation ! where thou bear'st the rule, 
 Health, heaven's best gift, oft proves the sweet result; 
 And cheerfulness, content, and peace, with all 
 Their kindred train, may crown thy votaries blessed. 
 
 Hark ! how the jarring elements contend ! 
 The thunder loud with its electric shock, 
 Shakes the foundation of the edifice 
 Which hath for ages stood the siege of time. 
 How awful ! — yet how grand, — the solemn sound ! 
 Does it not wake the soul to meditation, 
 And raise that noble part from earth to heaven? 
 
 Say, ye licentious group of midnight rakes,
 
 A NIGHT IN DECEMBER. 101 
 
 How dare ye whilst the concave roars aloud, 
 Pursue your vicious, and destructive pleasures ; 
 Be hushed to silence all your maddening mirth ! 
 The song profane, and the envenomed wit 
 Which pours its poison to the listening ear. 
 Think ye, that the noble godlike nature, 
 Which is implanted in the heart of man, 
 Was ever meant to be perverted thus ? 
 To a dread voice, — Oh ! even now attend, 
 Whilst bursting through the clouds it can admonish ! 
 
 Apart from dissipation there are scenes 
 Which might have power to soften callous hearts ; 
 Let the unthinking reprobate but view 
 In this tempestuous, this dismal night, 
 In yonder hovel, that poor sorrowing wretch, 
 Pining in want, — with sickness dire beset, 
 And racking pain pervading every part 
 Of his emaciated feeble form ; 
 Yet wrung with keener anguish, — doom'd to see 
 The long-lov'd partner of his misery, 
 Sinking beneath the dreadful load of woe, 
 Which pressed too heavy on her wretched breast. 
 Wildly he rolls his deep-sunk eyes around, 
 And views his offspring, meagre, and forlorn ; 
 The heart-drawn tear, now scalds the care-worn 
 cheek : —
 
 102 A NIGHT IN DECEMBER. 
 
 He hears their little plaints, — their cry for food !■ 
 They lacerate, they tear his inmost soul. 
 
 But ah ! the votary of vain vicious joys 
 Shuns in reality a scene so sad ; 
 Then view the picture merely as descriptive, 
 And wake O man ! to serious reflection ; 
 O ! quit the slavery which degrades thy kind I 
 And free as air, exert the nobler part 
 Of an immortal, though created being.
 
 EFFUSION ON OPENING SPRING. 103 
 
 A MEDITATIVE EFFUSION ON 
 OPENING SPRING. 
 
 Not soothing friendship, nor the voice of love, 
 Nor to the vision all that art displays, 
 Can prove more welcome than the opening spring. 
 Yes loveliest season ! may I now forget 
 Beneath thy smiles, crude winter's chilling blast ! 
 As thou advancest with thy lovely train 
 Of mingled beauties, and unrivalled sweets, 
 Thou'st power to lull the meditative soul 
 To peace, — to love, — to joy, — ecstatic joy ! 
 E'en they whose bosoms beat with worldly woe, 
 Beholding spring's soft charms, and genial showers, 
 Are for a moment tranquillized to bliss. 
 And O what mind of culture, or of taste, 
 Will not exult in universal love, 
 Whilst nature's aspect so benign appears, 
 And songs of gladness echo all around ? 
 Propitious season ! may I still inhale, 
 Midst peaceful solitude thy breath most pure ; 
 Possessed of health and blessed with ties I love, 
 Let me not envy ye your fancied bliss, 
 By fashion guided, lost in folly's maze ; 
 Your scenes though brilliant cannot vie in shade, 
 Or hue or grandeur of design,
 
 104 EFFUSION ON OPENING SPRING. 
 
 With those that cloy not which I daily view. 
 And ye who sacrifice your morning hours, 
 Did ye but view at morn the dome of heaven, 
 With all the splendour of the empurpled east 
 When Phoebus gilds the hemisphere around, 
 Ye would not lose — except by sickness chained — 
 That space of time which nature most adores, 
 Or turn her night to artificial day. 
 Think not the muse severe, she would not tinge 
 With cynic censure the poetic page : 
 No lark that rises from her dewy nest, 
 To chant her gratitude to heaven's high King, 
 E'er rose more gay than I in early years. 
 Now spring's returned, I view my favourite plants, 
 My lovely flowers expanding to the sun, 
 (Their native beauty wet with morning dew,) 
 Which I have tended with assiduous care ; 
 And whilst enraptured on each grace I gaze, 
 Reflect how transient their existence proves; 
 The hand that cultured them as quick may droop ; 
 The flower may die, vain man may sink to death, 
 E'en time itself may cease, earth melt away, — 
 But man shall 'scape the universal wreck 
 If he but cede allegiance to his God ! — 
 Then spring will wear an everlasting smile, 
 And all her beauties bloom for evermore.
 
 A SUNDAY EVENING'S REFLECTION. 105 
 
 A SUNDAY EVENING'S REFLECTION. 
 
 Where is the orb whose rays 1 lately saw 
 
 In genial brilliancy illume the west ? 
 
 'Tis sunk from view to brighten other climes ; 
 
 And like that sun will ev'ry social tie, 
 
 Or soon, or late, cease e'en to cheer mine heart, — 
 
 But not for ever. — Like that sunken globe, 
 
 A little space, they'll vanish from my sight ; 
 
 Then they'll rise again, — and I once more shall 
 
 See them glorious like the morning sun. 
 
 How imperceptibly have stole away, 
 The last faint glimmerings of departed light ! 
 The shade of evening I do dearly love ; 
 Not so the guilty, he its covert woos, 
 He courts its veil, to screen from mortal eye, 
 His darker actions, — his vile treacherous deeds. 
 Forget'st thou, oh deluded wretch ! the eye 
 That penetrates e'en thought before 'tis formed ? 
 That eye o'erlooks thee, and a record's made. 
 
 On such a night as this, 'tis sweet to muse, 
 When nature seems to breathe not, (sound all hushed !) 
 Soothing the soul, and lulling it to peace,
 
 106 A SUNDAY EVENING'S REFLECTION. 
 
 And sweetly fitting it for themes sublime. 
 To gaze in wonder on yon vaulted dome, 
 Sparkling with millions, p'rhaps of other worlds, 
 And all, like this, the especial care of heaven ; 
 This scene impels my ravished thoughts to soar, 
 Beyond the confines of all time-formed things, — 
 To gates celestial ! I in fancy bound ; — 
 But here I pause ! — Imagination faints, 
 (Well may it faint !) at what is seen within. 
 Thinking on Thee! — and Thy omnipotence! — 
 I'm lost in Thy immensity, O God ! —
 
 ADDRESSED TO AN ATHEIST. 107 
 
 ADDRESSED TO AN ATHEIST. 
 
 What, disbelieve the existence of a God ! 
 And all His attributes, and all His power!— 
 Oh ! could I but illume thy dreadful night ; 
 Unyoke the galling chains which bind thy heart, 
 And fetter down its hope of future bliss. 
 Hast thou no soul? no monitor within? 
 And so bereft of reason as to rank 
 With beasts of nature's field, brutes that perish ? 
 If there is a term in language yet more strong, 
 Than mingling with the brutish savage kind, 
 Oh ! for its aid, — to tell thee what thou art ! 
 Thou dost repel each conscience-working thought, 
 Or thy erroneous judgment would dissolve. 
 "Is there a God ?" aye ! — one of mercy too ! — 
 For were he not so he would cut thee off, 
 With all thy fell perdition on thine head ; 
 His offered hand is now held forth to save ; 
 Grasp it thou insecure one, whilst 'tis day, 
 For ere tomorrow's sun shall gild the sphere, 
 Thou may'st be sunken deep in endless woe. 
 Think'st thou when time is fled , thou sink'st to naught? 
 O pitiable state for reasoning man ! 
 Thou may'st alas ! — in this delusion live, — 
 But can'st thou in it, ever— ever — die ?
 
 108 AN INSCRIPTION ON A TOMBSTONE. 
 
 AN INSCRIPTION ON A TOMBSTONE. 
 
 Stranger approach ! peruse this hallowed stone, 
 Which notes my fate, — which soon will be thine own; 
 Though swayed by Vice — or Virtue's safe control —   
 Thou'rt hastening onward to this destined goal. 
 Distinguished by what name, proud, mean, or great, 
 Avails not here, — all sink to one estate ; 
 What once were foes, no longer shall contend $ — • 
 The sword is sheathed, — and each becomes a friend. 
 Ah ! finite man ! boast not of wealth, or fame, 
 Or greatness, (which too oft's an empty name) 
 They'll not secure a passport to that clime, 
 Whither thy views should tend, thy steps incline. 
 No deference in the grave is paid to birth ; 
 The reptiles hidden in the womb of earth, 
 Know not the term : they steal their darksome way 
 To revel on the great, — the mean, — the gay, — 
 Till all consumed ! then glutted by their lust, 
 Sink like their prey, — and crumble into dust.
 
 ON VIEWING THE REMAINS OF A FRIEND. 109 
 
 ON VIEWING 
 
 THE REMAINS OF A FRIEND. 
 
 How late I saw health's roseate hue 
 Glow on my loved Narcissa's cheek, 
 
 Her soul-fraught eyes I, pleased, could view, 
 Which e'er bespoke a temper sweet : 
 
 Pale now that cheek; those brilliant orbs, 
 
 Fell Death their lustre quite absorbs. 
 
 How oft those hands have touched the lyre 
 Which wrought my soul to ecstacy ; — 
 
 No more it shall my breast inspire, 
 Or ravished ear e'er list to thee ; 
 
 For hushed is that melodious strain 
 
 That oft created pleasing pain. 
 
 Insatiate Death ! — had'st thou no prey 
 That could suffice, save one so dear, — 
 
 So young, — so lovely, — and so gay? — 
 She who methinks had no compeer 
 
 In innate worth, — -humility ! — 
 
 But I'll not mourn — o'er God's decree. 
 
 Well I must take a final view 
 Of thy remains Narcissa, fair ! — « 
 
 I will not bid a long adieu ! 
 
 To thee who art the angels' care : 
 
 Perhaps, ere long, thou'lt meet my sight 
 
 In regions ever, — ever bright.
 
 110 ON THE DEATH OF MISS MARIA H S. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF MISS MARIA H S 
 
 OF LUDLOW. 
 
