POEMS. 
 
POEMS 
 
 MATILDA BETHAM. 
 
 Y 
 
 ILonBotu 
 
 PRINTED FOR J. HATCHARD, 
 
 BOOKSELLER TO HER MAJESTY, OPPOSITE ALBANY, 
 PICCADILLY. 
 
 1808. 
 
Brettell and Co. Printers, 
 Marthall-strcett Golden-squart. 
 
15 '$4 
 
 TO 
 
 LADY ROUSE BOUGHTON, 
 
 AS A 
 TESTIMONY OP RESPECT AND GRATITUDE FOR 
 
 LONG CONTINUED FRIENDSHIP, 
 THIS HTfLE VOLUME IS INSCRIBED BY 
 
 HER OBLIGED HUMBLE SERVANT, 
 
 MATILDA BETHAM. 
 
 New Cavendish-street, 
 Feb. 9, 1808. 
 
 
ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 BEFORE this book was printed, I thoughtlessly con- 
 cluded there must be a preface ; but, oft consideration, 
 see no particular purpose it would answer, and gladly 
 decline a task I should have undertaken with much timi- 
 dity and reluctance. All I feel necessary to premise, 
 is, that the tale in the Old Shepherd's Recollections is 
 founded on an event which happened in Ireland ; and 
 that last spring I suppressed the song ending in page 65, 
 some time after it had been in the hands of the compo- 
 ser, from meeting accidentally with a quotation in a 
 magazine that resembled it. 
 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Pag* 
 
 THE Old Fisherman I 
 
 Lines to Mrs. Radcliffe, on first reading The Myste- 
 ries of tfdolpho 11 
 
 The Heir .>. .. .. .... 15 
 
 T a Llangollen Rose, the day after it had been given 
 
 me by Miss Ponsonby .16 
 
 L'Homme de I' Ennui 17 
 
 The Grandfather's Departure 20 
 
 Reflections occasioned by the Death of Friends . . 23 
 
 To Mrs. T. Fancourt 26 
 
 To a Young Gentleman 28 
 
 Fragment 31 
 
 SONGS." Thrice lovely Bab 37 
 
 " What do I love ? , . . 39 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 A Sailor's Song 41 
 
 Another '....... 43 
 
 Once more, then farewell ! . . 45 
 
 Henry, on the Departure of his Wife from Calcutta 46 
 
 Sonnet 48 
 
 On the Regret of Youth ..,.,.... 49 
 
 Elegy on Sophia Graham 52 
 
 To Miss Rouse Boughton 57 
 
 To the Same * 59 
 
 To the River which separates itself from the Dee at 
 
 Bedkellert . 61 
 
 The Old Man's Farewell 64 
 
 Song Distance from the Place of our Nativity . 66 
 The Old Shepherd's Recollections . . -''v ? .V . 68 
 
 Reflection 90 
 
 Retrospect of Youth 92 
 
 The Daughter . ., 94 
 
 Youth unsuspicious of evil 100 
 
 The Mother 102 
 
 Edgar and Ellen 105 
 
THE OLD FISHERMAN. 
 
 bosom is chill'd with the cold, 
 My limbs their lost vigour deplore ! 
 Alas ! to the lonely and old, 
 
 Hope warbles her promise no more! 
 
 ' 
 
 ( Worn out with the length of my way, 
 I must rest me awhile on the beach, 
 
 To feel the salt dash of the spray, 
 If haply so far it may reach. 
 
( As the white-foaming billows arise, 
 
 I reflect on the days that are past, 
 When the pride of my strength could despise 
 
 The keen-driving force of the blast. 
 
 ' Though the heavens might menace on higty 
 I would still push my vessel from shore ; 
 
 At my calling undauntedly ply, 
 And sing as I handled the oar. 
 
 ' When fortune rewarded my toil, 
 And my nets, deeply-laden, I drew, 
 
 I hurried me home with the spoil, 
 And its inmates rejoic'd at the view. 
 
 * Though the winds and the waves were perverse,. 
 
 I was sure to be welcom'd with glee ; 
 My presence the cares would disperse, 
 
 That were only awaken' d for me. 
 
' Whether weary, with toiling in vain, 
 Or gay, from abundant success, 
 
 I heard the same blessing again, 
 I met the same tender caress : 
 
 < I fancied the perils repay'd, 
 That could such affection ensure ; 
 
 By fondness and gratitude sway'd, 
 I was eager to dare and endure. 
 
 ' My cot did each comfort contain, 
 And that gave my bosom delight ; 
 
 When drench* d by the winterly rain, 
 I watch' d in my vessel at night. 
 
 * But, alas ! from the tyrant, Disease, 
 What love or what caution can save ! 
 
 A fever, more harsh than the seas, 
 Consign* d my poor wife to the grave. 
 
* My children, so tenderly rear'd, 
 And pining for want of her care, 
 
 Though more by my sorrows endear' d, 
 Could not rescue my heart from despair. 
 
 ' I tempted the dangers of night, 
 And still labour' d hard at the oar, 
 
 My sufferings appear' d to be light, 
 But I suffer' d with pleasure no more. 
 
 * And yet, when some seasons had roll'd,, 
 
 I seem'd to awaken anew ; 
 My children I lov'd to behold, 
 
 How tall and how comely they grew. 
 
 * My boy became hardy and bold, 
 
 His spirit was buoyant and free; 
 
 And, as I grew thougmful and old, 
 
 Was loud and oppressive to me. 
 
' But the girl, like a bird in the bower, 
 Awaken' d my hope and my pride ; 
 
 She won on my heart ev'ry hour, 
 And I could not the preference hide. 
 
 ( I mark'd the address and the care, 
 The manner endearing and mild, 
 
 Not dreaming those qualities rare 
 Were to murther the peace of my child : 
 
 * That grandeur would ever descend 
 
 To seek for so lowly a bride, 
 Or his fair one, a lover pretend, 
 
 From all she held dear to divide : 
 
 ' That beauty was priz'd like a gem, 
 Expected to dazzle and shine, 
 
 Whose value the world would contemn, 
 Unless trac'd to some Indian mine : 
 
' Alas ! hapless girl ! had I known 
 Thou hadst learnt to repine at thy lot ; 
 
 That splendour and rank were thy own, 
 Thy home and thy father forgot : 
 
 ' That love and ambition assail'd, 
 Thou hadst left us, whatever befel ! 
 
 My pardon and prayers had prevailed, 
 I had blest thee, and bade thee farewel ! 
 
 ' With thy husband, from this happy clime, 
 I had seen thee for ever depart ! 
 
 Still hoping affection and time 
 
 Might soften the pride of his heart : 
 
 ' That a moment perhaps would arise, 
 When, fondling a child on the knee, 
 
 He might read, in its innocent eyes 
 A lesson of pity for me? 
 
< But lips, which till then never said 
 
 A word to cause any one pain, 
 informed me, when reason had fled, 
 . Of a conflict it could not sustain. 
 
 >. .'.' 
 * And he, who had wish'd to conceal 
 
 That the woman he lov'd had been poor, 
 Began all his folly to feel, 
 When the victim could hearken no more. 
 
 ' Yet still for himself did he mourn, 
 And, indignant, I fled from the view : 
 
 For my wrongs were not easily borne, 
 And my anger was hard to subdue. 
 
 ' One prop, one sole comfort, remain' d, 
 Who saw me o'erladen with grief, 
 
 Who saw (though I never complain' d) 
 My heart was too sick for relief. 
 
' One, who always attentive and dear, 
 
 Every effort exerted to please, 
 My desolate prospect to cheer, 
 
 To study my health and my ease. 
 
 ' For his was each toil and each care, 
 
 The due observations to keep ; 
 To sit watching amid the night air, 
 
 And fancy his father asleep. 
 
 ' Yet, dejected, and sadly forlorn, 
 
 I dar'd in my heart to repine, 
 To lament that I ever was born, 
 
 Though such worth and affection were mine-. 
 
 ' Alas ! I was destin'd to know, 
 
 However intense my despair, 
 I still was reserved for a blow, 
 
 More painful and cruel to bear. 
 
' Yes ! this only one fell in the main ! 
 
 I eagerly struggled to save ; 
 
 But I strove with the current in vain, 
 
 And saw him sink under the wave ! 
 
 ' My head was astounded and wild, 
 Incessant I roam'd on the shore, 
 
 To seek the dead corse of my child, 
 And to weep on his bosom once more. 
 
 ' Seven days undisturbed was the sky, 
 The eighth was a tempest most drear, 
 
 I saw the huge billow rise high ! 
 I saw my lost treasure appear ! 
 
 * Like a dream it seem'd passing away :- 
 I hurried me onward to meet, 
 
 And clasp the inanimate clay, 
 When senseless I sunk at his feet. 
 
10 
 
 * These hands, now enfeebled by time, 
 
 The last pious offices paid I 
 Age sorrowed o'er youth in its prime, 
 
 And my boy near his mother was laid. 
 
 ' Now searM by the grie/s I have known, 
 Wounds, apathy only can heal, 
 
 My joys and my sorrows are flown, 
 For I have forgotten to feel. 
 
 * But I know my Creator is just, 
 That his hand will deliver me soon ; 
 
 I have learnt to submit and tc trust, 
 Though I finish my journey alone.* 
 
 Aldborougb, September 7, 1500. 
 
11 
 
 LINES TO MRS. RADCLIFFE, 
 
 On first reading 
 THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO. 
 
 ENCHANTRESS ! whose transcendant pow'rs, 
 With ease, the massy fabric raise ; 
 
 Beneath whose sway the tempest low'rs, 
 Or lucid stream meandering plays ; 
 
 Accept the tribute of a heart, 
 
 Which thou hast often made to glow 
 
 With transport, oft with terror start, 
 Or sink at strains of solemn woe ! 
 
12 
 
 Invention, like a falcon, tam'd 
 
 By some expert and daring hand, 
 For pride, for strength and fierceness fam'd, 
 
 Implicit yields to thy command. 
 Now mounts aloft in soaring flight, 
 Shoots, like a star, beyond the sight ; 
 Or, in capricious windings borne, 
 Mocks our faint hopes of safe return ; 
 Delights in trackless paths to roam, 
 But hears thy call, and hurries home ; 
 Checks his bold wing when tow'ring free, 
 And sails, without a pause, to thee ! 
 Enchantress, thy behests declare ! 
 And what thy strong delusions are ! 
 
 When spirits in thy circle rise, 
 
 Gaunt Wonder, panic-struck, and pale, 
 Impatient Hope, and dread Surmise, 
 
 Attendants on the mystic tale ! 
 
13 
 
 How is it, with such vivid hues, 
 
 A harmonizing softness flows ! 
 What are the charms that can diffuse, 
 
 Such grandeur as thy pencil throws ! 
 
 Say ! do the nymphs of classic lore, 
 
 So simply graceful, light, and fair, 
 Forsake their consecrated shore, 
 
 Their hallow' d groves, and purer air? 
 