 Saw ye the hearse that bore the pallid corse ? 
 
 Mourners and maids enrobed a hallow gave 
 The solemn scene, that heart-drawn tears would force 
 
 From father, — brother, o'er the lost-one's grave ! 
 But ah ! no power of language can pour tray 
 
 The heart- wrung grief of her whose tender breast 
 Sustained Maria through life's infant day, 
 
 Or formed a pillow for her bed of rest ; 
 
 She ardent viewed this lovely flower expand, 
 
 (A mother only knows a mother's joy !) 
 Watched the chaste blossom cultured by her hand, 
 
 Graces unfurl ; ('twas bliss without alloy !) 
 And reason 'bove her years possessed this mild 
 
 Engaging sweet-one, who bade fair for life ; 
 But parents — friends — mourn not, your happy child 
 
 Exchanged for peaceful home a world of strife. 
 
 O could ye see this little plant of love 
 
 In all its blooming beauties 'bove the skies, 
 The view would sighs suppress, regret remove, 
 
 No tears would dim — save those of joy — the eyes. 
 A little space and you to Eden's grove — 
 
 To inhale its sweets — shall be by angels borne ; 
 Welcomed not only by the God of love ! 
 
 But by Maria to her "peaceful home."
 
 TO THE GENIUS OF POETRY. Ill 
 
 TO THE GENIUS OF POETRY. 
 
 For thee celestial Muse, I breathe the lay, 
 
 Who oft thy power with mine so sweetly blends ; 
 
 Illumining what erst were darksome day ; 
 
 Invoked ! in wrapt will silvery cloud, descends. 
 
 Thine airy chariot bears to climes unknown, 
 Wings fleet imagination 'bove the skies, 
 
 To view a world creative all thine own — 
 
 Scenes seen by none, save thy blest vot'ries eyes — 
 
 Together there, the plains of fancy tread, 
 
 Embowered commune, or sing life's cares away : 
 
 Sweets to regale the sense, and sight are spread, 
 Flowers varied broider paths through which we 
 stray ; 
 
 Graceful or fragrant we their charms combine, 
 
 Commingle beauties and pure wreaths entwine. 
 
 \
 
 112 A SUMMER EVENING. 
 
 A SUMMER EVENING. 
 
 The sun now skirts the west and day declines ; 
 The grateful eve approaches cheerly on, 
 And recompenses for the sultry hours 
 Of summer's burning heat. Beneath the beams 
 Of noon the cattle fled to covert, and 
 Oppressed, the woodman left the pond'rous axe, 
 Tired nature to invigorate afresh. 
 All nature fainted in the noontide ray ; 
 The beauteous florets of the field then drooped, — 
 But, ere the morning, will again revive. 
 The air now cools, and see the woodland scene 
 Assumes a verdant ever grateful tinge; 
 Fantastic zephyrs fancifully play 
 Over the rippling stream ; the silvery wave 
 Betrays the gentle and refreshing breeze ; 
 The rising dew now silvers o'er the mead, 
 While sweets ambrosial scent the ambient air. 
 See yonder, — see that happy throng of hinds, 
 Freed from the lab'ring cord of customed day ; 
 Sweet independence crowns the evening hour, 
 And health, and youth, and leisure, all conjoin 
 To harmonize and fit each heart for sport. 
 At yon neat hamlet, 'neath the verdant hill,
 
 A SUMMER EVENING. 113 
 
 Whose summit's clustered o'er with ancient pines, 
 Observe that group ; 'tis there they meet each night 
 To con the village news, and scandal of the day. 
 Perchance some one, amid the smiling band, 
 May be the village light, and can explain 
 The nation's weighty matters, — holding forth 
 In simple oratory, — guiding sense, — 
 Fit for a senate ! — think the wond'ring train. 
 
 Oft on the spot their ancestors have met, 
 But they, long since, have left the busy world 
 To moulder 'neath the rudely-sculptured stone : — 
 Yon wicket points the way which they were borne ; 
 Those sombre yews mark out their still retreat. 
 
 Ye smiling group of tender years, — ah ! say, 
 When your light tread pervades the sacred ground, 
 Cannot the grave where your forefathers sleep 
 Impart a lesson to the youthful breast ? 
 O ! recollect ye thoughtless giddy youth ! 
 The tender sapling ere it form a tree 
 May chance be blighted, or be snapt in twain ; 
 Flourish it may awhile ; but sudden gusts 
 May rise, and winds uptear the tender plant ; 
 And ye as quickly may be called from life. 
 Behold in morn the lovely rose full blown, 
 Bidding most fair to please the admiring eye, 
 At least some days with its superior charms;
 
 114 A SUMMER EVENING. 
 
 But ah ! short lived indeed's the blooming beauty ! 
 Torn from its native stem by wanton hands, 
 It decorates the bosom for one hour, 
 Faded the next, is trampled on the ground. — 
 O lively youth ! retire from trifling play ! — 
 Leave the amusements of the summer eve, 
 And gay companions ! Meditate alone ! — 
 While in the churchyard, scan each lettered stone, 
 And in the varied ages — mark — thine own.
 
 ON LEAVING TARPORLEY, 115 
 
 ON LEAVING TARPORLEY FOR A 
 
 RESIDENCE IN LUDLOW. 
 
 Farewell dear spot of earth ! kind friends, farewell ! 
 Ten annual suns have run their circling course 
 To gild the surface of a changing world, 
 Since first I called a residence, my home, 
 That reared its beauties 'bove thy placid brow, 
 Around a panorama of delight. 
 
 Ye distant spires, and ye majestic hills, 
 That rising grace fair Cambria's happy land ; 
 Ye ivy- woven turrets, Beeston's pride ! 
 Ye flow'ry meads, sweet primrose-tufted vales, 
 All claim the tribute of a grateful song : 
 Amid your sweets, life's cares were oft forgot, 
 Whilst my fond muse her simple wreaths entwined. 
 How elegant, refined, the social band 
 With which I've mingled 'mid your sylvan shades ; 
 Delightful intercourse ! such softens life, 
 Sweetens the cup, or rich, or poor, must sip. 
 And you ye cottagers who claimed my care, 
 Though poorer friends, ye shall not be forgot ; 
 Beloving, and beloved, I dwelt among ye ; 
 Your heart-drawn wishes for my future good, 
 Shall be remembered whilst the power is mine.
 
 Iffl ON LEAVING TARPORLEY, 
 
 And ardent hope now flutters in my breast, 
 That when the heart vibrates not in its cell, 
 The pulses cease, imagination hushed, 
 Memory declined, to love, and friendship lost ! 
 That friends will bear what then remains near you, 
 For in your church I own — last bed — a grave. 
 But cold, insensible must be the heart, 
 A slave indeed to apathy's control, 
 Were not my present scenes acknowledged fair. 
 
 Ludlow ! with all thy sylvan beauties crowned, 
 Embosomed as thou art 'mid nature's gifts, 
 
 would the muse were capable, as pleased, 
 To do thee justice, and correct pourtray 
 The smiling landscape that encircles thee ! 
 As round fair Whitcliffe hill the footsteps wind, 
 How sweet it is, or when Sol gilds the view 
 With the full splendour of his morning ray, 
 Or fainter beams at even's soothing hour, 
 
 To scan the clustering beauties as they rise. 
 Ye hills sublime, ye laughing flowery meads, 
 Well may your verdure spring so soft and fair, 
 Whilst Teme refreshes, graces with her smiles : 
 Ye solemn groves, sweet woods, heart-soothing walks, 
 
 1 greet with rapture, ye are all my own. 
 Hail to yon edifice and crumbling towers 
 
 In wrapped with ivy ! say, what are ye now ? — 
 For what ye once were record true unfolds —
 
 ON LEAVING TARPORLEY, 117 
 
 Your strength and might declined, 
 
 A noble wreck ! — most beautiful ! — sublime ! — 
 
 The great, the mighty, and the strong like thee, 
 
 Must yield to time's fell hand, be crushed, and die. 
 
 Is there a being that can tread thy courts, 
 
 Rendered so sacred from their fallen state, 
 
 But what must find a monitor most pure, 
 
 That mildly teaches that all time-formed things 
 
 Must pass away to nothingness with thee ? 
 
 Now the green sod with florets interwove, 
 
 Marks out the spacious hall, the grand saloon 
 
 Where magic beauty led the mazy dance ; 
 
 The chambers too where Monarchy reposed, 
 
 Owls, bats, and reptiles claim as their abode ; 
 
 Where stood the beds of state enfringed with gold, 
 
 High canopied the beds of nettles spring. 
 
 Ye walls dilapidated, turrets frail, 
 
 A little space and ye to ashes sink, 
 
 Yet man may live, and living, proudly boast 
 
 Your fame, your honours, mighty strength, renown. 
 
 Famed in historic page for deeds of arms, 
 
 For banqueting, loud revelry and song, 
 
 Thou too canst boast of feats far more sublime ; 
 
 Yes, thou inspiring bard, sacred in song, 
 
 Thy drama pure has formed this spot, what thou 
 
 O Milton ! must for ever be, till Time 
 
 Cedes all to Chaos — ever — immortal.
 
 118 THE INVITATION. 
 
 THE INVITATION. 
 
 Heaven-born muse assistance lend, 
 
 Whilst I sing to cheer my friend; 
 
 Conscious that my pen's employ, 
 
 Will impart a real joy. 
 
 To my theme : Roxana dear ! — 
 
 Summer is approaching near ; 
 
 And thou promised in thy last, 
 
 That, when winter's storms were past, 
 
 "Thou would 'st rusticate awhile — '' 
 
 Pleased, the thought, enforced a smile — 
 
 "With thy Flora mid her bowers, 
 
 "P'rhaps in time to cull May-flowers." 
 
 Come, now, to her rural seat, 
 
 Come, pure friendship doth entreat; 
 
 Leave gay scenes, for scenes more gay, 
 
 Come Roxana ! come away ! — 
 
 City scenes thou may'st enjoy, 
 
 Still the opera, balls, may cloy; 
 
 Nature's exhibitions viewed, 
 
 Charm the sense the more reviewed : 
 
 Her chaste drama's ever new, 
 
 So diversified to view. 
 