 Tir'd of the ancient Grecian loom, 
 
 And smit with Fancy's wayward glance, 
 
 Weave they amid the Gothic gloom, 
 The high-wrought fiction of Romance ? 
 
 While the dark Genius of our northern clime, 
 Whose giant limbs the mist of years enshrouds, 
 
 Bursts through the veil which hides his head sublime, 
 And moves majestic through recoiling clouds ! 
 
14 
 
 O yes ! they own the wond'rous spell, 
 And to each form their hands divine 
 
 Give, with nice art, the temper' d swell, 
 The chasten' d touch and faultless line ! 
 
 Each fiction under their command, 
 Assumes an air severely true, 
 
 And, every vision, wildly grand, 
 Life's measured pace and modest hue. 
 
 Reason and fancy, rival powers ! 
 
 Unite, their RADCLIFFE to befriend; 
 To decorate her way with flowers, 
 
 The minor graces all attend ! 
 
 This piece, with the exception of a few line?, has 
 appeared in the Athenseum. 
 
15 
 
 THE HEIR. 
 
 SEE yon tall stripling ! how he droops forlorn i 
 How slow his pace ! how spiritless his eye ! 
 
 Like a dark cloud in summer's rosy dawn, 
 He saddens pleasure as he passes by. 
 
 Long kept in exile by paternal pride, 
 He feels no joy beneath this splendid dome ; 
 
 For, till the elder child of promise died, 
 He knew a dearer, though a humbler home, 
 
 Then the proud sail was spread ! The youth obey'd, 
 Left ev'ry friend, and every scene he knew ; 
 
 For ever left the soul-affianc'd maid, 
 Though his heart sicken' d as he said Adieu ;. 
 
 And nurses still, with superstitious care, 
 
 The sigh of fond remembrance and despair. 
 
16 
 
 LLANGOLLEN ROSE, 
 
 The Day after it had been given by Miss Ponsonby. 
 
 SOFT blushing flow'r ! my bosom grieves, 
 To view thy sadly drooping leaves: : -* ' 
 For, while their tender tints decay, 
 The rose of Fancy fades away ! 
 As pilgrims, who, with zealous care, 
 Some little treasur'd reLc bear, 
 To re-assure the doubtful mind, 
 When pausing memory looks behind ; 
 I, from a more enlighten' d shrine^ 
 Had made this sweet memento mine : 
 But, lo ! its fainting head reclines; 
 It folds the pallid leaf, and pines, 
 As mourning the unhappy doom, 
 Which tears it from so sweet a home ! 
 JulyW, 1799., 
 
17 
 
 L'HOMME DE I/ENNUI. 
 
 FORLORNLY I wander, forlornly I sigh> 
 
 And droop my head sadly, I cannot tell why; 
 
 When the first breeze of morning blows fresh in my face, 
 
 As the wild-waving walks of our woodlands I trace, 
 
 Reviv'd for the moment I look all around, 
 
 But my eyes soon grow languid, and fix on the ground. 
 
 I have yet no misfortune to rob me of rest, 
 No love discomposes the peace of my breast; 
 Ambition ne'er enter' d the verge of my thought, 
 Nor by honours, by wealth, nor by power am I caught ; 
 Those phantoms of folly disturb not my ease, 
 Yet Time is a tortoise, and Life a disease, 
 c 
 
18 
 
 With the blessings of youth and of health on my side, 
 A temper untainted by envy or pride ; 
 No guilt to corrode, and no foes to molest ; 
 There are many who tell me my station is blest. 
 This I cannot dispute ; yet without knowing why 
 I feel that my bosom is big with a sigh. 
 
 Oh ! why do I see that all knowledge is vain ; 
 That Science finds Error still keep in her tram; 
 That Imposture or Darkness, with Doubt and Surmise, 
 Will mislead, will perplex, and then baffle the wise, 
 Who often, when labours have shorten' d their span, 
 Declare not to know is the province of man ? 
 
 In life, as in learning, our views are confin'd, 
 Our discernment too weak to discover the mind, 
 Which, subdued and irresolute, keeps out of sight ; 
 Or if, for a moment, her presence delight, 
 Our air is too gross for the stranger to stay ; 
 And, back to her prison she hurries away .' 
 
19 
 
 If my own narrow precincts I seek to explore, 
 My wishes how vain, my attainments how poor ! 
 Tenacious of virtue, with caution I move ; 
 I correct, and I wrestle, but cannot approve ; 
 Till, bewilder' d and faint, I would yield up the rein, 
 But I dare not in peace with my errors remain ! 
 
 With zeal all awake in the cause of a friend, 
 With warmth unrepress'd by my fear to offend, 
 With sympathy active in hope or distress, 
 How keen and how anxious I cannot express, 
 I shrink, lest an eye should my feelings behold, 
 my heart seem insensible, selfish and cold. 
 
 I strive to be gay, but my efforts are weak, 
 And, sick of existence, for pleasure I seek ; 
 I mix with the empty, the loud, and the vain, 
 Partake of their folly, and double my pain. 
 In others I meet with depression and strife ; 
 Oh ! where shall I seek for the music of life? 
 C 2 
 
THE 
 
 GRANDFATHER'S DEPARTURE. 
 
 THE Old Man press' d Palemon's hand ; 
 
 To Lucy nodded with a smile ; 
 Kiss'd all the little ones around ; 
 
 Then clos'd the gate, and paus'd awhile. 
 
 " When shall I come again !" he thought, 
 Ere yet the journey had begun ; 
 
 It was a tedious length of way, 
 But he beheld an only son. 
 
 And dearly did he love to take 
 A rosy grandchild on his knee ; 
 
 To part his shining locks, and say, 
 " Just such another boy was he ! n 
 
21 
 
 And never felt he greater pride, 
 And never did he look so gay, 
 
 As when the little urchins strove 
 To make him partner in their play. 
 
 But when, in some more gentle mood, 
 They silent hung upon his arm, 
 
 Or nestled close at ev'ning pray'r, 
 The old man felt a softer charm ; 
 
 And upward rais'd his closing eye, 
 Whence slow effus'd a grateful tear, 
 
 As if his senses own'd a joy, 
 Too holy for endurance here. 
 
 No heart e'er pray'd so fervently, 
 Unprompted by an earthly zeal, 
 
 None ever knew such tenderness, 
 That did not true devotion feel. 
 
As with the pure, uncolour'd flame, 
 The violet's richest blues unite, 
 
 Do our affections soar to heav'n, 
 And rarify and beam with light. 
 
 
REFLECTIONS 
 
 Occasioned by 
 THE DEATH OF FRIENDS. 
 
 MY happiness was once a goodly tree, 
 
 Which promis'd every day to grow more fair, 
 
 And reared its lofty branches in the air, 
 In sooth, it was a pleasant sight, to see ! 
 Amidst, fair honey-suckles crept along, 
 
 Twin'd round the bark, and hung from every bough, 
 While birds, which Fancy held by slender strings, 
 Plum'd the dark azure of their shining wings, 
 
 Or dipp'd them in the silver stream below, 
 With many a joyful note, and many a song ! 
 
When lo ! a tempest hurtles in the sky ! 
 Dark low' r the clouds ! the thunders burst around ! 
 
 Fiercely the arrowy flakes of lightning fly ! 
 While the scar'd songsters leave the quiv'ring bough, 
 The blasted honey-suckles droop below, 
 
 And many noble branches strew the ground I 
 
 Though soon the air is calm, the sky serene, 
 Though wide the broad and leafy arms are spread, 
 
 Yet still the scars of recent wounds are seen ; 
 Their shelter henceforth seems but insecure ; 
 The winged tribes disdain the frequent lure, 
 
 Where many a songster lies benumb' d or dead ; 
 
 And when I would the flow'ry tendrils train, 
 
 I find my late delightful labour vain. 
 
 Affection thus, once light of heart, and gay, 
 Chasten'dby memory, and, unnerv'd by fear, 
 Shall sadden each endearment with a tear, 
 
 Sorrowing the offices of love shall pay, 
 
And scarcely dare to think that good her own, 
 Which fate's imperious hand may snatch away, 
 In the warm sunshine of meridian day, 
 
 And when her hopes are full and fairest blown. 
 
TO 
 
 MBS. T. FANCOURT, 
 
 July 15, 1803. 
 
 I LOVE not yon gay, painted flower, 
 Of bold and coarsely blended dye, 
 
 But one, whose nicely varied power 
 May long detain the curious eye. 
 
 I love the tones that softly rise, 
 And in a fine accordance close ; 
 
 That waken no abrupt surprise, 
 Nor leave us to inert repose. 
 
27 
 
 J love the moon's pure, holy light, 
 Pour'd on the calm, sequester 'd stream ; 
 
 The gale, fresh from the wings of night, 
 Which drinks the early solar beam ; 
 
 The smile of heaven, when storms subside, 
 When the moist clouds first break away ; 
 
 The sober tints of even-tide, 
 Ere yet forgotten by the day. 
 
 Such sights, such sounds, my fancy please, 
 And set my wearied spirit free : 
 
 And one who takes delight in these, 
 Can never fail of loving thee ! 
 
TO 
 
 A YOUNG GENTLEMAN. 
 
 July 29th, 1803. 
 
 DEAR boy, when you meet with a rose, 
 Admire you the thorns very much ? 
 
 Or like you to play with a ball, 
 When the handling it blisters your touch! 
 
 Yet should it be firm and compact, 
 
 It is easy to polish it nice ; 
 If the rose is both pretty and sweet, 
 
 The thorns will come off in a trice. 
 
The thistle has still many more, 
 
 As visible too in our eyes, 
 But who will take pains with a weed, 
 
 That nobody ever can prize ? 
 
 I 
 'Tis what we deem precious and rare, 
 
 We most earnestly seek to amend ; 
 And anxious attention and care, 
 
 Is the costliest gift of a friend. 
 
 We all have our follies : what then ? 
 
 Let us note them, and never look bluff ? 
 Without any caressing at all, 
 
 They will cling to us closely enough. 
 
 .; i 
 
 Weeds are of such obstinate growth, 
 They elude the most diligent hand ; 
 
 And, if they were not to be check' d, 
 Would quickly ruu over the land. 
 
30 
 
 If some could be taken away, 
 
 That hide part of your worth from the view ; 
 The conquest perhaps would be ours, 
 
 But the profit is wholly to you. 
 
 ' 
 
31 
 
 FRAGMENT. 
 
 A PILGRIM weary, toil-subdued, 
 
 I reached a country, strange aad rude, 
 
 And trembled, lest approaching eve 
 
 My hope of shelter might deceive ; 
 
 When I espied a hunter train, 
 
 Prowling at leisure o'er the plain, 
 
 And hastened onto ask relief, 
 
 Of the ill-omen' d, haughty chief. 
 