 Rocks, hills, mountains, valleys green,
 
 THE INVITATION. 119 
 
 Rivulets that glide between, 
 Ruins grand and distant spire, 
 Taste and feeling, all admire. 
 Yet 'tis owned in this bright age, 
 Town amusements must engage 
 In their elegant array ; 
 When the human powers display 
 Vice clad in her native hue, 
 Virtue's form pour tray ed so true 
 As to captivate the soul, 
 And the vicious thought control ; 
 The result, 'tis hoped, will prove 
 In the breast of virtue, love ! 
 But though cautious, youth beware, 
 Vice may lay a hidden snare ! — 
 Waters of pollution, strife — 
 Such if drank embitter life — 
 Flow midst pleasure's flow'ry grove, 
 Where most sweet it is to rove : 
 Dangerous maze ! There frequent lie 
 Serpents of most beauteous dye, 
 Basking 'neath amusement's sun ; 
 Touch them not, their poison shun. 
 
 Imperceptibly I've strayed 
 From the subject first essayed, 
 Ever prone to moralize, 
 Youth's credulity advise ;
 
 120 THE INVITATION. 
 
 But Roxana will excuse, 
 All the fancies of my muse, 
 Whilst my efforts weak conspire. 
 To attune the trembling lyre. 
 Come long-loved one, hasten here, 
 Flora's kindred soul to cheer ; 
 'Twould be bliss with thee to rove 
 Through the meadows, valley, grove, 
 Nature's wonders to descry, 
 Or sweet converse to enjoy. 
 If the scenery we trace, 
 From thy gentle breast erase, 
 For one moment, aught of care, 
 (Heaven from woe Roxana spare !) 
 Happy I, thy peace to share. 
 
 O how pleased my friend thouMst be, 
 Bertha, and her cot to see 
 Which bedecks a rising ground ; 
 Pines, and elm trees wave around, 
 Midst whose branches that entwine, 
 Countless melodists divine, 
 Heaven-taught notes unbidden raise ; 
 Theirs are truly songs of praise. 
 Bertha by the crowd sought not, 
 Happy is her world, — her cot; 
 She hath learnt her mite to prize, 
 And to measure human joys.
 
 THE INVITATION. 121 
 
 In her dwelling' neatness breathes, 
 
 Pure content a garland weaves ; 
 
 These companions day by day, 
 
 Wile the live-long hours away : 
 
 Near the threshold of her shed, 
 
 Oft she's seen to spin her thread — 
 
 No rude passengers annoy — 
 
 Charmed to hear the shepherd-boy, 
 Touch his lute amid his flocks, 
 Or view him scale his native rocks. 
 
 Nature's child ! no slave is he 
 To our forms, from fashion free ; 
 With no notions 'bove his sphere, 
 Pleased his harmless lambs to rear. 
 
 Will Roxana come to view 
 Scenes in thought I now review ? 
 Gaieties dear friend I've none, 
 Those have long been — long — foregone ; 
 Still I'm sure, — I know thee well! — 
 Flora dear will prove the spell 
 For one month her scheme t'endure 
 To inhale this ether pure ! — 
 Linger not, come whilst 'tis May ! 
 Come Roxana ! come away.
 
 1'2'2 
 
 THE SOLITAIRE. 
 
 THE SOLITAIRE. 
 
 How changeful is life, like the wide spreading ocean, 
 Which glides in soft murmurs so passive and fair; 
 
 Or ruffled, its bosom soon swells to commotion, 
 Then's smooth as the breast of the calm Solitaire. 
 
 It is not mid mountains, rocks, caverns so dreary, 
 Or in wilds decked with plants which may sweet 
 blossoms bear, 
 
 That man may of life or its cares be more weary 
 Than one whom the world views as no Solitaire : 
 
 He the breath may inhale of the gay bustling city, 
 To scenes grateful to sense may most gaily repair ; 
 
 There mix with the sapient, the foolish, and witty, 
 Shine himself, yet at home be complete Solitaire. 
 
 If beings by love, or dear kindred united, 
 
 Who immingle pure joys, partake each other's care, 
 
 Are sunderM, the pleasures of home must be blighted, 
 But less so to one who's a wise Solitaire. 
 
 From all that is social apart, is privation, 
 
 Life's compact is sweet, and of this he's aware ; 
 
 But sometimes withdrawing for calm contemplation, 
 Gives for life a true relish although Solitaire. 
 
 Kind friendship on entering may find him quite only, 
 Like the hermit encaved, or the beast in his lair ; 
 
 When greeted, exclaim, "why my friend you're as 
 lonely 
 As in desert secluded the poor Solitaire." —
 
 THE SOLITAIRE. 123 
 
 Free converse enlivens, makes glad the warm hearted, 
 Few beings 'tis hoped but this blessing can share ; 
 
 Bright intellect's treasures received and imparted, 
 Must be grateful to each e'en though styled 
 Solitaire. 
 
 No wonder that those wrapt in pleasures delusive, 
 Who sacrifice time, health and reason impair, 
 
 Should draw their imaginings thus so conclusive 
 As to think if alone, you're a sad Solitaire ! 
 
 However connected, high, low, be the station, 
 Immersed in life's duties or pleasures so rare ; 
 
 O scorn not this simple, but truthful narration, 
 And some moments each day prove a sweet Solitaire.
 
 124 LINES ADDRESSED TO MRS. PARRY. 
 
 LINES ADDRESSED TO MRS. PARRY, 
 
 LATE MISS E. BARKER OF NORTHWICH. 
 
 Accept this trifling tribute ! — which is due 
 To every virtue, — friendship, — and to you. 
 Nor deem this flattery, No ! I scorn the art ; 
 Sincerely too ! — appealing to my heart. 
 The morning of my life, thou sweetly cheered, 
 (Mutual attentions mutually endeared ;) 
 Through its meridian thou hast proved to me, 
 What heaven denied ! — all sister kind could be. 
 
 With what pure joy when first my Ellen penned 
 A sweet epistle to her early friend, 
 It was perused ! — how treasured was the scroll ! 
 And O ! what ecstacy inwrapped my soul ! 
 My eyes suffused o'erflowed with grateful tears ; 
 My panting bosom heaved with hopes and fears, 
 Hopes, that our friendship would but end with life, 
 Nor e'er be sullied with indifference, strife; — 
 Fears, that my Ellen might perchance descry 
 When her dear friend again should meet her eye, 
 Faults which in early years were unobserved ; 
 Or that she'd placed esteem where not deserved. 
 But no ! we met, — each pleasing art combined
 
 LINES ADDRESSED TO MRS. PARRY. 125 
 
 To deck the wreath young friendship had entwined. 
 Congenial were our minds, — our persons too 
 Were so alike, that frequent I for you, 
 Have been addressed. I felt a little vain;— 
 But to myself I own, I would exclaim, 
 "O that I were like Ellen! — I should be 
 All that my dearest ties could hope to see." 
 Ah ! those were happy days ! — important too, 
 Which were so cheerly passed, my friend, with you; 
 Light as the floating gossamer, were we 
 In heart ; — and like the playful zephyrs free. 
 Serenely passed our nights ; — each dawning day, 
 Still found my Ellen and her Mary gay; 
 Few care-corroding thoughts assailed the breast, 
 Life then appeared to us most gaily dressed : — 
 Since, it has worn a varied garb ; — Oh yes !- 
 And care has mingled with our cup of bliss. 
 
 Time hath elapsed, and changes taken place, 
 Yet still unchangeful is my Ellen's face ; 
 The same sweet smile bids welcome ! kind and free; 
 The warm embrace doth ever welcome me. 
 Full many a checkered year hath stole away, 
 Yes, — since I feebly made my first essay, 
 To form a letter which she would approve, 
 Such as would gain her confidence and love;
 
 126 LINES ADDRESSED TO MRS. PARRY. 
 
 And during that long space of passing-time, 
 She's cheered with many a heart-drawn pleasing line. 
 Was e'er my soul with sorrow dire oppressed, 
 Her tender soothings calmed my throbbing breast ; 
 And if my path was brightened with a ray 
 Of happiness, — my Ellen then would say, 
 "My dearest Mary I partake your bliss !'' — 
 What to the heart could give more joy than this ? 
 
 Henceforth my Ellen through each circling year 
 May all that's blissful wait thy soul to cheer ; 
 Few thorns upspring, be thine a flowery way, 
 Few storms arise to darken o'er thy day : 
 And when the tide of life no longer flows, 
 O bear her angels — in a sweet repose — 
 To climes more soft ; (there will her virtues live !) 
 And for her placid brow a fadeless circlet weave.
 
 ON VIEWING MY FATHER'S PORTRAIT, 127 
 
 ON VIEWING MY FATHER'S PORTRAIT 
 
 MANY YEARS AFTER HIS DEATH. 
 
 O valued art ! which fills so well Time's space ! 
 
 Assisting- recollection to retrace 
 
 The placid smile which e'er illumed the face 
 
 Of thee my Father ! 
 
 O valued art ! of pure affection born, — 
 
 Thou giv'st me back what once did life adorn ; — 
 
 But ah ! how early from his friends was torn 
 
 My dearest Father. 
 
 The first affliction God assigned to me, 
 
 Was when, dear shade ! I was bereaved of thee, 
 
 When I thy dear remains was led to see, 
 
 My dear fond father. 
 
 Alas ! how did my little bosom swell, 
 
 When with my Mother I bade the last farewell ! — 
 
 And with what anguish heard the funeral knell 
 
 Of thee my Father. 
 
 Oft since in sadness, I have sought the dome, 
 Beneath whose walls thou'st found a peaceful home, 
 To drop a tear upon the honoured tomb 
 
 Wfcere rests my Father. 
 
 If 'tis permitted to the blest to know 
 Ought of what passes in this vale below, 
 Then thou hast been, for I've known bliss and woe, 
 
 An anxious Father.
 
 128 ON VIEWING MY FATHER'S PORTRAIT, 
 
 But no ! — Thy happiness has no alloy ! — 
 
 Since thou wert borne to realms beyond the sky, 
 
 No griefs had power to wound or wet the eye 
 
 Of thee my Father. 
 
 And this assurance sweetly cheers my heart, — 
 That when Death strikes me with his certain dart, 
 I then shall join, — O ! never more to part 
 
 From thee my Father
 
 AN EPISTLE. 129 
 
 AN EPISTLE, 
 ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG FRIEND. 
 