 His eye was artful, keen, and bold, 
 
 His smile malevolently cold, 
 
 And had not all my fire been fled, 
 
 And every earthly passion dead, 
 
 His pity to contempt allied, 
 
 Had rous'd my anger and my pride ; 
 
32 
 
 But, as it was, I bent my way, 
 Where his secluded mansion lay, 
 Which rose before my eyes at length, 
 A fortress of determined strength, 
 And layers of every colour' d moss 
 The lofty turrets did emboss, 
 As tho' the hand of father Time, 
 Prepared a sacrifice sublime, 
 Giving his daily rites away, 
 To aggrandize some future day. 
 Here as I roam'd the walls along, 
 I heard a plaintive broken song ; 
 And ere I to the portal drew, 
 An open window caught my view, 
 Where a fair dame appeared in sigh, 
 Array' d in robes of purest white. 
 Large snowy folds confined her hair, 
 And left a polish'd forehead bare. 
 O'er her meek eyes, of deepest blue, 
 The sable lash long shadows threw ; 
 
33 
 
 Her cheek was delicately pale, 
 And seem'd to tell a piteous tale, 
 But o'er her looks such patience stole, 
 Such saint-like tenderness of soul, 
 That never did my eyes behold, 
 A beauty of a lovelier mold. 
 
 The Lady sigh'd, and closely prest 
 A sleeping infant to her breast ; 
 Shook off sweet tears of love, and smil'd, 
 Kissing the fingers of the child, 
 Which round her own unconscious clung, 
 Then fondly gaz'd, and softly sung : 
 
 Once like that sea, which ebbs and flows, 
 My bosom never knew repose, 
 And heavily each morn arose. 
 
 I bore with anger and disdain, 
 I had no power to break my chain, 
 No one to whom I dar'd complain. 
 D 
 
And when some bird has caught my eye, 
 Or distant sail been flitting by, 
 I wish'd I could as freely fly. 
 
 But I can now contented be, 
 
 Can tell, dear babe, my griefs to thee, 
 
 And feel more brave, and breathe more free. 
 
 And when thy father frowns severe, 
 Although my spirit faints with fear, 
 I feel I have a comfort near. 
 
 And when he harshly speaks to me, 
 If thou art smiling on my knee, 
 He softens as he looks on thee. 
 
 To soothe him in an evil hour 
 
 The bud has balm, oh ! may the flower 
 
 Possess the same prevailing power < 
 
35 
 
 Nor forc'd to leave thy native land, 
 To pledge a cold, unwilling hand, 
 May'st thou receive the hard command ! 
 
 My mother had not half the zeal, 
 The aching fondness which 1 feel, 
 She had no broken heart to heal ! 
 
 i 
 
 And I was friendless when she died, 
 Who could my little failings chide, 
 And for an hour her fondness hide. 
 
 But I can see no prospect ope, 
 Can give no fairy vision scope, 
 If thou art not the spring of hope. 
 
 I cannot thy affection draw, 
 
 By childhood's first admiring awe ; 
 
 Be tender pity then thy law ! 
 
36 
 
 This heart would bleed at every vein, 
 
 I could not even life sustain, 
 
 If ever thou should'st give me pain. 
 
 O ! soul of sweetness ! can it be, 
 
 That thou could'st prove unkind to me ! 
 
 That I should fear this blow from thee ! 
 
 Alas ! e'en then I would not blame, 
 My love to thee should be the same, 
 And judge from whence unkindness came ! 
 
 Her words grew indistinct and slow, 
 Her voice more tremulous and low, 
 When suddenly the song was o'er, 
 A whisper even heard no more 
 She had discern' d my nearer tread ; 
 Appear' d to feel alarm, and fled. 
 
31 
 
 SONG. 
 
 THRICE lovely babe ! thus hush'd to rest, 
 
 Upon thy warrior father's breast ! 
 
 Avails it, that his eyes behold, 
 
 Thy rosy cheeks, thy locks of gold ! 
 
 Avails it that he bends his ear, 
 
 So fondly thy soft breath to hear ! 
 
 Or, that his rising smiles confess, 
 
 A gracious gleam of tenderness ! 
 
 The sweetest spell will scarce have pow'r 
 
 To hold him for one absent hour ! 
 
38 
 
 Some plant that ceases thus to share, 
 A daily friend's auspicious care, 
 Relaxes in its feeble grasp, 
 The flow'ry tendrils soon unclasp, 
 Loose in the heedless aether play, 
 And every idle breeze obey ! 
 Thus vainly had I sought to bind ; 
 Thus watch' d that light, forgetful mind, 
 Till smiles and sunshine could restore, 
 My often-blighted hopes no more ! 
 
SONG. 
 
 Set to Music by Mr. Voight. 
 
 do 1 love ? A polish* d mind, 
 A temper cheerful, meek, and kind; 
 A graceful air, unsway'd by art, 
 A voice that sinks into the heart, 
 A playful and benignant smile 
 Alas ! my heart responds the while, 
 .All this, my Emily, is true, 
 But I love more in loving you ! 
 
 I love those roses when they rise, 
 From joy, from anger, or surprise ; 
 I love the kind, attentive zeal, 
 So prompt to know what others feel, 
 
40 
 
 The mildness which can ne'er reprove, 
 But in the sweetest tones of lovfe 
 All this, my Emily, is true, 
 But I love more in loving you ! 
 
 The self-command which can sustain, 
 In silence, weariness and pain ; ; . 
 The transport at a friend's success, 
 Which has not words or powtr to bless, 
 But, by a sudden, starting tear, 
 Appears more precious, more sincere 
 All this, my Emily, is true, 
 And this I love in loving you ! 
 
41 
 A SAILOR's SONG. 
 
 Set to Music by Mr. Walsb. 
 
 I PONDER many a silent hour, 
 
 On friends belov'd, when far at sea, 
 
 And, tell me, have I not the power 
 To draw one kindred thought to me ! 
 
 The while we linger on the coast, 
 My truant fancy homeward flies, 
 
 And when the view is almost lost, 
 Unmanly tears bedew my eyes 
 
 And oft forgetful do I stand, 
 
 Nor crew, nor ship, nor ocean see ; 
 
 And often does my heart demand, 
 If friends belov'd thus think on me ! 
 
42 
 
 And when to England bound once more, 
 I shall with fond impatience burn, 
 
 Will not some others on the shore 
 As fondly look for my return ! 
 
 O ! let me of your kindness hear! 
 
 Repeat the strain as I depart ! 
 It swells like music on my ear, 
 
 It falls like balm upon my heart. 
 
 Aug. 21, 1805 
 
ANOTHER, 
 
 Written earlier. ",.', 
 
 ADIEU to old England ! adieu to my friends ! 
 
 Though fortune and fame I pursue, 
 On thus looking around me, I cannot conceal, 
 
 How reluctant I bid them adieu ! 
 
 My heart sinks within me, I sigh to the gale, 
 Thus slowly receding from shore, 
 
 While fancy still whispers some terrible tale, 
 A0 perhaps I may see it no more ! 
 
 There all that I love, that I value, remain, 
 
 That only awakens my fears, 
 For will the same spot its dear mmates contain, 
 
 On the lapse of two lingering years ? 
 
44 
 
 They may smile in good fortune, or weep in distress, 
 I shall know not a word of their fate ! 
 
 No pain can I soften, no sorrow redress ! 
 I may come, when, alas ! 'tis too late ! 
 
 I can fly without fear to encounter the foe, 
 
 To my earliest wish I am true ; 
 But I cannot unmov'd quit the friends that I love, 
 
 Or bid my dear country adieu ! 
 
SONG. 
 
 Set to Music by Mr. A. Pettit, of Norwich. 
 
 )NCE more then farewell ! and whilst I'm away. 
 Oh ! let not another entangle thy fancy ! 
 shall think upon thee every hour of the day, 
 And let not my love be forgotten by Nancy ! 
 
 Oh ! were I forsaken, the flow'r in my heart, 
 Would fold all its leaves, and re-open them never ! 
 
 The sunshine of joy and of hope would depart, 
 And beljef in affection would perish for ever ! 
 
 To talk thus is foliy ! I doubt not thy truth, 
 A few years of absence will quickly pass over, 
 
 I scorn other perils that menace my youth, 
 From that wound,. I must own, I could never recover ! 
 
46 
 
 HENRY, 
 
 ON THE DEPARTURE OF HIS WIFE 
 FROM CALCUTTA. 
 
 LONG is thy passage o'er the main, 
 And native air alone can save ! 
 
 No friend thy weakness will sustain, 
 But India is, for thee, a grave ! 
 
 Though winds arise, though surges swell, 
 
 Maria, we must say farewell ! 
 
 Oh ! I bethink me of the time, 
 When with each airy hope in view, 
 
 In triumph to this fervid clime 
 I bore a flowret nurs'd in dew ! 
 
 No fears did then my joy reprove, 
 And it was boundless as my love ! 
 
47 
 
 f et now to strangers I consign 
 Thy wounded mind, thy feeble health ; 
 charge more dear than life resign, 
 To watch a little worldly wealth. 
 Outy compels me to remain 
 3ut oh ! how heavy feels the chain ! 
 
 Vly dear Maria ! smile no more ? 
 
 This seeming patience makes me wild ! 
 So would' st thou once my peace restore, 
 
 When, mourning for our only child, 
 Each faint appeal was lost in air, 
 
 Or turn'd my sadness to despair. 
 
 Alas ! I only make thee grieve. 
 
 And hark ! the boat awaits below ! 
 They call aloud ! and I must leave, 
 
 The tears my folly forc'd to flow. 
 Oh ! had I but the time to prove, 
 
 That mine are only fears of love ! 
 
48 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 URGE me no more! nor think, because I seem 
 Tame and unsorrowing in the world's rude strife, 
 That anguish and resentment have not life 
 Within the heart that ye so quiet deem i 
 In this forc'd stillness only, I sustain 
 My thought and feeling, wearied out with pain! 
 Floating as 'twere upon some wild abyss, 
 Whence, silent Patience, bending o'er the brink, 
 Would rescue them with strong and steady hand, 
 And join again, by that connecting link, 
 Which now is broken: O, respect her care ! 
 Respect her in this fearful self-command ! 
 No moment teems with greater woe than this, 
 Should she but pause, or falter in despair ! 
 
ON 
 
 THE REGRET OF YOUTH. 
 
 BEFORE a rose is fully blown, 
 The outward leaves announce decay ; 
 
 So, ere the spring of Youth is flown, 
 Its tiny pleasures die away ; 
 
 The gay security we feel, 
 
 The careless soul's delighted rest, 
 That lively hope, that ardent zeal, 
 
 And smiling sunshine of the breast. 
 E 
 
50 
 
 Those simple tints, so bright and clear, 
 No healing dew-drops can restore ; 
 
 For joys, which early life endear, 
 Once blighted, can revive no more. 
 
 Yet lovely is the full-blown rose, 
 Although its infant graces fly ; 
 
 The various opening leaves disclose, 
 A fairer banquet to the eye ; 
 
 A ruby's beams on drifted snow, 
 Such pure, harmonious blushes shed ; 
 
 If distant, cast a tender glow, 
 But near, its own imperial red; 
 
 The form assumes a prouder air, 
 And bends more graceful in the gale ; 
 
 While, from its cup, of essence rare, 
 A richer hoard of sweets exhale. 
 
51 
 
 I' - " * '* - " ' V 
 
 Could we again, by fancy led, 
 
 That bower of swelling leaves confine, 
 And round that fine, luxuriant head, 
 The mossy tendrils now entwine, 
 
 Over what multitudes of bloom 
 Would a few timid leaflets close ! 
 
 What mental joys resign their room, 
 To causeless mirth, and tame repose 1 
 
 The change to Reason's steady eye, 
 Would neither good nor wise appear; 
 
 And we may lay one precept by, 
 Our discontent is insincere. 
 
ELEGY 
 
 ON SOPHIA GR4H4M, 
 
 Who died Jan. 21, 1800. 
 
 SWEET is the voice of Friendship to the ear, 
 Sweet is Affection's mildly-beaming eye, 
 
 Sweet the applause which flows from lips sincere, 
 And sweet is Pity's soft responsive sigh ! 
 
 But now those flowers of life have lost their bloom, 
 Faint all their beauty, cold their, healing breath, 
 
 No object fills my eye but yonder tomb, 
 No sound awakes me but the name of death. 
 
63 
 
 When in the world, I bear a look serene, * 
 And veil the gloomy temper of my grief; 
 
 Sick with restraint at evening quit the scene, 
 To find in tears and solitude relief. 
 
 Parent of Hope and Fancy ! thoughtful Night ! 
 
 Why are these nurselings absent from thy bower, 
 While Memory, with sullen, strange delight, 
 
 Stalks lonely centinel the live-long hour ? 
 
 O dear Sophia ! could we e'er forget, 
 Such fair endowments and unsullied worth, 
 
 Thy partial friendship calls for our regret, 
 And selfish feeling gives remembrance birth. 
 
 How often when this trembling hand essays 
 Thy lov'd resemblance once again to trace, 
 
 The portrait thought in mimic life arrays 
 With all the sweet expression of thy face ; 
 
54 
 
 Art may its symmetry and beauty show, 
 A look, a character, the pencil seize, 
 
 Give to the form where youthful graces glow, 
 An air of pensive dignity and ease, 
 
 But warmth of feeling and sensation fine, 
 
 By mild reserve from common eyes conceal' d, 
 
 The ray of genius and the heart benign, 
 In artless gaiety so oft reveal' d 
 
 All these are lost ; no looks can now arise, 
 Like those which every little act endear'd, 
 
 Which even in the stranger's careless eyes 
 Like innocence from other worlds appear' d ! 
 
 Oft have I fear'd the breath of foolish praise, 
 Might taint the lily which so humbly grew ; 
 
 That flattery's sun might shoot delusive rays, 
 Impede her progress, and distract her view. 
 
55 
 
 But vain the fear for she remained the same, 
 
 To outward charms indifferent or blind, 
 Heedless alike of either praise or blame, 
 
 If it respected not her heart and mind. 
 
 Rich in historic lore, the poet's lyre 
 
 Had not, though screen* d by time, forsaken hung, 
 She felt and studied with a kindred fire, 
 
 The lofty strain immortal Maro sung. 
 
 She knew but why essay to trace her thought 
 
 Through its wide range, describe her blooming youth, 
 
 The heart whose feelings were so finely wrought, 
 Its meek ambition, and its love of truth ? 
 
 All that parental vanity desires, 
 
 All that the friend can muse upon and mourn, 
 All that the lover's ardent vow inspires, 
 
 In thee, Sophia ! from the world was toni ! 
 
56 
 
 But still we yield thee to no stranger's care ; 
 
 No unknown foe our tender love bereaves ; 
 Thou goest the angels' hallow'd bliss to share, 
 
 A Father thy exalted soul receives ! 
 
57 
 
 TO 
 
 MISS ROUSE BOUGHTON, * 
 
 NOW THE RIGHT HON. LADY ST. JOHN. 
 
 Aberystwith, July 5th, 1799. 
 
 LOUISA, while thy pliant fingers trace 
 
 The solemn beauties of the prospect round, 
 
 Or, on thy instrument, with touching grace, 
 Awaken all the witcheries of sound : 
 
 Mild, as thy manners, do the colours rise, 
 As soft and unobtrusive meet the view ; 
 
 And, when the varied notes the ear surprize, 
 We own the harmony as strictly true. 
 
58 
 
 Be thine the praise, alas ! a gift how rare ! 
 
 Artless, and unpretending, to excel ! 
 Forget the envied charm of being fair, 
 
 To learn the noblest science, acting well ! 
 And let no world the seal of truth displace, 
 Or spoil the heart's accordance with the face ! 
 
59 
 
 TO THE SAME, 
 
 On receiving from her 
 
 A FEW FLOWERS OUT OF A BOUQUET, 
 FROM MELCHBOURNE, 1807. 
 
 HAIL ! sweet Louisa ! o'er these votive flow'rs 
 Friendship and Fancy weave the joyful song, 
 
 Wing with fresh rose-leaves all the train of hours, 
 That in the distant aether float along ! 
 
 Like those fair flowrets given by thy hand, 
 Like thy own beauty, blooming and serene, 
 
 The vision of thy future life is plann'd, 
 
 And forms a clear, a bright, and varied scene ! 
 
60 
 
 That countenance so gentle, and so kind. 
 
 That heart, which never gave a harsh decree, 
 
 Suit all the turns of thy harmonious mind, 
 And must, perforce, with destiny agree. 
 
 This from the Sibyl* s leaves affection drew, 
 O, be the omen just ! the promise true ! 
 
. 6J 
 
 TO 
 
 THE RIVER 
 
 Which separates itself from the DEE, at Bcdkclkrt. 
 July 19, 1799. 
 
 LET others hail the tranquil stream, 
 Whose glassy waters smoothly flow, 
 
 And, in the undulating gleam, 
 Reflect another world below ! 
 
 The yellow Conway as it raves, 
 
 Demands my tributary song ! 
 When, rushing forth, resistless waves 
 
 O'er rocky fragments foam along ! 
 
 Like him, whose vigorous mind reviews 
 The troubles which around him roll ; 
 
 The ceaseless warfare still pursues, 
 And keeps a firm, undaunted soul. 
 
62 
 
 Though sternly bent by toil and care, 
 The brow hang darkly o'er his eye 
 
 His features the fix'd meaning wear / / 
 Of one who knows not how to sigh. , / 
 
 It is not apathy that reigns, 
 O'erweening arrogance or pride, 
 
 For, in his warmly-flowing veins, 
 The genial feelings all reside. 
 
 It is the breast-plate fortitude 
 Should still to injury oppose ; 
 
 It is the shield with power indu'd, 
 To blunt the malice of his foes. 
 
 And should the savage country round, 
 A more engaging aspect show, 
 
 O Conway ! it will then be found, 
 How sweet and clear thy waters flow ! 
 
The birds will dip the taper wing 
 The pilgrim there his thirst assuage, 
 
 The wandering minstrel sit and sing, 
 Or muse upon a distant age 
 
 > t 
 
 Bold River ! soon within the deep, 
 Each weary strife and conflict o'er, 
 
 Thy venerable waves shall sleep, 
 And feel opposing rocks no more ! 
 
THE 
 
 OLD MAN'S FAREWELL. 
 
 FAREWELL, my pilgrim guest, farewell, 
 A few days since thou wert unknown, 
 
 None shall thy future fortunes tell, 
 
 But sweetly have the moments flown ! 
 
 And kindness, like the sun on flowers, 
 Soon chas'd away thy tender gloom ; 
 
 New-fledg'd the sable-pinion' d hours, 
 And wove bright tints in Fancy's loom. 
 
65 
 
 We sought no secrets to divine, 
 
 Neither thy name nor lineage knew, 
 
 Our hearts alone have questioned thine. 
 And found that all was just and true. 
 
 Pass not with hasty step, I pray, 
 Across the threshold of my door ! 
 
 But pause awhile, with kind delay, 
 We shall behold thy face no more ! 
 
 Once only in a hundred years, 
 The aloe's precious blossoms swell, 
 
 So, in thy presence it appears, 
 That Time has blossom' d, fare thee well ! * 
 
 * See Preface. 
 
66 
 
 DISTANCE 
 
 THE PLACE OF OUR NATIVITY. 
 
 SINCE I married Palemon, though happy my lot, 
 
 Though my garden is pleasant, and lightsome my cot, 
 
 Though love's smile, like a sunshine, I constantly see, 
 
 Those blessings are all insufficient for me, 
 
 I repine not at labour, I ask not for gold, 
 
 But I want the sweet eyes of my friends to behold. 
 
67 
 
 With Palemon I think o'er the world I could roam, 
 Though he liv'd in a desert, would make it my home. 
 From him no allurements his Lucy could bribe, 
 And, though timid, no dangers, no menaces drive. 
 But the heart that can love with devotion so true, 
 Is not cold or forgetful, my parents, to you ! 
 
 Oh idle declaimers ! how is it ye say, 
 
 That affection and tenderness fade and decay ? 
 
 Though so easily pain'd, they endure like a gem, 
 
 And the heart and the mind imbibe colour from them ! 
 
 In affliction they brighten, in absence refine, 
 
 And are causes t>f sorrow too sweet to resign. 
 
 F 2 
 
68 
 
 THE 
 
 OLD SHEPHERD'S RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 " Low, heavy clouds are hanging on the hills, 
 And half-impatient of the sun's approach, 
 Shake sullenly their cold and languid wings ! 
 Oh ! it is fine to see his morning beams 
 Burst on the gloom, while, in disorder* d flight, 
 The shuddering, mournful vapours steal away ; 
 Like the tenacious spirit of a man, 
 Shrinking from the loud voice of cheerfulness, 
 When it breaks in, so sadly out of tune, 
 Upon his quiet musing, and dispels 
 The waking dream of a dejected heart : 
 The dream I cherish in this solitude, 
 In all the wanderings of my little flock, 
 
69 
 
 That which beguiles my loneliness, and takes 
 Its charm and change from the surrounding scene. 
 
 Oh ! how unwelcome often are to me 
 The gayest, most exhilarating sounds ! 
 When slow and sickly Memory, tempted forth 
 By dint of soft persuasion, brings to light 
 His treasures and, with childish eagerness, 
 Arranges and collects then suddenly 
 To have him startled by discordance, drag, 
 Without discrimination, all away 
 And with them leap to his deep hollow cave 
 Not easily to be withdrawn again, 
 Grieves one who loves to think of other times, 
 To talk with those long silent in the grave, 
 And pass from childhood to old age again. 
 