 Ah ! suffer not this dire deluding dream, 
 
 Dearest Amelia, to pervade thy breast; 
 
 Ah ! why so arrogant, — why boast of charms 
 
 That are of such a transient, waning kind? 
 
 Suspend self admiration for awhile, 
 
 To give attention to the dictates pure 
 
 Which honest, cordial friendship here suggests. 
 
 Do not Amelia, cheat thy better part ! 
 Though ev'ry grace may twine around thy form, 
 And ev'ry beauty beam within thine eye, 
 And ev'ry charm play o'er thy dimpled cheek, 
 All these combined, form not a real beauty; 
 Nay ! do not start ! — There is a native grace 
 Reverse of affectation, — beauty's bane ! — 
 Which adds a lustre to the finest form ; 
 This grace is modesty ! — bereft of that, 
 In vain's the aid of every sister-grace. 
 Though brilliant eyes, and cheeks where lilies lend 
 A ground for roses, symmetry thy form, 
 They lack the pow'r t'attract the mind of sense. 
 
 K
 
 130 AN EPISTLE. 
 
 Say who can gaze on beauty's blooming charms 
 And this plain truth not press upon the mind ? — 
 "The flow'r is fair, — but beauty is short lived;" 
 Yet there are beauties which can never fade, 
 Whilst reason holds her empire o'er the soul, 
 Intrinsic charms — the graces of the mind. 
 
 Invited in the spring of life to join 
 A party as 'twas said " of friends select," 
 Anticipation hailed the joyous scene; 
 The thought of pleasure, dance, and mirth, and song, 
 Gave promised bliss. The hoped-for night arrived ; 
 The rooms were brilliant, hospitable words 
 Bade hearty welcome, with a gracious smile ; 
 The sound of music and the cheerful hum 
 At once combined to elevate and charm ; 
 And ev'ry delicacy nature gives, 
 Or skilful art can form, were there set forth 
 To please the eye and gratify the taste ; 
 The transient joy increased the charms of all, 
 And beauty shone resplendently around. 
 But one amid the rest possessing charms, 
 Sought homage to herself alone; thwarted, 
 She formed a plan, to mar the joy of all. 
 
 No sooner had the sprightly dance commenced, 
 Than she exclaimed against the "odious figure!" 
 'Twas changed ; still wrong, for that was "horrible !"
 
 AN EPISTLE. 131 
 
 Apparently disgusted, down she sat ; — 
 
 Her partner in the dance all condescension, 
 
 Retired most courteously to please the whim ; 
 
 But no, — -"that was so stupid !'' — Then at once 
 
 She rose, and affectation stood unfurled 
 
 In fancied attitude that mocked her charms : 
 
 Once more she'd make an effort in the dance; 
 
 Yet, when sweet music could have wakened peace, 
 
 The band, and comb of tortoise-shell which bound 
 
 Her lovely tresses, dropped ; the braided locks 
 
 Luxuriant fell over her trembling form ; 
 
 She shrieked ! — and fainted ; — 'twas confusion all ; 
 
 Restoratives soon brought her back to sense 
 
 But not to temper; — sullenly and sad, 
 
 The haughty fair one lounged upon a couch, 
 
 With harmony at war : the link was broke 
 
 Which bound loved cordiality together. 
 
 It is not meant Aurelia, to imply 
 That affectation with the beauteous dwells; 
 And yet the carriage of my valued friend, 
 Presents a little of the baneful weed, 
 Which has too oft destroyed attraction's pow'r. 
 Beauty alone may charm a man of sense, 
 But mind demands a mind to make love last. 
 My dear Aurelia ! my youthful friend ! — 
 Secure the lucid, never-dying graces;
 
 132 AN EPISTLE. 
 
 Obtain but these, and thou shalt ever be 
 Secured in love and admiration just ; 
 Live in the bosom of thy friends through life, 
 And at thy death be welcomed by thy God.
 
 TO A MOTHER. 133 
 
 TO A MOTHER DOUBTING THE 
 EXISTENCE OF HER ABSENT SONS. 
 
 When memory paints in sombre hues the day, 
 Which rudely tore two valued sons away, 
 Sad, sad despair enrobed in sable vest, 
 Usurps dominion in your feeling breast, 
 Till mild religion with her soothing art, 
 Expels the demon, calms your throbbing heart; 
 That heart where flutters many a hope and joy, 
 For present, future good, for each dear boy. — 
 O could some messenger from realms above 
 Descend, and hovering o'er these forms you love, 
 List to their converse, and had power to impart 
 Their heart-formed schemes, how would they cheer 
 
 your heart ; 
 Hope would suggest, that "on some future day 
 Your sons to England will pursue their way :" 
 Well, though no angel bear such tidings here, 
 There is a power can whisper to your ear, 
 "Do not despair, rely on God alone, 
 He may conduct them to their native home." 
 Imagination here would fain essay —
 
 134 TO A MOTHER. 
 
 Could words give colouring — to correct pourtray 
 
 Ecstatic weal, when seated by your side, 
 
 In all the gracefulness of manly pride 
 
 These long-lost beings ; mere description's vain 
 
 To trace a pleasure so commixed with pain, 
 
 Though happiness supreme will prove your guest, 
 
 When on their cheek your kiss of love's impressed. 
 
 'Tis bliss to think that fate's uncertain tide, 
 Doth not — as yet — these brothers dear, divide ; 
 Rapturous must oft their sweet communion prove, 
 When tracing lineaments of those they love; 
 Depicting scenes too, once so joyous, gay, 
 So cheerly traversed in life's infant day; 
 Conning the lessons love maternal taught — 
 Delightful lore, with pure affection fraught — 
 All this is cherished, and they must adore 
 Their dear fond mother, and her peaceful shore. 
 
 When from the coast of Albion borne away, 
 Fancy depicts them on the Channel gay, 
 Watching her cliffs recede, — the freshening gale 
 Dried recent tears ! — the spreading sail, 
 The curling waves, the Gallic shore in view, 
 The bustle on the strand, all, scenes so new, 
 So mind-amusive, that the vouthful breast 
 Would thrill with joy, though late by sorrow pressed. 
 Each human heart is guided by one spring,
 
 TO A MOTHER. 135 
 
 Whose varied acts effects as varied bring; 
 Yet 'tis affirmed, whate'er the feelings be, 
 Our destined port is ever hailed with glee; 
 To 'scape, or storms, or shipwreck, if reviewed, 
 Must fill each breast alike with gratitude 
 To him who quells the storm, who rules the wave, 
 And holds the destiny of prince and slave. 
 
 Wrenched from the ties of kindred, and of love, 
 May Gallic sons to yours most faithful prove, 
 And kind supreme ! her daughters, — lively fair ! — 
 If pressed by sickness, watch their bed with care ; 
 Sickness kind heaven avert! may they inhale 
 The breath of health in every changing gale ; 
 And when the scheme so complex to our view 
 Admits a change in bidding France adieu, 
 Winds gently blow, and waft them safely o'er 
 To this famed Island, — fair Britannia's shore.
 
 136 
 
 SOLILOQUY. 
 
 SOLILOQUY 
 ON THE DEATH OF MRS. KENT, 
 
 Only Sister to the present Sir Thomas Reade* 
 
 Yes, 'tis a truth acknowledged, "all must die !" 
 Or soon, or late, will sound my fun'ral knell ! 
 Yet there is a principle implanted 
 In the bosom of mortality, that 
 Never can familiarize with Death ! — 
 
 How sweet this falling tear, — this rising sigh, — 
 
 ever valued, dear departed friend, 
 
 1 feel, they are the tribute due to virtue ; 
 
 For thou wast virtuous, chaste as spring's fair flowers. 
 Oft have I looked upon thy sylph-like form, 
 Thy fair complexion, and carnation tint, 
 So sweetly blended, and thine ebon locks 
 Which shaded partially thine open brow, 
 And caught the glance of thy soft-beaming eye, 
 With more than admiration ! O methought, 
 Thine was the form of pure divinity ! — 
 
 * Mr. Kent having been thrice married, the Author deemed it necessary 
 to state which of his Ladies was the subject of this Soliloquy.
 
 SOLILOQUY. 137 
 
 This just eulogium cannot wound thee now, 
 To friendship lost ! — oh ! thou art gone for ever ! 
 
 Thine was a life from trial not exempt, 
 And keenly thou could'st feel for others' woe ; 
 I've seen thine hand extended to relieve, 
 Heard thy soothing voice, and seen thee weep for 
 Sorrows not thine own, till when adopted. 
 I shared thy friendship more than twenty years, 
 Yet, never saw thee change, thou e'er wast kind, 
 Meet for such bliss, as is thy portion now. 
 No children mourn thy loss, — no, — thine are fled ; 
 Short was their sojourn in this vale of woe, 
 For Seraphs bore them to a softer clime : 
 There too thou art gone, — did they not greet thee ? 
 Fancy depicts their joy !— the Angels wept, 
 Touched their soft harps, attuned their voice to love, 
 To welcome thee ! a mother, — sister, — home.
 
 138 a lady's diary. 
 
 A LADY'S DIARY. 
 
 You ask most worthy friend of mine, 
 How I in gen'ral pass my time? 
 Immured as you are pleased to say, 
 From all the pleasures of the gay ; 
 Surrounded by no other scene, 
 Than nature clothed in native green ; 
 No park where all the world is met, 
 The statesman — soldier — beau — coquette, 
 Each showing off a destined part, 
 T* amuse and gladden ev'ry heart ; 
 And in the ev'ning, — I say night, 
 All that can captivate the sight, 
 Or charm the sense, all, all combine 
 To make the brilliant scene divine. 
 
 You wish my friend that I could taste 
 Such pleasures mid this dreadful waste, 
 As you are pleased to call this spot 
 Which is by heaven ordained my lot. 
 Suppose my friend that you come down, 
 And leave the fascinating town, —
 
 a lady's diary. 139 
 
 But ah! the bare idea shocks, 
 To dwell amid these vales and rocks ! — 
 "What, — breathe the vulgar country air; 
 "Tis only fit for hinds to bear." 
 Pray stay in town then for awhile, 
 At all my plans I know you'll smile, 
 But if they should amuse my friend, 
 My pen will gain its purposed end. 
 