 Behold this stony rock ! whose rifted crest, 
 Lets the rough, roaring torrent force a way, 
 And, foaming, pour its waters on the vale ! 
 
70 
 
 Behold them tumbling from their dizzy height, 
 
 Like clouds, of more than snowy whiteness, thrown 
 
 Precipitate from heav'n, which, as they fall, 
 
 Diffuse a mist, in form of glory, round ! 
 
 This was my darling haunt a long time past ! 
 
 Here, when a boy, in pleasing awe, I sate, 
 
 Wistfully silent, with uplifted eye, 
 
 And heart attun'd to the sad, lulling sound 
 
 They made descending. Far below my feet, 
 
 Near where yon little, ruin'd cottage lies, 
 
 Oft, at the pensive hour of even-tide 
 
 I saw young Osborne bearing on his harp, 
 
 And, trusting to an aged mother's care, 
 
 His darkling steps : Beneath that falling beech, 
 
 Whose wide-spread branches touch the water's edge, 
 
 He lov'd to sit, and feel the freshen' d gale 
 
 Breathe cool upon him. 
 
 Then that falling beech 
 Was a young, graceful tree ; which, starting up, 
 
71 
 
 Amid the looser fragments of the rock, 
 
 Rear'd boldly in the air its lofty head, 
 
 While, struggling with the stone, the nervous roots 
 
 Pursued their own direction, elbowing out, 
 
 Their flinty neighbour ; who, overspread with moss, 
 
 Of varied hues, and deck' d with flow' ring heath, 
 
 That from each fissure hung luxuriant down, 
 
 Became a seat, where, king of all the scene, 
 
 The harper sate, and, in sweet melodies, 
 
 Now like the lark rejoicing at the dawn, 
 
 Now soothing as the nightingale's sad note, 
 
 HaiPdthe departing sun, whose golden rays 
 
 Glitter' d upon the surface of the wave, 
 
 And, as a child upon its mother's arm 
 
 Seeks to delay the coming hour of rest, 
 
 Till sudden slumbers steal upon his smiles 
 
 And veil him in a dream of love and joy, 
 
 He seem'd reluctant to withdraw his beams; 
 
 And, rich in roseate beauty, for awhile 
 
 Kept the green waves beneath his glowing head. 
 
Kind, gentle Osborne ! half a century 
 Has silver'd o'er the crisp and yellow locks 
 Of thy young auditor, but memory still 
 Grasps the torn record of my weary life, 
 And finds full many a page to tell of thee ! 
 Oh ! ye who have a friend ye truly love, 
 One whom your hearts can trust, whose excellence 
 Was not obtruded boastingly to view, 
 But time and happy circumstance reveal' d, 
 Rays of quick light upon a diamond 
 Which else had lain unnotic'd in the waste ! 
 OhJ hasten ! hasten speedily to pay 
 Each debt of fond affection ! lock not up 
 So cautiously the tribute due to worth ! 
 Nor let reserve, as I have often done, 
 Enslave the sweetest feelings of the soul ! 
 And hang around them like an envious mist, 
 O'er the bright radiance of the morning star, 
 Leaving us nothing but a spot of light 
 Bereav'd of all its lustre ! For my friend. 
 
He never knew that there was one on earth, 
 After a parent felt the touch of death, 
 And Love, a weeping pilgrim, turn'd away 
 Far from his dwelling Oh ! he never knew, 
 That there was one who would have followed him, 
 With steady kindness, even to the grave ! 
 
 Thou dear, neglected friend ! to whom I owe 
 All that sustains my heart, and makes me think 
 The gift of life a blessing, Oh ! forgive 
 That in thy sorrows, my forgetful tongue 
 Spake not of zeal and service ; of the debt 
 Which gratitude was emulous to pay ! 
 I might havetrimm'd the dying lamp of hope, 
 And cheer' d the bitter hours of banishment : 
 But Oh ! my youth was fearful, and I felt 
 So deep an awe of that unspotted worth 
 And saint-like gentleness such a mistrust 
 Of my own powers to tell him what I wish'd, 
 That I resisted all my feelings claim' d, 
 
74 
 
 In anguish I resisted ; but a spell 
 
 Hung o'er me and compelled me to be mute. 
 
 Methinks I still behold him ! tall and fair, 
 He had a look so tranquil and so mild, 
 That something holy stole upon the sense 
 When he appear' d ; his language had such power 
 In converse, that the hearer, as entranced 
 Sate lingering on to listen ; while in song, 
 Or skill upon the many-stringed harp 
 Was never heard his equal ! Then he knew 
 All our old ballads, all our father's tales, 
 All the adventurous deeds of early times, 
 The punishment of blood or sacrilege, 
 And the reward of virtue, when it seem'd 
 Deserted by the world, and left alone, 
 A prey to scorn, oppression, contumely 
 And all the ills which make the good despair. 
 
=2= 
 
 When-e'er we circled round him, one young girl 
 Was always present, of a nicer ear, 
 And more refin'd perception than the rest. 
 Now she was lost in thought, while on her cheek 
 Lay silent tears and then that cheek grew pale 
 In wild amazement but, when he began 
 To speak of noble deeds, she rais'd her head, 
 Bending with looks of mingled awe and love, 
 And zealous admiration, on the youth, 
 Alone insensible of all around, 
 To the soft charm of symmetry and grace, 
 The smile intelligent, the look benign, 
 And all the outward raiment of the soul. 
 Yet, though he saw her not, it was his fate 
 To have an inward and discerning sense, 
 Which spake of Lora's gentleness and worth. 
 He lov'd in her the fondness of his art, 
 And taught her many wild and simple airs, 
 Suiting the plaintive tenor of her voice, 
 Which he would mimic with sweet minstrelsy. 
 
76 
 
 When she was absent, and with strange delight, 
 Repeat her parting words, her kind adieu, 
 Or sweetly-spoken promise of return- 
 
 And that return was prompt : she linger'd oft 
 Till evening wet the ground with heavy dew, 
 Or came to take her lesson in the morn, 
 Before her father's anxious eyes unclos'd, 
 To look upon her beauty with delight, 
 And soothe the rugged temper of his soul, 
 By views of future grandeur for his child : 
 Not thinking that her elegance of mind, 
 The modest dignity of humble worth 
 Which fits the low-born peasant to become 
 A crowned monarch, and to wield with grace 
 The golden sceptre, had instructed her 
 To feel no paltry jealousy of power, 
 No bold aspiring, and no wish beyond 
 The bounded confines of her present state : 
 Had counsel!' d her, that even mines of wealth, 
 
77 
 
 Could purchase nothing to content the wise, 
 Esteem or friendship, tenderness or love : 
 That power at best was but a heavy weight; 
 If well employed, a dubious, unpaid toil, 
 If ill, a curse, to tempt men to their fate. 
 
 Her cheek had often felt the blush of shame, 
 At his proud boasting ; and her heart had sunk 
 At the cold arrogance that scorn' d the poor ; 
 But she was fain to turn aside, and weep, 
 To wring her hands in secret, and to raise 
 The eye of silent anguish up to heaven ; 
 For though he dearly lov'd her, he would ne'er 
 Submit to fyear a murmur at his will. 
 Oft with her heart oppress' d, andlier blue eyes 
 Full of unshed den tears, she bent her way 
 Alone to Osborne's lowly cot, and when 
 Her faint voice call'd the fond inquiry forth, 
 Would say, " 'tis true, my friends, that I am sad, 
 Nay sick, with vain repining. O ! I wish, 
 
78 
 
 That I were either indigent myself, 
 
 Or that I had the power, the blessed power 
 
 Of cheering the unhappy ! for I want, 
 
 By kindness to prevent the act of guilt, 
 
 And ward the arrows of incroaching Death, 
 
 Who comes, before the time, upon his prey. 
 
 Think that there should be means to stay his wrath, 
 
 To purchase health, life, comfort, innocence, 
 
 And yet those means withholden ! 
 
 O ! my heart ! 
 
 It dies with sorrow ! ancl where most I love, 
 Sheds all its bitterness ; delighting still 
 To tell the many miseries that flit 
 At times across me ! Those I lightly prize 
 Partake the sunshine of my happier hours, 
 Although I seek them with far less delight ! 
 The loud laugh dwells not here, the sportive dance, 
 The carol of unconscious levity, 
 And yet how oft, how willingly I come 1" 
 
79 
 
 " Know'st thou not, Lora," cried the youthful sage, 
 That there are things the mind must prize above 
 
 What captivates the senses ! That in them 
 
 She feels no interest, and she takes no care ! 
 
 That though sometimes an alien, she receives 
 
 Delighted back the ensigns of her power, 
 
 And takes her truant vassals into grace ! 
 
 That when thou bring 5 st to us that wounded mind, 
 
 The grave of many feelings, language is 
 
 As yet too poor to utter, thou canst give 
 
 No richer, dearer token of regard.'* 
 
 rf Were man indeed the only hope of man, 
 I never would reprove thee for thy tears ! 
 But, they are vain ! man has a surer trust! 
 The helpless, weary, miserable wretch, 
 Left by his fellows in the wilderness, 
 Shall be supported in that trying hour, 
 By a right arm, which, in his days of strength, 
 He did not lean upon ! A gracious arm, 
 
80 
 
 Which wounds the sick, and heals them by the stroke. 
 
 O ! Lora ! to the Father of the world, 
 
 A Judge so patient and so merciful, 
 
 That he refuses not the latest sigh, 
 
 Nor suffers sorrow but as means to save, 
 
 Canst thou not trust the objects of thy care ! 
 
 Hadst thou the power to help them it were well, 
 To be most anxious. To collect thy freight 
 Of human sorrow, and, by merchandize, 
 Exchange it for the riches of the world : 
 For health, for comfort, nay, perchance for life, 
 That gem of countless value, which sometimes, , ^ 
 Not all the treasures of the East can buy, 
 Tender' d with supplications and with tears, 
 Is often purchased at a petty price, 
 Nay, in exchange for courtesy. What joy 
 Must in that moment fill the merchant's heart, 
 To win a jewel, kings monopolize 
 The sole disposal of ! Be patient then -! 
 
81 
 
 This glorious privilege may yet be thine ! 
 Deserve it only by fulfilling all 
 The gentler duties that have present claims 
 With cheerfulnesi and zeal Let no neglect 
 Press on thy father* s age, no discontent 
 Sour thee with thy companions, no mistrust 
 Give pain to friendship, and thy usefulness 
 Though calm and bounded, has no mean award." 
 
 Thus, like a prophet, did he still enforce 
 Only the virtues and rare qualities 
 Congenial with her after destiny ; 
 Yet, not foreseeing evil, he himself 
 Was unprepared, and when her father led, 
 Her opposition and entreaty past, 
 The hapless Lora forth, to promise love 
 And honour to a man, whose vacant mind, 
 Throughout a course of long succeeding years, 
 She vainly strove to soften and to raise, 
 
 G 
 
Though he had taught her patience till that hour, 
 His own at once forsook him, and he fled. 
 