 It is my wont when quite in health, 
 (And crowned with that, 'tis more than wealth !) 
 To leave my nightly couch at seven ; 
 When dressed I then petition heaven, 
 In a poor mortal weak essay, 
 To bless me through the coming day, 
 And praise for mercies of the night, 
 That I was spared till dawning-light. 
 This grateful task of duty o'er, 
 I cheerful pass my bed-room door ; 
 Then to the parlour make my way, 
 With my good aunt to sip bohea; 
 That and sweet chat-not to refine — 
 Will wile the moments till 'tis nine. 
 "What then," you say, — why then, I go 
 To make a most domestic show ; 
 Tarts, jellies, custards claim my care, 
 "A complete housewife, I declare !"
 
 140 a lady's diary. 
 
 Or, far more pleasing task to me! 
 
 Should e'er a neighbour poorly be, 
 
 (But *tis the indigent are meant,) 
 
 Their cottages I oft frequent, 
 
 There list their wants, — and freely tend 
 
 All in my power their state t' amend. 
 
 Now then as I observed before, 
 
 Are any sick amongst the poor, 
 
 With good aunt Cicily's advice, 
 
 I make them something that is nice ; — 
 
 Besides, when Thomas goes with this, 
 
 They say, poor things, — "this comes from Miss," 
 
 Then pour their blessings on my head, 
 
 And hope I ne'er shall want for bread ! — 
 
 How grateful this ! — this business o'er, 
 
 I am at leisure as before. 
 
 Methinks I hear you say, — "go on, — 
 "For truly this is quite the ton ; 
 "At least the country ton I mean, 
 "Ah! I should surely die with spleen: 
 "Well now my Rosa come, resume 
 "Your plan — for it is towards your noon — 
 "As yet my downy pillow's prest, 
 "And I absorbed in needful rest." 
 
 Why then, I probably may sit, 
 As fancy guides, draw, — sew,— or knit,
 
 a lady's diary. 141 
 
 "Knit! horrible! knit what?" — why socks 
 
 For little ones, or make them frocks. 
 
 Perchance a friendly call or two 
 
 May cheer the hour, — for I, like you, 
 
 Pay and receive my morning-calls ; 
 
 Though not like you, — converse of balls, 
 
 Of operas, — of routs, — or dress, — 
 
 What, probably, you cannot guess, — 
 
 Of history's page, and minstrel's lay, 
 
 Such as do honour to our day ; 
 
 Or cheerful join a fund to raise, 
 
 That all may hymn their Maker's praise. 
 
 These are amusements in my line ; 
 
 And as at three we always dine, 
 
 At two — it is my usual way — 
 
 I dress, and that too for the day ; 
 
 Simplicity is all required, 
 
 I do not dress to be admired ; 
 
 The toilet task is quickly o'er, 
 
 I yet have half an hour, or more ; 
 
 That's oft devoted to a friend, 
 
 Epistles then, are cheerly penned ; — 
 The dinner-bell's the 'customed sound, 
 To rouse me from my thoughts profound ; — 
 And when the little triune meet,
 
 14*2 a lady's diary. 
 
 Obliging looks each other greet ; 
 My good aunt Cicily, and I, 
 With my aunt's chaplain, good old Guy, 
 Comprise the party 'customed met, 
 When dinner on the table's set ; — 
 The converse of my aunt is free, 
 Which sets a friend at liberty; — 
 While pious Guy can talk so well, 
 That on each theme you love to dwell ; 
 No word escapes, but all might learn 
 Much knowledge, — if they could discern. 
 
 But what my friend are you about ? 
 Perhaps preparing for a rout, 
 Or lounging gaily in the mall ; 
 "But Rosa to your diary" — Well ; 
 Coffee is served ; sometimes a friend 
 Social and kind, may chance attend, 
 One who has conned the daily news, 
 This you will say "tends to amuse." 
 And should the evening prove serene, 
 Next comes an interesting scene ; 
 Flora invites to scan her bow'r, 
 There view her beauty in each flow'r; 
 Or with a youthful friend, I rove 
 The fields, — the valleys, — or the grove,
 
 a lady's diary. 143 
 
 While a sweet vocal concert there, 
 Fills with soft notes the limpid air; 
 Then Sol may gild the western sky 
 And shade it with each lovely die, 
 While in the beauteous concave clear, 
 The lamp of night adorns the sphere ; 
 The varied landscape smiles around. — 
 Perchance we on a rising ground 
 View the immensity of space, 
 And in the lovely view retrace 
 Creation's wonders ! God our theme ! 
 All nature speaks a pow'r supreme ! 
 
 Methinks you say, "ah ! tasteless child, 
 "Poor Rosa thou'rt a rustic wild, 
 "And e'en the woods thou rangest free, 
 "Are not more wild, I think, than thee ; 
 "Poor child of nature! thou indeed 
 "Art but as yet a simple weed." 
 J Tis true I am that flow'ret wild ; — 
 The world on me has never smiled ; 
 Transplant me not into that world, 
 Where poisoned shafts are so oft hurled ! — 
 The world would wither all my pow'r, 
 And make me like the blighted flow'r; 
 Whereas, in this sweet calm retreat,
 
 144 a lady's diary. 
 
 I am with peace, and health replete. 
 But I'm digressing, — to my song, 
 I fear Clarissa thinks it long. — 
 
 Night in turn comes with sober pace, 
 Throwing a veil o'er nature's face ; — 
 At each remark I see you smile — 
 Music or chat the hours beguile. 
 
 We then in peace retire to rest ! — 
 For resignation fills the breast. — 
 Well ! this monotony each day, 
 
 Shows how is past the week away ; 
 Yet sameness has not pow'r to cloy ; 
 Each day hath charms that I enjoy: 
 
 And know my friend, I would not leave 
 These shades, for all the world could give, 
 They have my infant hours beguiled, 
 And pleased me when an orphan-child ; 
 And as each latent talent spread, 
 I then was taught the world to dread ! 
 Each habit is to me endeared, 
 Each plan was learnt to be revered ; 
 And when my hand could guide my pen, 
 O 'twas Clarissa,— friend, — 'twas then, 
 That friendship, which our parents knew, 
 Commenced between myself and you ;
 
 a lady's diary. 145 
 
 But when I muse, it seems a dream, 
 To think that I have never seen, 
 Never but with the mental eye! — 
 And must I never then descry 
 My dear Clarissa? — the rural shade 
 Cannot allure thee gentle maid. 
 I fain would eloquence display 
 To tempt thee from th'illusive gay ! 
 But ah ! that pow'r was never mine, 
 Or that, with friendship, might combine, 
 To lure thee from the lively town, 
 And chase away the doubting frown. 
 
 O ! could I picture to thy mind, 
 The charms that truly are combined 
 To grace this little sylvan view, 
 Which Rosa thinks would charm e'en you ! 
 But should my pleading vainly prove, 
 And I not see the friend I love, 
 I yet will use my utmost skill, 
 Though vain I press Clarissa still. 
 
 Who can unmoved view nature's charms ? 
 The hardest bosom she disarms ; 
 Thus far she triumphs over art ; 
 That cannot to all breasts impart 
 Rapture alike ; — for instance, I 
 Could not your pleasures e'er enjoy.
 
 146 a lady's diary. 
 
 This sole idea doth affright, 
 To think you make my morning, night ! 
 And when I would myself repose, 
 You glitter in the side-box rows; 
 I could not join in your delight, 
 Then cease your Rosa to invite. 
 You say "your plan is life!" — my friend 
 That life with me would quickly end ; 
 Were I on fashion's whirlpool borne, 
 I soon should prove a poor forlorn. 
 Then as the sweet but desert rose, 
 Which mid the thorn, unheeded blows, 
 'Scapes danger there of sudden blight, 
 Far, far away from human sight, 
 Grant, like the desert rose, that I 
 Amid these shades may live and die; 
 Though they refinement may not teach, 
 One thing I'll learn ; 'tis in my reach ; 
 Retirement can the blessing give, 
 'Twill teach me how I ought to live ! 
 'Twill teach me too, — eternal joy ! — 
 Teach me, Clarissa ! — how to die.
 
 TO THE INFANT ROSCIUS. 147 
 
 TO THE INFANT ROSCIUS, 
 MASTER GROSSMITH. 
 
 Say child of promise, little star of earth, 
 What planet guided at thy natal hour? 
 
 What spirit hovering o'er thee at thy birth, 
 Crowned thee with genius, — intellectual power ? 
 
 Thou know'st sweet William that thy talents rare —   
 Which few possess like thee in early youth — 
 
 Thine agile form, strong mind, and aspect fair, 
 Were kindly granted by the God of truth ! 
 
 Then, though thy mind be clothed in manhood's 
 dress, 
 
 (For all must own thou play'st a manly part,) 
 In thy young bosom, pride, conceit, suppress, 
 
 Nor vainly boast thy skill in scenic art. 
 
 May wreaths unfading decorate thy brow ; 
 
 May fickle fortune ever on thee smile ; 
 Religion guide thy future steps as now, 
 
 And prove an honour to thy native isle.
 
 148 LINES TO JOSEPH ASTON, ESQ. 
 
 LINES 
 ADDRESSED TO JOSEPH ASTON, ESQ. 
 
 On the Anniversary of his Marriage. 
 
 Accept of this my feeble lay, 
 And O ! believe me when I say 
 My heart with rapture hails the day, 
 
 Rejoicing: in your bliss. 
 
 This day which doth your bosom cheer, 
 Completes the one-and-thirtieth year, 
 Since she who is so very dear, 
 
 Was given to your hand. 
 
 And whilst your heart received the prize, 
 The vow was sanctioned 'bove the skies ; 
 For vows sincere to heaven arise, 
 
 And angels note them down. 
 
 And do they not sometimes descend, 
 And hover o'er my valued friend, 
 Well pleased to see him cherish — tend 
 Her whom he vowed to love 
 
 So long as God should spare his life ! 
 O ! with this good and lovely wife, 
 May you still stranger be to strife, 
 
 Nor know but peace and joy !
 
 LINES TO JOSEPH ASTON, ESQ. 149 
 
 And, whilst rolls on the tide of time, 
 May every happiness entwine 
 Around your hearts ! — the wish is mine ! — 
 And may this sacred day 
 
 Return with many a circling- year, 
 Unsullied by a single tear, 
 Save that of love — and joy — so dear ! — 
 
 So precious to the good.
 