 She murmur* d not, nor even seemM to mourn, 
 But losing all her love of solitude, 
 Appeared so active in each new pursuit, 
 So wholly what her anxious father wish'd, 
 That he repented not his cruelty. 
 Believing in her happiness, he felt 
 Himself the author, and became more proud 
 Of his own wisdom : yet she often heard 
 His wayward taunt or querulous complaint, 
 And, from the lordly partner of her fate$ 
 The harsher sound of ignorant rebuke. 
 She was a matchless woman, when she lo*t 
 The timid graces of retiring youth, 
 She still was lovely, for her shaded eyes 
 Beam'd with a lofty sweetness, a content 
 Beyond the pow'r of fortune to destroy. 
 
S3 
 
 
 
 Careless of let or hindrance, she went on, 
 Nor shrunk nor started at the many thorns 
 Strew' d in her toilsome path ; still looking forth 
 To others' weal, forgetful it would seem, 
 Perchance in heart despairing of her own. 
 The friend, the help, the comforter of all, 
 No voice was heard so cheerful, nor a step 
 So bounding and so light. 'Twas wonderful ! 
 For I have seen her, when her polish' d arm 
 Has clasp'd the nurseling, with her face conceal'd 
 Bent fondly o'er; and I have mark'd each limb 
 To boast a fine expansion, as if thrill* d 
 With the deep feelings of maternal love 
 And aching tenderness, too highly wrought 
 For happy souls to cherish ! they delight 
 In painless joys, and, on the infant's cheek, 
 Rounded and glowing with a finer bloom 
 Than the wild-rose, careless imprint the kiss, 
 Which sorrow always sanctions by a prayer. 
 They in the radiance of its glancing eyes 
 
84 
 
 See nothing to suffuse their own with tears ! 
 
 Borne forward on the easy wing of Time, 
 
 They travel on, they scarcely meet with Thought, 
 
 Or, like a summer cloud, he passes by, 
 
 His shadow rests one instant, and again , 
 
 The scene is calm and brilliant as before ! 
 
 Not so with Lora, trouble, sickness, death, 
 Were busy with the residue of peace, 
 When years and care had weakened her regrets, 
 VeiPd the sad recollection of past days, 
 And overgrown the softness of her mind, 
 As the close-creeping ivy hides and rusts 
 The smooth and silver surface of the beech. 
 An orphan and a widow she became 
 Decisive, watchful, prudent, nay severe 
 To wilful disobedience or neglect ; 
 Though generous where she perceiv'd desert. 
 She taught her children with unceasing zeal, 
 Sought knowledge for their sakes, and, more than all, 
 
85 
 
 Anxious, inquisitive about the heart, 
 
 Search' d all the motives, all the incidents 
 
 In which it was unfolded ; fencing still 
 
 Each treacherous failing with a double guard, 
 
 And oft repeated warnings ; well conceal' d, 
 
 Or given with so much kindness, that they serv'd ' 
 
 To draw more closely every knot of love. 
 
 Nor did she cease to urge her pious cares 
 
 By constant vigilance, till riper age 
 
 Had fix'd the moral sense, when, as a bow 
 
 For a long active season tightly strain' d 
 
 Relaxes, tumult and contention o'er, 
 
 She sunk into indulgence, glad to yield 
 
 To mildness, nature, and herself again. 
 
 Youth, e'en when wise and good, requires a change, 
 Delights in novelty, and hears of nought 
 Which suddenly it asks not to behold ; 
 And Lora's children oft assail'd her ear 
 To let them journey to some rumour' d gcene, 
 
86 
 
 Some feast, or village wake, or sprightly dance* 
 Urging her still to bear them company. 
 She lov'd to give them pleasure, and one time 
 (The fav'rite legend of our country folk 
 Hath oft the tale repeated) as they mix'd 
 Carelessly in the crowd, remember' d notes 
 Struck by a harper in a distant tent, 
 Sweet and soul-piercing as the midnight songs, 
 Which are, they say, the harbingers of death, 
 Flow'd on her ear when, with impulsive spring, 
 As if a magic spell had wing'd her feet, 
 Fearing the sounds would vanish into air, 
 And prove delusion ere she reach' d the spot, 
 She forward rush'd, and soon beheld the friend, 
 The dear companion of her youth. She seiz'd 
 The hand that lay upon the quivering chords, 
 Stopping their melody and resting mute. 
 The pause was awful He at length exclaim'd, 
 In a deep, labour* d cry, " Ye heavenly powers ! 
 If Lora lives, the hand I feel is hers !" 
 
87 
 
 She could not speak, but with her other hand 
 Clasp'd his, and sigh'd and rais'd her eyes to heaven, 
 When straight the big, round tears began to flow ; S 
 " And is it thee, dear Lora ! Art thou come 
 Again to gladden one, who never found 
 'Mid countless who are good, a heart like thine ! 
 Oh ! speak ! that I may know if still my ear 
 Eetains a true remembrance of that voice ! 
 
 <M\)C 
 
 For since, it has not droririso sweet a sound." 
 
 " Hail happy day !" cried Lora, " which restores 
 The friend whose absence I have mourn' d so long ! 
 For thou, O ! Osborne ! must with me return, 
 Me and my children ! They shall hear again 
 Those counsels which informed their mother's heart; 
 Gave courage in the hour of enterprize, 
 Calmness in danger, patience under ills 
 That like a swarm of insects buz around, 
 And vex the spirit which they cannot rouse. 
 Return, my early, long-lost friend! with us 
 
88 
 
 Thou shalt enjoy repose : our cheerful home 
 Shall gather round thee many an honest heart 
 Which knows thy virtues, and will hold thee dear." 
 
 She paus'd, and Osborne joyful gave assent. 
 Fair hopes of joy engag'd his faultering mind, 
 For long-time had he dragg'd a weary life, 
 Lone, or bereav'd of relative or friend, 
 Careful to tend his health, and to divert 
 His sadness ; each succeeding hour had press' d 
 With its slow-passing wing his gentle head 
 Drooping and prematurely silver* d o'er, 
 (Like snows depending on the autumn leaf) 
 Yet warm, benevolent, serene, resigned, 
 And like an angel save in youth and joy. 
 
 A winding path round yonder wooded hill, 
 Leads to a spot where Nature decks herself 
 In loveliness and beauty : far below 
 Spreads the green valley, where a silent stream 
 
89 
 
 Turns, like a serpent writhing in its course ; , 
 And, rarified by distance, kissing heaven, 
 In many noble and fantastic shapes, 
 A giant range of purple mountains sleeps. 
 Grand is the scene, and in the centre stands 
 The tomb of Osborne after many years 
 Of happiness and friendship, Lora rais'd 
 This plain memorial, and her children plac'd 
 A mother's near, to tell succeeding years 
 Their talents and their virtue. They themselves 
 More forcibly express the worth of both, 
 For they are wise and good, without a shade 
 Of cold severity or selfish prid?." 
 
90 
 
 REFLECTION. 
 
 August 2, 1798. 
 
 WHY should we think the years of life 
 
 Will pass serenely by, 
 \Wn, for a day, the Sun himself 
 
 Ne'er sees a cloudless sky! 
 
 And, unassuming as she mo?es, 
 The meek-eyed Queen of night, 
 
 Meets wand' ring vapours in her path 
 To dim her paler light ! 
 
91 
 
 I; 
 
 Then why should we in vain repine 
 
 At man's uncertain lot, 
 That cares will equally assail 
 
 The palace and the cot? 
 
 For Heaven ordains this chequered scene 
 Our mortal pow'rs t* employ ; 
 
 That we might know, compare, select, 
 Be grateful, and enjoy. 
 
 [For the last verse I am indebted to the pen of a Friend. ) 
 
RETROSPECT OF YOUTH. 
 
 I WANDER' D forth amid the flow'rs, 
 And careless sipp'd the morning air ; 
 
 Nor haiFd the angel-winged hours, 
 Nor saw that Happiness was there ! 
 
 Alas ! I often since have wept 
 
 That Gratitude unconscious slept ! 
 
 For Truth and Pity then were young, 
 And walk'd in simple, narrow bounds ; 
 
 Affection's meek, assuasive tongue, 
 Had sweet, but most capricious sounds. 
 
 Once, wild with scornful pride, she fled, 
 
 And only turn'd to seek the dead ! 
 
93 
 
 3h ! from a garden of delight, 
 What fair memento did I bring ! 
 
 What amaranth of colours bright, 
 To mark the promise of my spring ? 
 
 Behold this flow'r! its leaves are wet, 
 
 With tears of lasting, vain regret ! 
 
THE DAUGHTER. 
 
 1797. 
 
 " COME, mournful lute ! dear echo of my woe ! 
 
 No stranger's tread in this lone spot I fear, 
 Sweeter thy notes in such wild places flow, 
 
 And, what is more, my Henry cannot hear ! 
 
 He will not know my pain and my despair, 
 When that dread scene arises on my view, 
 
 Where my poor father would not hear my pray'r, 
 Or grant his only child a last adieu ! 
 
95 
 
 He will not know that still the hour I mourn, 
 When death all hopes of pardon snatch' d away ; 
 
 That still this heart by sad remembrance torn, 
 Repeats the dreadful mandate of that day. 
 
 Luckless for him has been my constant love, 
 Luckless the destiny I bade him brave, 
 
 For since a parent did our vows reprove, 
 Sorrow was all the gift my fondness gave. 
 
 Then, though I knew my father's stern command, 
 The short-liv'd conflict of affection o'er, 
 
 I offer* d to the youth my dowerless hand, 
 And fondly reasoned thus on being poor, 
 
 " Can pomp or splendour elevate the soul, 
 Brighten the lustre that illumes the eye ! 
 
 Make the rough stream of life more smoothly roll, 
 Suppress the tear, or waft away th,e sigh ! 
 
96 
 
 Can happiness a purer joy receive, 
 In the proud mansions of the rich and great ? 
 
 Or, tell me, can the wounded bosom heave 
 With blunted anguish under robes of state ! 
 
 No ! Henry, no ! Alas ! too well you know, 
 
 The misery of an affected smile, 
 The pain of clearing the thought-clouded brow, 
 
 To covet for yourself the hateful toil ! 
 
 And since my choice, and reason both approve, 
 Since I have known you many a circling year, 
 
 And time has well assured me of your love, 
 Tell me, my Henry, what have I to fear ? 
 
 My father, though by worldly prudence led, 
 * Will pardon when our happiness is told." 
 Alas ! no curses fell upon my head, 
 But never did he more his child behold. 
 
97 
 
 He would not, dying, hear my ardent prayer ! 
 