 150 WINTER IS OVER. 
 
 WINTER IS OVER. 
 
 Winter's ills, and varied pleasures, 
 
 Storms horrific, all are past ; 
 Changeful season ! — joys thou yieldest, 
 
 Such as every rank may grasp. 
 
 When thy even's step approaches, 
 Crescent-like around the fire, 
 
 Love and friendship sweet commingling, 
 What can more true bliss inspire? 
 
 Reasoning man alive to feeling, 
 Then finds solace which alone, 
 
 Though the globe around he traverse, 
 Meets in gentle woman's tone. 
 
 See the roseate spring advances, 
 Smiles descending from the sky; 
 
 Like soft glance from timid virtue, 
 Opes her mildly-beaming eye; 
 
 See her radiant charms reflected, 
 
 Nature's mirror all display ; 
 Fanned by genial gales, expanding 
 
 Flowers commix in fair array. 
 
 Soon vernal sweets ye droop, how transient! 
 
 Summer's sweets like ye, decline! 
 Autumn's too, as quickly languish ! 
 
 Canst thou man this scheme define?
 
 WINTER IS OVER. 
 
 Dost thou view these certain changes? 
 
 Or on viewing, find them fraught 
 With or aught of lore, instruction, 
 
 By revolving nature taught? 
 
 Pass gay seasons, pass ! I love ye ! 
 
 Passed, I ne'er regret your flight! 
 Winter come!— thy suite attending, 
 
 Thou restor'st the social night. 
 
 151
 
 152 THE ITINERANT. 
 
 THE ITINERANT. 
 
 Fortune may mar life's fairest scene, 
 
 Health, honours, wealth and fame, 
 Prove transient like an airy dream, 
 
 Friends be but such in name; 
 These truths are ever self- impressed, 
 
 Full oft the hope-born heir, 
 Hath felt their force within his breast, 
 
 With all their train of care. 
 
 Friendless, reduced, was Ferdinand, 
 
 Hibernia lost its spell ; 
 To join a social strolling band, 
 
 He bade her shores farewell ! 
 And in sweet Marianne's village shone 
 
 A star in scenic art, 
 She saw, admired this graceful one, 
 
 And gave him all her heart: 
 
 She bloomed the pride of every eye, 
 
 In affluence smiled her home, 
 That home she left, and friends to sigh, 
 
 A luckless bride to roam ; 
 Resentment filled her parents' breast, 
 
 Indignant beat their heart, 
 And when by want their child was prest, 
 
 No aid would they impart.
 
 THE ITINERANT. 153 
 
 Unfeeling mother could'st thou see, 
 
 Though but with mental eye, 
 That daughter who appealed to thee, 
 
 Beneath an adverse sky, 
 And not revive the tenderness 
 
 Which thou wast wont to feel, 
 To sooth her in her deep distress, 
 
 Her wounded bosom heal ! 
 
 Recal her steps, and to thine heart, 
 
 O fold her form once more, 
 The act would mutual bliss impart, 
 
 Would mutual peace restore : 
 The world His owned may cruel prove, 
 
 Friends, fortune be unkind, 
 But in a mother nought but love, 
 
 The erring child should find. 
 
 Of Thalia, and Melpomene, 
 
 Are sons 'neath fortune's smiles, 
 But frail dependance theirs must be, 
 
 Who wander through the isles ; 
 On Ferdinand and Marianne fair, 
 
 A train of ills descend ; 
 'Neath suffering, want, parental care, 
 
 Mortality must bend. 
 
 To many a door, weak, travel- worn, 
 
 They slow approach with dread, 
 The faded garb is viewed with scorn, 
 
 In vain they ask for bread; 
 At night the hut receives their form, 
 
 Should chance present such aid, 
 But frequent e'en beneath the storm, 
 
 On damp cold ground they're laid.
 
 154 THE ITINERANT. 
 
 Though northern winds may keenly blow, 
 
 Yet feeling not their blast, 
 We think not on the child of woe 
 
 That treads the forest waste ; 
 And oft when plenty crowns the board, 
 
 Chill penury's forgot, 
 Though fallen crumbs would feast afford 
 
 To those in humble lot. 
 
 The noon-day sun now gilds the glade, 
 
 Oppressive is the air, 
 To seek a cool sequestered shade, 
 
 Fatigued and bowed with care, 
 The trembling steps of Marianne 
 
 Are measured ; by her side, 
 Her partner treads, weak, faint and wan, 
 
 But still her joy and pride. 
 
 Before them runs a lovely boy, 
 
 Whose years have told but five, 
 Chasing the velvet butterfly, 
 
 His every sense alive ; 
 And O 'tis well thy tender age 
 
 Exempts thine heart from care, 
 Anguish thy mother's fears presage, 
 
 Thy bosom cannot share : 
 
 And yet thy little breast can swell, 
 
 And tears suffuse thine eyes, 
 Which feelings of pure nature tell, 
 
 When thy loved mother cries ; 
 Then with a winning soft address, 
 
 The tear upon her cheek 
 Thou wip'st with thy poor tattered dress, 
 
 Exclaiming, "do not weep!'' —
 
 THE ITINERANT. 155 
 
 A cup of water from the brook, 
 
 A father's last request, 
 Sweet Edwin brings with cherub look, 
 
 Flushed cheek and fluttering breast ; 
 He's stretched on turf in peaceful sleep, 
 
 Pale, Marianne bending o'er, 
 She can but weep, and sigh and weep, 
 
 He sleeps, — to wake no more. 
 
 For misery's child there is an hour 
 
 To claim a peaceful home ; 
 To village church with ivied tower, 
 
 Poor Ferdinand is borne ; 
 She follows sad who shared thy woe, 
 
 Nor yet complaint had she, 
 Nor thought her comforts here below, 
 
 Were slight, whilst owning thee : 
 
 But thou art gone ! Oh thou art gone ! 
 
 Thy boy, and wife so true, 
 May wander long bereft of home, 
 
 Yet linger still to view 
 The place wherein thou rests — the sod — 
 
 No stone will mark the spot, 
 And soon unknown except to God, 
 
 Thou ever wast, or not. 
 
 Poor Marianne's widowed heart beats high, 
 
 Tears can no longer flow, 
 And "come my Edwin dearest boy," 
 
 "Oh mother must we go, 
 And leave poor father?" "yes my love, 
 
 He wants not you nor me, 
 Thy father now, is God above, 
 
 Thy mother still with thee."
 
 156 THE ITINERANT. 
 
 They wander long and wretchedly, 
 
 All life's privations bear; 
 Poor hapless child ! for sake of thee, 
 
 Doth heaven thy mother spare ; 
 She shields thee from the reckless storm, 
 
 The crust she needs is thine; 
 Thy pillow is her bosom warm, 
 
 And pity's tear is mine. 
 
 Though far away, though far away, 
 
 Yet nature points alone 
 To where she smiled in early day, 
 
 Her village, and her home ; 
 At length she views the distant spire, 
 
 Her native hills of green, 
 Within her breast faint joys respire, 
 
 And hope relumes its beam. 
 
 Once blasted and the graceful flower, 
 
 No more shall please the eye, 
 And beauty's charms soon lose their power, 
 
 'Neath misery's frigid sky : 
 Poor Marianne to her father's door, 
 
 Last refuge for repose, 
 Unknown, enfeebled, widowed, poor 
 
 And tremulous, she goes : 
 
 She starts ! loud plaints she utters wild, 
 
 She sees her mother's bier ! — 
 "And art thou gone, and thy lost child 
 
 Forgiveness must not hear?" 
 In agony she clasps her boy, 
 
 "My child \" he shrieks from fear, 
 Her spirit seeks its native sky ! — 
 
 Compassion ! drops a tear.
 
 MORTALITY. 157 
 
 MORTALITY. 
 
 Say, can the world with its seductive charms 
 
 And idle dreams of visionary bliss, 
 
 Amuse the grave, the philosophic mind? 
 
 No, rather let it flee the haunts of men, 
 
 And seek for knowledge mid the silent tombs; 
 
 Visit these still recesses of the dead, 
 
 When twilight half obscures the scene around ; 
 
 'Tis then the active mind feels more prepared 
 
 For meditation, more impressed with awe. 
 
 The yew-trees' sombre shadows on the tombs 
 
 Cast o'er the heart a melancholy spell, [flight. 
 
 Whilst cawing Rooks wing round their pond'rous 
 Then tread not lightly on the sacred ground! 
 Hallowed be ev'ry thought and ev'ry word! 
 The bed of death should be approached with awe. 
 
 Who with a breast unmoved, unless he own 
 An adamantine heart, can thoughtless trace 
 The simple line engraven on yon stone? 
 "Unpitied, moulders; — dying, left no friend!" — 
 Alas ! poor wand'rer, now he hath a home !
 
 158 MORTALITY. 
 
 The torrid zone first gave him vital breath; 
 His jetty form was reared on Afric's shore • 
 There 'neath the cooling shade, his flippant tread 
 Would oft in pleasing gambols cheer his Sire, 
 But dragged from home, from country, and from 
 By sons of avarice in fetters bound, [friends, 
 
 "His colour all his crime," the galling chain, 
 The racking thoughts of home, and ev'ry tie 
 Of love, that man (in feeling not a man) 
 Had torn away, maddened his heart 
 To callousness, till ocean rank'd his friend. 
 Tempestuous winds arose ; the vessel wrecked, 
 Sambo alone was saved ; to Britain brought ; 
 "He touch'd her shore — that moment he was free." 
 But what could Afric's son untaught pursue? 
 Oft was the boon his broken language craved, 
 Witheld. — Lives not compassion in the breast 
 Of fair Britannia's daughters ? Yes. — O ! then 
 With keener sense of pity feel for Blacks ; 
 And with a bounteous hand more freely give 
 The sable wanderer should he ask an alms. 
 
 That opened grave beneath the cypress-shade, 
 Gapes hideously to swallow blooming youth ; 
 The gay Lucinda's form must moulder there. 
 Who was so sprightly in the midnight dance,
 
 MORTALITY. 159 
 
 Or who in fashion's whirlpool shone so fair? 
 
 Each blooming beauty mantled o'er the cheek, 
 
 Brilliant her eye ! and ever-new delight 
 
 Hung on the pleasing accent of her tongue. 
 
 And must she in the gayest scenes of life, 
 
 Adored and nattered as Lucinda was ; 
 
 Must she resign these pleasures for the grave? 
 
 Yes ! poor Lucinda midst the pomp of dress, 
 
 With heart as light as floating gossamer 
 
 To join the giddy and licentious throng, 
 
 Was summoned hence : the gorgeous robe she wore, 
 
 Must be exchanged for a simple shroud. 
 
 Who in the eddy of licentiousness, 
 Bestows a thought, — has time to think on death ? 
 Say, votary of the world, can all your pomp, 
 And noisy revelry, impede the hand 
 Of ever-conquering, relentless death ? 
 Retire from all this hurricane of woe ; 
 Visit the house that's destined soon for thee. 
 
 Yon massive door thrown on its hinges back, 
 Invites the wary stranger to step in ; 
 Withstand not then the sacred invitation; 
 The marble sculpture and the solemn aisle, 
 Afford the mind of pious taste delight ! 
 To meditate on these, the wise will leave
 
 160 MORTALITY. 
 
 The mad illusive pleasures of the gay. 
 
 Observe that little tablet 'gainst yon wall, 
 The faint inscription says, — "a man of worth 
 And strictest piety, rests near this place." 
 In the sacred court where he reposes, 
 He taught the way that leads to heaven and bliss ; 
 Each sentence as it fell, would pierce the heart 
 Of horrid infidelity itself; 
 
 And to the pious breast, his words were balm, 
 Lulling all sorrow to a calm repose. 
 Oft has the hand now mould'ring 'neath the stone, 
 Dispensed the willing boon, doubled in worth, 
 By aspect sweet, and pity-beaming eye : 
 How would the children run to steal a look, 
 And drop a rustic curtsey for a smile ! — 
 No sland'rous tongue dared ever to decry 
 The good man's name, for he was loved by all. 
 Behold the vaulted passage 'neath yon steps; 
 'Tis there the great ! in pompous state must rot. 
 Ah ! what avails the empty title now, 
 The sumptuous robe, or gaudy equipage, 
 Or train of sycophants, or gilded room? 
 They can avail not here, — and well it is, 
 That rank must mingle with the meaner dust. 
 Greatness ! O, empty sound ! if not distinguished
 
 MORTALITY. 161 
 
 By the brilliant light of noble actions. 
 Then greatness live ! live in immortal praise : 
 The marble slab or sculptured urn will then 
 Impart to virtue's breast a real joy. 
 
 Let not the stranger pass with heedless glance 
 That simple monument of infant smiles ; 
 What sweetness there depicted, and what grace 
 Mingles throughout the little female form : 
 See, in the tiny hand a basket's held, 
 Laden with never-fading florets wild. — 
 Lovely innocent ! alas ! how short the space 
 'Twixt thy first breathing, to the solemn tomb ! 
 
 Heaven's high kingdom ! who can e'er describe ? 
 Not man, for all which captivates is there, 
 Filling all space with ever-new delight. 
 No darkness there obtrudes upon the eye, 
 Or mid-day sun e'er too oppressive prove ; 
 No howling winds e'er scowl, or tempests rage, 
 Or inundations whelm the bleating flock ; 
 No forked lightnings ever rend the clouds, 
 Or hollow thunders in the concave roar. 
 See to this blissful region, there pourtrayed 
 A female figure, bursting from the tomb ! — 
 With what ecstatic rapture doth she break 
 The marble limits that enshrined her form ! 
 The trumpet sounds ; the spirit breaks its bonds 
 
 M
 
 162 MORTALITY. 
 
 And wings its rapid flight to realms of day, 
 Eager to join its kindred angels there. 
 
 Stranger, who e'er thou art, treading midst graves, 
 If but susceptible of things sublime, 
 Leave these sacred shades with this important truth 
 Implanted in thine heart ; nurture it there ; 
 Let it take root, expand, and bloom for ever : 
 That all the riches of Golconda's mine, 
 And all the honours majesty can give, 
 Are but as dross weighed in the scale of heaven ; 
 But to possess a heart which yields to Him, 
 The author, giver, and support of all, 
 Is to possess a kingdom in the breast ; 
 This truth should lift the soul to ecstacy. 
 Borne on imagination's airy wing, 
 The mental eye can soar to realms above, 
 And faith will bear it to the throne of heaven. 
 But wake, O man ! from this thy dream of bliss ! 
 And while the floating bark must bear its course 
 On life's tempestuous, and uncertain sea, 
 Take for thy pilot, Christ the Son of God. 
 Then waves may rise, and swell to mountain's height, 
 O'erwhelm the mast, or deeply fill the hold; 
 Lightning may flash and rend the spreading sail ; 
 Or dashed may be the vessel 'gainst a rock ; 
 Or pirates' hands may seize and all be lost;
 
 MORTALITY. 163 
 
 The christian still is safe ; his pilot stems 
 The dread torrent of the rising surge, 
 Bidding defiance to the raging storm: 
 He steers him to that shore where all is peace ! 
 Safe harboured there, no storms can 'gain assail ; 
 No sorrow pierce the heart — or wet the eye.
 
 164 THE DEAD, BUT STILL FRAGRANT ROSES. 
 
 THE DEAD, BUT STILL FRAGRANT 
 
 ROSES. 
 
 Wan flowers ! how graceful once your form, 
 When pending o'er your native bed, 
 
 Or pluck'd, Lucinda's breast to Morn ; 
 Now are your brilliant graces fled ! 
 
 She saw you droop, and fade, and die ; 
 
 Your loved remains in ashes lie. 
 
 Presented as ye oped each day, 
 Bespangled o'er with pearly dew, 
 
 By one much valued, far away, 
 
 P'hraps lost to dear Lucinda's view ! 
 
 For life is transient as the flower; 
 
 Uncertain every passing hour. 
 
 The fragrant pallid dust she views, 
 Memento sweet, of Arthur's love ; 
 
 The lucid tear-drop warm, bedews 
 What silent monitor may prove, 
 
 May teach that time-formed things decay, 
 
 Till every beauty's past away. 
 
 Lucinda blooms in roseate hue, 
 
 That tint these fragile sweets adorned, 
 
 When they in full luxuriance blew ! 
 She too in elegance is formed, 
 
 Her balmy coral lips disclose 
 
 Fresh beauties like the opening rose.
 
 THE DEAD, BUT STILL FRAGRANT ROSES. 165 
 
 Say, trifling fair in beauty's mould, 
 Who emulate in charms the flower, 
 
 Bedecked with orient gems, or gold, 
 If owning not pure virtue's power, 
 
 Say, can your scentless charms impart 
 
 One lasting pleasure to the heart? 
 
 Ah, no ! the virtuous cottage-maid, 
 Who blooms like desert-rose, retired, 
 
 Or violet sweet beneath the shade, 
 Needs but be known to be admired, 
 
 Far, far beyond the fluttering fair 
 
 Like silken moth in summer air. 
 
 The loved Lucinda, nature's child, 
 As breath of morn or lily, pure, 
 
 Like playful evening zephyr, mild, 
 Owns graces that will e'er endure ! 
 
 Her roses died, she too must die, 
 
 Like them — entombed — in ashes lie : 
 
 But like the odorous rose, retains 
 
 The power to charm the sense, delight; 
 
 Whilst love or friendship here remains, 
 She lives, though winged from human sight 
 
 A flower in Eden's grove to blow, 
 
 More sweet than roses bloom below.
 
 166 HYMN. 
 
 HYMN, 
 
 The ideas suggested chiefly from reading the 14Sth 
 
 Psalm. 
 
 "O ! praise the Lord with one glad voice/' 
 All ye His saints on earth rejoice; 
 O ! praise Him from the heavens above, 
 Proclaim His glory and His love. 
 
 Angels of light ! praise Him on high, 
 And all ye hosts beyond the sky ; 
 One universal strain upraise, 
 In one united breath give praise. 
 
 Thou sun by day ! and moon by night ! 
 Give praise in your effulgent light ; 
 Ye lesser orbs, His glory prove, 
 Let each bright gem declare His love. 
 
 Ye rocks, and hills, and fertile vales ; 
 And stormy winds, and gentler gales ; 
 And lightning's flash, — and thunder's roar, 
 Resound His praise through ev'ry shore. 
 
 Ye beasts give praise, — and birds that glide 
 Through ether's space, — ye aqueous tribe, 
 Swell the great waters as ye roll, 
 With boundless praise, from pole to pole.
 
 HYMN. 167 
 
 Monarchs of earth resound His praise ! 
 In songs of love your voices raise ; 
 The King of kings exalt His name! — 
 One stream of praise should speak His fame. 
 
 All that can breathe the vital air, 
 
 To chant His wondrous love prepare, 
 
 Let infant voices feebly raise 
 
 Their little strains, in songs of praise : — 
 
 Thus learn from youth, to age, to love 
 The Lord who reigns in heaven above; 
 Who rules earth, air, and sea, and skies, 
 Who never, — never, — never, dies. 
 
 May ev'ry nation thus combine, 
 And ev'ry clime with fervour join, 
 To raise their voices up above, 
 To hymn in praise, — "redeeming love." 
 
 Reverberate through worlds unknown, 
 Echo through heaven's eternal dome, — 
 Nor die the cadence yet away, 
 The strain resound through realms of day.
 
 168 HYMN. 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 Wait O my soul on God most high, 
 Salvation comes from Him alone ; 
 
 His boundless mercy's ever nigh, 
 
 It drops unceasing from His throne; 
 
 Thus sprinkling with His dew so fair, 
 
 The creatures of His constant care. 
 
 I'll sing of all His wondrous power, 
 And love benign, in early morn ; 
 
 And at the solemn midnight hour 
 
 My steadfast thought shall oft be borne 
 
 On wings of ecstacy to Thee ! — 
 
 Where e'er I soar, my Lord will be; 
 
 Where He smiles not I cannot go, 
 
 Thro' earth, thro' air, thro' ocean's flood, — 
 
 He's ever near, above, — below, — 
 Around : His universal good 
 
 Doth fill immensity of space ; 
 
 In nature's works His greatness trace. 
 