 But, cruel ! said, I leave her all my store ; 
 She wrung my doating heart with deep despair, 
 
 And even now perhaps desires no more. 
 
 This is the stroke which all my peace destroys, 
 The dagger which no art can draw away, 
 
 The thought which every faculty employs, 
 Withers my bloom, and makes my strength decay. 
 
 His death, his sorrows are the heavy curse 
 That hangs above my poor, distracted head! 
 
 His dying words have scattered vain remorse, 
 For vain, though bitter, are the tears I shed. 
 
 And yet my father to my soul was dear, 
 
 But tender pity was on Henry's side ; 
 I painted him relenting, not severe, 
 
 Nor "fancied I could be an orphan bride, 
 
98 
 
 Ah me ! excuses will not cure my pain ! 
 
 At least, forgetfulness can little plead. 
 A widow' d parent ! I deserv'd disdain, 
 
 'Tis fit these eyes should weep, this heart should bleed! 
 
 But yet assist me heaven ! to hide my grief, 
 My waning health from love's suspicious eyes ! 
 
 This malady admits of no relief, 
 And nought augments the pain, but Henry's sighs. 
 
 Perhaps e'en now he wonders at my stay, 
 Sees the white fogs of evening rise around, 
 
 Comes out to seek me in my devious way, 
 But turns not to this unfrequented ground. 
 
 Alas ! my love, thy anxious care is vain ! 
 
 Nothing can stop yon wand'rer of the sky ; 
 Nothing can long this fleeting life retain ! 
 
 For oh ! I feel that I must shortly die. 
 
99 
 
 But cease my lute, this low, desponding strain, 
 It floats too long upon the heavy air ; 
 
 Henry may pass and know that I complain. 
 One moment's peace to him is worth my care." 
 
 She said, and toward the cheerless mansion flew, 
 Her slender, sylph-like form array' d in white, 
 
 Not clearly seen amidst surrounding dew, 
 Seem'd like a spirit lingering in its flight. 
 
 Poor Henry, who had watch'd her in the shade. 
 In aching silence list- ning to her song, 
 
 At distance followed slowly through the glade. 
 Pausing forgetful as he passM along. 
 
 N 2 
 
100 
 
 YOUTH UNSUSPICIOUS OF EVIL. 
 
 BEND thy head, sweet morning flow'r ! 
 And look not up so fresh and bright I 
 
 The keen, harsh wind, the heavy show'r, 
 Will spoil thy beauties ere the night. 
 
 1 grieve to see thee look so gay, 
 
 And so unconscious of thy lot, 
 For gloom and tempests wait thy day, 
 And thou, unhappy, fear'st it not! 
 
101 
 
 Thy tender leaflets all unfold, 
 
 Their colours ripen and refine, 
 Become most lovely to behold, 
 
 And, ah ! most apt to shrink and pine. 
 
 Then, bend thy head, sweet morning flow'r ! 
 
 I grieve to see thee look so gay ! # 
 Close thy soft wings against the show'r, 
 
 And wait a more auspicious day ! 
 
103 
 
 THE 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 a AND beats my heart again with joy ! 
 
 And dances now my spirit light ! 
 The skiff that holds my darling boy 
 
 This moment burst upon my sight ! 
 
 Not yet distinctly I perceive 
 Amid the crew his well-known form, 
 
 But still his safety I believe, 
 I know he has escap'd the storm. 
 
103 
 
 I feel as if my heart had wings, 
 And tender from excess of bliss, 
 
 His form, which airy fancy brings, 
 In fond emotion seem to kiss. 
 
 Welcome the wild, imperfect rest, 
 Which these bewilder' d spirits share! 
 
 Welcome this tumult of the breast, 
 After the shudder of despair ! 
 
 My Robert he is brave and strong, 
 He will these flowing tears reprove* 
 
 Alas ! how little know the young, 
 The tremor of a Mother's love. 
 
 For we are weak from many a care, 
 From many a sleepless, anxious hour, 
 
 When fear and hope the bosom tear, 
 And ride the brain with fevering power. 
 
104 
 
 But lo ! he cheerly waves his hand ! 
 
 I hear his voice ! I see his face ! 
 And eager now he springs to land, 
 
 To meet a Mother's fond embrace ! 
 
 This failing heart ! but joy to me, 
 If heaven in pity is thy guard ; 
 
 And of the pangs I feel for thee, 
 Protection be the dear reward '" 
 
105 
 
 EDGAR AND ELLEN. 
 
 " ARREST thy steps ! On these sad plains, 
 
 Fair dame, no farther go ! 
 But listen to the martial strains, 
 
 Whose wildness speaks of woe ! 
 
 Hark ! strife is fof ward on the field, 
 
 I hear the trumpet's bray ! 
 Now spear to spear, and shield to shield, 
 
 Decides the dreadful day I 
 
106 
 
 Unfit for thee, oh ! Lady fair ! 
 
 The scenes where men engage ; 
 Thy gentle spirit could not bear 
 
 The fearful battle's rage." 
 
 " I prithee, stranger, let me fly ! 
 
 Though pallid is my cheek, 
 ^The lightning's flash delights my eye, 
 
 I love the thunder's break. 
 
 And oft beneath our castle tow'rs, 
 When tempests rush'd along, 
 
 My steady hand has painted flowers, 
 Or voice has rais'd the song." 
 
 " Oh Lady ! that bewilder'd eye 
 
 Is red with recent tears ; 
 Already that heart-startling sigh 
 
 Proclaims thy anxious fears. 
 
107 . 
 
 Let then a stranger's words prevail, 
 Nor thus in danger roam ! 
 
 Here many frightful ills assail, 
 But safety is at home !" 
 
 " No, in some peasant's lowly cot 
 
 Perhaps she may abide, 
 To consecrate the humble spot, 
 
 But not where I reside. 
 
 In Hubert's halls, my father's foe, 
 From childhood have I dwelt, 
 
 And for his wily murderer too, 
 A filial fondness felt. 
 
 Ah me ! how often have I press' d 
 The lips which seal'd his doom 1 
 
 How oft the cruel hand caress'd 
 Which sent him to the tomb ! 
 
. 108 
 
 My nurse rereal'd the dreadful truth, 
 
 And, as she told the tale, 
 A sickly blight pass'd o'er my youth, 
 
 And turn'd its roses pale. 
 
 The heary secret on my heart 
 Lijce deadly poison prey'd ; 
 
 For she forbade me to impart 
 A word of what she said. 
 
 I, who so blithely sung before, 
 
 So peacefully had slept, 
 fancied gaunt murder at the door, 
 
 And listen' d, shook, and wept. 
 
 No longer with an open smile, 
 
 I greeted all around ; 
 My fearful looks were fix'd the while, 
 
 In terror on the ground, 
 
109 
 
 All saw the change, and kindly strove 
 
 My sadness to relieve ; 
 Base Hubert feign' d a parent's love, 
 
 Which could not see me grieve. 
 
 A painful anger flush' d my cheek, 
 
 My lip indignant smil'd, 
 I cried, " And did he e'er bespeak 
 
 Thy friendship for his child?" 
 
 1 " Ellen ! when death was drawing nigh, 
 
 Thou wert his only care ; 
 Oh ! guard her, Hubert, if I die, 
 It is my latest prayer. 
 
 To none, dear friend, but thee," he cried, 
 " Whose love and truth are known, 
 
 Could I this precious charge confide, 
 To cherish, as thy own I" 
 
I pledged my honour, to fulfil 
 
 My dearest friend's desire i 
 And I have ever acted still, 
 
 As honour's laws require ! 
 
 Thy mind, dear Ellen, is the proof 
 
 Of my paternal care, 
 Since form'd beneath this friendly roof, 
 
 So excellent and fair. 
 
 Then why that cloud upon thy brow, 
 
 That sullen, fearful sigh ! 
 That something which we must not know, 
 
 That cold and alter' d eye? 
 
 Why must thy proud, suspicious air, 
 
 Give every heart a pain ? 
 Why must my son, my Edgar bear 
 
 Unmerited disdain?" 
 
Ill 
 
 I hung my head, my fault'ring tongue 
 
 In feeble murmurs spoke, 
 His specious art my bosom wrung, 
 
 I shudder' d at his look. ?* , 
 
 And thus, bewildered with my woes, 
 
 I faint and careless rove ; 
 For oh ! I cannot dwell with those 
 
 I must no longer love." 
 
 " Fair lady, calm that anxious heart, 
 
 And to my voice attend ! 
 Thy father died by Hubert's dart, 
 
 And yet he was his friend. 
 
 For Lancaster Sir Philip rose, 
 And many a Yorkist slew ; 
 Till, singling him amidst his foes. 
 Lord Hubert's arrow flew. 
 
But soon we saw the victor stand 
 Beside, in sorrow drown' d; 
 
 And soon Sir Philip took the hand, 
 Which gave the deadly wound* 
 
 " My friend, unweeting was thy aim, 
 
 And is by me forgiv'n, 
 But oh ! one sacred oath I claim, 
 
 In sight of men, and heav'n ! 
 
 Oh ! promise with a father's zeal, 
 
 My Ellen to protect ! 
 Nor let her like* an orphan feel 
 
 Dependence, and neglect I 
 
 And then, almost without regret, 
 
 I can my charge resign; 
 For, during life, I never met 
 
 So true a heart as thine." 
 
113 
 
 Lord Hubert pledg'd his sacred word, 
 He wept, and, kneeling, swore, 
 
 In England ne'er to wield a sword, 
 Or shoot an arrow more. 
 
 From civil war, whose daily crimes 
 
 This island long shall rue, 
 From all the evil of the times, 
 
 In anguish he withdrew. 
 
 I wonder that, by nature bold, 
 He stoop* d "to wear disguise, 
 
 Or leave the hapless tale untold, 
 Which wakens thy surprise ! 
 
 Yet the sad shame that filPd his brcait, 
 
 May well thy pity crave, 
 A turtle dove may build her nest 
 
 Upon thy father's grave " 
 
114 
 
 " Stranger, that warrior from the east, 
 
 Who comes with headlong speed, 
 Is Edgar, Hubert's son, at least, 
 
 He rides on Edgar's steed I" 
 
 * - . * ' 
 
 " Be calm, fair maid ! Thou gallant knight, 
 
 Who speedest o'er the plain, 
 Give us some tidings of the fight, 
 
 The victor and the slain ! 
 
 One moment stay ! for many a care 
 
 Now fills us with alarm ! 
 Is Edward King ? Is Hubert's heir, 
 
 Escap'd from death and harm?" 
 
 " The sun of Lancaster is set, 
 
 And never more to rise ;" 
 Return' d the knight, " I know not yet 
 
 If Edgar lives or dies !" 
 
115 
 
 And scarce he check' d the flowing rein, 
 
 In hurried accents spoke, 
 And, dull and hollow was the strain 
 
 That through the helmet broke, 
 
 Where is he ?" shriek' d fair Ellen forth, 
 
 He started at the sound, 
 And, leaping sudden on the earth, 
 
 His armour rang around. 
 