 To view the mountain, — -field, — or grove, —   
 The hill, — the valley, — or the mead ; 
 
 In all is seen, unbounded love; 
 
 From God all beauty doth proceed 
 
 Which every plant, or flower displays : 
 
 The great Creator ! each arrays.
 
 HYMN. 169 
 
 may I ever dwell with Thee, 
 
 My God ! — my Saviour ! — and my guide ! 
 Through time, — -and through eternity, — 
 
 I safely would with Thee abide; 
 Without Thee all is endless woe; — 
 Worthless, — and trifling, all below. 
 
 I'll chant Thy praise whilst I have breath ; 
 
 Almighty Father ! grant to me, 
 That when my tongue is mute in death, 
 
 My soul may echo love to Thee; 
 
 1 then will join where angels sing 
 Praises to heaven's eternal King.
 
 170 ON THE DEATH OF A GENTLEMAN. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A GENTLEMAN, 
 ACCIDENTALLY SHOT BY A FRIEND. 
 
 In all the splendour of funereal pomp, 
 See ! yonder comes a mournful cavalcade ; 
 Sad, follows in the train, affection mute; 
 Then, solemn scene ! friend following friend, 
 Precede a lengthened band of tenantry warm-hearted ; 
 And such the general feeling of respect 
 Towards the departed, that every tongue is 
 Eloquent in praise, each bosom breathes regret, 
 And every cheek's a current for a tear. 
 
 But why uncalled, thus flow a stranger's tears ? 
 Why heaves her breast with an unbidden sigh ? 
 Her muse call forth to give the sacred meed, 
 The tributary verse to stranger- worth ? 
 It is because she feels a hallowed bliss, 
 A pleasure unalloyed in sympathy ! — 
 
 In the bright walks of life, and shadowy vale, 
 Alike the beauteous bloom, the virtuous live, 
 And intellectual breathe. To one the world 
 Admired, nursed in the lap of affluence, on 
 Whom kind fortune smiled, my wayward muse
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A GENTLEMAN. 171 
 
 Pours forth the feeble, though heart-breathing lay ; 
 Yet not to these, or rank, she tribute pays, 
 Strings her weak lyre to raise th' applausive note, 
 But to the virtuous, generous, and the good, 
 Whom nature gifted with her talents rare. 
 
 In life's full vigour, like majestic oak 
 Rearing its noble front in forest wide, 
 That falls beneath the lightning's vengeful stroke, 
 Was blasted Alfred, he of his generous 
 House, "the pride and joy ! " Like the famed shepherd 
 Youth, or valiant prince of old, oh much 
 Regretted one ! a friend thou hadst, whose soul 
 With thine in sweet communion twined : how 
 Oft in social converse have ye wiled the 
 Leisure hour, and the bright thought imparted ! 
 Unhappy morn, when joyous for the sport, 
 Ye sought the favourite haunt of pheasant tribe; 
 With heart elate and bounding step the copse 
 Was sprang, the tube was levelled, and with what 
 Success, humanity must veil ! such is 
 The mystical decree of heaven's high 
 Throne, that even on the threshold of 
 Security — at least to man — death varied 
 Shapes assumes, strikes his fell lance, and thus 
 Deceives our fond imaginings : and 'tis 
 Not for mortality to search into the
 
 172 ON THE DEATH OF A GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Motives of omnipotence, or to arraign 
 The wisdom, justice of the God supreme. 
 
 When at the Castle, the paternal home, 
 The messenger unfolds the mournful tale, 
 With anguish rings the hospitable dome, 
 And cries re-echo through the spacious halls! 
 What soother now can still the throbbing of 
 The parents' breast? condolence is rejected, 
 And the grief which lacerates the wounded heart, 
 Time but can moderate, and heaven heal ! 
 
 Yet one sweet drop of mercy's purest dew, 
 Is mingled in the gall-like cup of woe ; 
 Few hours are told, ere Alfred's sufferings cease; 
 Felicitous the change ! how calm he sinks 
 Into the arms of angels gentle as 
 Their errand pure! impedeless now they wing- 
 To heaven's unfolding gate their precious charge ; 
 Soft harmony awakes his soul to bliss ! 
 And whilst he joins bright seraphs' song of praise, 
 They crown him with a wreath of immortality.
 
 HYMN ON THE LAST DAY. 173 
 
 HYMN ON THE LAST DAY. 
 
 "Hark ! 'tis the trumpet's awful sound, " 
 Echoing: through the concave round, 
 
 Descending from the skies ; 
 'Tis from the empyrean throne, — 
 The mandate comes from God alone, 
 
 To bid the dead, — arise ! 
 
 Borne on the whirlwind's rapid wing, 
 The herald angels tidings bring ; 
 
 Seraphic hosts attend ; 
 Proclaiming loud the great behest 
 To north, — and south, — to east, — and west ;- 
 
 Each clime attention lend ! 
 
 Burst ev'ry tomb throughout the earth — 
 Your dead give up ! — -To second birth — 
 
 Awake ! — Awake and sing ! 
 The ear the softest music greets, — 
 The re-embodied spirit fleets 
 
 To heaven's eternal King. 
 
 The rocks, and hills are rent in twain, 
 Torrents come rolling from the main, 
 
 Inundate all around ; 
 The globe to its foundation shakes, 
 The pond'rous mountain strangely quakes 
 
 At the last trumpet's sound.
 
 174 HYMN ON THE LAST DAY. 
 
 Oh ! whither, wretched, will ye flee ? 
 The Judge must pass His just decree 
 
 Upon the impious head : 
 Not to be numbered with the blest, 
 Or share in everlasting rest, 
 
 Is hell enough to dread. 
 
 Fall back with joy ye massive gates, 
 The King of glory anxious waits 
 
 To welcome to His throne, 
 The kindred spirits of the just 
 Reanimated from the dust, 
 
 By God's adopted Son. 
 
 He comes ! the Shepherd is in view, 
 He leads his faithful flock anew; 
 
 The heavenly phalanx join 
 The fair celestial train to greet, 
 And hail them to their blest retreat; 
 
 To welcome, all combine. 
 
 Ye cherubs, — and ye cherubims, 
 List ! — 'tis the concert loud begins 
 
 Of the full heav'nly choir ; 
 Ten thousand thousand seraphs sing ; 
 The vaulted domes in transport ring, 
 
 And echoes ! — echoes ! — higher.
 
 INDEX. 175 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Page. 
 
 On SOLITUDE 1 
 
 Corridon's Complaint 5 
 
 A Pastoral 8 
 
 A Pastoral 11 
 
 A Pastoral 13 
 
 Emma's Breathings of Love 15 
 
 Sonnet to a Robin 17 
 
 Sonnet to Sleep 18 
 
 Sonnet to a lovely departed Child 19 
 
 Mary, a Ballad 20 
 
 Advice to Belinda 23 
 
 Advice to the Fair 25 
 
 A Dream 26 
 
 The Separation 29 
 
 May-Day 31 
 
 Reformation 35 
 
 The Orphan Boy 37 
 
 The Orphan Girl 39 
 
 The Soldier's Daughter 41 
 
 The Cottager's Daughter 43
 
 176 INDEX. 
 
 The Rustic Maid 45 
 
 The Gipsy Girl 47 
 
 A Song 48 
 
 The Winter's Day 49 
 
 Matilda 51 
 
 A Sketch - , . . . 57 
 
 The Silent Tear 58 
 
 A Morning in May 60 
 
 Lines written for a Lady to present with 
 
 61 
 
 ^at Willi -v 
 >wers . . . . ) 
 
 a Drawing of a group of Flo 1 * 
 
 A Fable 62 
 
 The Poet's Ramble 64 
 
 The Snowdrop 78 
 
 On the Lily of the Valley 79 
 
 The Smiles 80 
 
 The Drooping Flower 83 
 
 The Dew-Drop 84 
 
 Belinda's Address to a Robin 86 
 
 To a Canary Bird, the Gift of a departed Friend 87 
 
 Affection's Breathings 88 
 
 A Mother's Address to her sleeping Infant . 89 
 
 The Farewell 90 
 
 The happy days of Childhood 92 
 
 On Happiness 93 
 
 On Friendship 95 
 
 A Night in December 98
 
 INDEX. 177 
 
 A meditative Effusion on opening Spring . . 103 
 
 A Sunday Evening's Reflection 105 
 
 Addressed to an Atheist 107 
 
 An Inscription on a Tombstone 108 
 
 On viewing the remains of a Friend 109 
 
 On the death of Miss Maria H , of Ludlow 110 
 
 To the Genius of Poetry Ill 
 
 A Summer Evening 112 
 
 On leaving Tarporley for a residence in Ludlow 115 
 
 The Invitation 118 
 
 The Solitaire 122 
 
 Lines addressed to Mrs. Parry, late Miss ) 
 
 J [ 124 
 
 E. Barker of Northwich ) 
 
 On viewing my Father's Portrait, many years | 
 
 after his death ) 
 
 An Epistle addressed to a young Friend .... 1 29 
 
 To a Mother doubting the existence of her) 
 
 5 [ 133 
 
 absent Sons ' 
 
 Soliloquy on the Death of Mrs. Kent, only 
 
 136 
 
 ! 
 
 Sister to the present Sir Thomas Reade 
 A Lady's Diary 138 
 
 To the Infant Roscius, Master Grossmith. . . . 147 
 
 Lines addressed to Joseph Aston, Esq. on . 
 
 148 
 
 } 
 
 the anniversary of his marriage .... 
 
 Winter is over 150 
 
 The Itinerant 152
 
 178 INDEX. 
 
 Mortality 157 
 
 The dead, but still fragrant Roses 164 
 
 Hymn, the ideas suggested chiefly from 
 read ins: the 148th Psalm 
 
 *& 
 
 ! 
 
 Hymn , 168 
 
 On the death of a Gentleman, accidentally*! 
 
 shot by a Friend I 
 
 Hymn on the Last Day 173 
 
 ERRATA. 
 
 Page 7, line 3, for soothe, read sooth. 
 
 34, line 8, for ethertal, read ethereal. 
 
 42, verse 3, line 4, for palid, read pallid. 
 
 49, line 7, for etherial, read ethereal. 
 
 72, line 12, for cambined, read combined. 
 
 80, verse 1, line 6, for heavens, read heaven's. 
 
 139, line 21, for chat-not, read chat — not. 
 
 Procter (f Jones, Printers, Ludlow.
 
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