 " Queen of my destiny !" he cried, 
 
 " Thy faithful Edgar see ! 
 Whose welfare thou canst best decide, 
 
 For it depends on thee ! 
 
 I sav'd our youthful Monarch's life, 
 Whose bounteous hand accords, 
 
 A dower to grace the noblest wife 
 That England's realm affords. 
 
116 
 
 With thee his splendid gifts I share, 
 
 Or soon this youthful head 
 A solemn monk's dark cowl shall wear, 
 
 To love arid glory dead. 
 
 Perhaps that tear upon thy cheek 
 
 Foretels a milder doom ! 
 Thou wilt again our mansion seek, 
 
 Oh ! let me lead thee home !" 
 
 FINIS. 
 
ERRATA. 
 
 Page 19, Sdverse, last line, for seem read seems. 
 
 43, 2d verse, last line, for Ah, perhaps read A perhaps. 
 
 87, ninth line, for drunk read drank. 
 
Rrcttell and Co. Printers, 
 Marsfiali-strcet, Golden-square. 
 
rWt, 
 
 
 *<4 
 
 rr 
 
 ,f7 C 
 
 ELEGIES, 
 
ELEGIES 
 
 OTHER SMALL POEMS, 
 
 MATILDA BETHAM. 
 
 IPSWICH: PRINTED BY W. BURRELL, 
 
 AND SOLD BY LONGMAN, P ATERNOSTER-ROW f 
 AND JERMYN AND FORSTER, IPSWICH, 
 
 Price 3.r. 
 

To the Hon. LADY JERNINGHAM. 
 
 Madam, 
 
 The many endearing instances of re- 
 gard I have experienced since I had the 
 honor of being known to your Ladyship, 
 while they impress my mi fid with gra- 
 titude., flatter my hopes with a favour- 
 able reception of the following miscel- 
 lanies^ which, under your patronage, 
 I venture to submit to the public. 
 
VI 
 
 Considered as the first essays of ail 
 early period of life, and as the exer- 
 cises of leisure, my wishes suggest, that 
 they may not, perhaps, be found wholly 
 unworthy of attention ; but whatever 
 be their fate with others, I shall feel 
 myself much gratified, if, in your La- 
 dyship's judgment, they may be allowed 
 some merit. 
 
 Though there cannot be a greater 
 pleasure than dwelling on the excellen- 
 cies of a distinguished and amiable cha- 
 racter, I know not that it would be 
 permitted me to indulge my present in- 
 clination with enumerating those vir- 
 tues and endowments which confessedly 
 distinguish your Ladyship, but my 
 
vii 
 
 wishes I may offer, and that you may 
 long, very long, continue to bless your 
 family, to adorn your rank, and con- 
 sole the unhappy, is the sincere prayer 
 
 of 
 
 Your Ladyship's most obliged 
 
 humble servant, 
 MATILDA BETHAM. 
 
 Stonham, Nov. 20, 1797. 
 

 
 TO THE READER. 
 
 * ,>,.;..<.,<..<.,<- 
 
 If, in the following pages, there may 
 be found any unacknowledged imita- 
 tions, I hope I shall not be censured 
 as an intentional plagiarist ; for it has 
 been my wish, however I may be 
 esteemed presumptuous, not to be un- 
 just ; and I sometimes fear lest an im- 
 perfect recollection of another's idea 
 should have appeared to me as a dawn- 
 ing thought of my own. Wherever I 
 could recollect a similar passage, al- 
 though unnoticed at the time I wrote,. 
 
it has been either altered or acknow- 
 ledged. 
 
 I commit these trifles to the press 
 with the anxiety necessarily resulting 
 from a desire that they may not be 
 deemed altogether worthless. Though 
 the natural partiality of the writer may 
 be somewhat strengthened by the com- 
 mendations of friends and parents, I 
 am well aware that no apology can 
 give currency to imperfection. 
 
 I have not vainly attempted to ascend 
 to the steeps of Parnassus. If, wander- 
 ing at its foot, I have mistaken perish- 
 able shrubs for never-dying flowers, the 
 errors of a youthful mind, first viewing 
 the fascinating regions of fancy, will 
 not be rigidly condemned ; for wher- 
 ever there is true taste, there will be 
 genuine candour. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 f ^ ivit/i Arthur and Albino. ............ 1 
 
 Arthur and Albina $ 
 
 The Fraternal Duel 15 
 
 Lines in a Letter to A. R. C 22 
 
 The Lonely Walk 24 
 
 The Outlaw 28 
 
 Invitation 43 
 
 Whitsun- Monday 45 
 
 Philemon 50 
 
 On a Fan 56 
 
 To Shnji licity ..,.,.. , 5 7 
 
Xll 
 
 The Terrors of Guilt 6O 
 
 Cen'lin Prince of Mercia 67 
 
 Rhapsody 79 
 
 Human Pleasure or Pain 81 
 
 The Complaint of Fancy 83 
 
 On the Eve of Departure from 8& 
 
 To M.I 91 
 
 Translation from Metastasio 95, 97, 99 
 
 from Delia Casa ^ 101 
 
 Editha 102 
 
 To M. I 108 
 
 Written in Zimmerman's Solitude Ill 
 
 To the Memory of Mr. Agostino I sola 113 
 
 To the Nuns of Eodney 116 
 
 Written in London 118 
 
 Fragment 123 
 
 123 
 
 Written April '18, 1796 125 
 
ERRATA. 
 
 Page 58, last verse, 3d line, for ne'er read e'er. 
 
 Page 94, title, for Dello read Del. 
 
 Same p. 3d line from the bottom, for nauragj read naufragj. 
 

ARTHUR and ALBINA. 
 
 1794. 
 
 AH ! if your eye should e'er these lines survey, 
 
 Dismiss from thence its penetrating ray: 
 
 Let Criticism then her distance keep, 
 
 And dreaded Justice then be lull'd to sleep : 
 
 For, let whatever sentence be their due, 
 
 I feel I cannot censure bear from you. 
 
A British Maid awaits tlie arrival of her lover from 
 the lattle^ on a hill^ where^ at Its commencement* 
 she had retired to make vows to foaven for hh 
 success. Evening. 
 
ARTHUR and ALBINA. 
 
 *AH me ! the yellow western sky turns pale, 
 And leaves the cheerless sons of earth to mourn; 
 
 And yet I hear not in the silent vale, 
 A sound to tell me Arthur does return. 
 
 Ah, haste ye hours! quick plume the loit'ring wing! 
 
 Bring back my hero, crown'd with glorious spoils I 
 Let bards on lofty harps his triumphs sing, 
 
 And loud applause repay successful toil? ! 
 
Reward the flame, ye great celestial pow'rs, 
 The noble flame that in his bosom glows! 
 
 Inspire him, Druids, from your holy bow'rs, 
 With strength to conquer iron-breasted foes!* 
 
 With heightened vigour brace his nervous arm, 
 And let his lance with ten-fold fury fly, 
 
 Make him terrific by some potent charm, 
 And add new lightening to his piercing eye! 
 
 Then may my lover gain unrivall'd fame, 
 The Roman banners may less proudly flow, 
 
 Then he may humble their detested name, 
 
 And their high plumes wave o'er a British brow ! 
 
 Then may his chariot, f wheeling o'er the plain; 
 
 Hurl death and desolation all around, 
 While his intrepid front appals their train, ft. 
 
 And make our proud invaders bite the ground ! 
 
 * Alluding to the armour of the Romans. 
 
 ) The Britons fought in low chariots, which they could 
 leave and re-ascend at pleasure. 
 
But yet I hear no lively foot advance ; 
 
 No sound of triumph greets my listening ear! 
 And I may carve this eagle-darting lance 
 
 For one, whose voice I never more shall hear! 
 
 Perhaps my vows have never reached the skies, 
 Nor heav'n, propitious, smil'd upon my pray 'r; 
 
 And ah! to morrow's crimson dawn may rise 
 To plunge me in the horrors of despair L 
 
 Yet well he knows the dreadful spear to wield 
 Alas ! their fearful limbs are fenc'd with care : 
 
 And, what can valour, when th'extended shield * 
 May leave, so oft, his gen'rous bosom bare? 
 
 Say, reverend Druids, can you bless in vain? 
 
 Can you in vain extend your spotless hands? 
 Will not heav'n listen when its priests complain^ 
 save its altars from unhallow'd bands? 
 
 * The shield being their only armour, when held out to 
 protect a wounded or dying friend, left them defenceless, 
 
Oh yes t Til fear no more! The sacred groves,* 
 That rear their untouch'cl branches to the skies ; 
 
 Beneath whose shade its chosen servant roves, 
 Hidden from weak, unconseerated eyes ; 
 
 Beneath whose shade the choral bards rehearse, 
 
 Piercing, with upraised eyes, each mist that shrouds, 
 And, listening, catch the heav'n-dictated verse, 
 By aiis etherial wafted from the clouds: 
 
 Jt ne'er can be but hark ! I hear the sound 
 
 Of some one's step; yet not the youth I love; 
 Hewould haveflown,and scarcely touched the ground, 
 ^ ; Not ling'ring thus, with weary caution, move. 
 
 The heavy wanderer approaches nigh, 
 
 But the drear darkness skreens him from my view: 
 All, gracious heav'n ! it was my Arthur's sigh, 
 
 Which the unwilling breeze so faintly blew* 
 
 * The groves were consecrated to the celebration of religious 
 mysteries. 
 
Oh speak! inform me what I have to fear! 
 
 Speak, and relieve my doubting, trembling heart! 
 To thy Albina, with a tongue sincere, 
 
 A portion of thy wretchedness impart!' 
 
 " Sweet maid," replied the wounded, dying youth,, 
 In accents mournful, tremulous and slow, 
 
 <; Yes, I will ever answer thee with truth, 
 " While yet the feeble tide of life shall flow, 
 
 <; We made the haughty Roman chiefs retire,, 
 " The tow'ring, sacrilegious eagle* flew ; 
 
 " Our bosoms swell'd with more than mortal fire, 
 i; When from the field indignant they w r ithdre\v. 
 
 " But ill bespeaks my faint and languid tongue^ 
 ** The glowing beauties of that joyful sight ; 
 
 <; 111 can my breast, with keenest torture wrung, 
 " Dwell on the charming terrors of the fight. 
 
 The Roman standard. 
 
8 
 
 u To others then I leave the envied strain^ 
 " Which shall for ages rend the British air; 
 
 * c Norwill thy partial ear expect, in vain, 
 " To find the humble name of Arthur there. 
 
 " I go, while now the victory is warm, 
 " The just reward of valour to obtain ; 
 
 u Soon I return, clad in a nobler form,* 
 " Again to triumph, and again be slairu. 
 
 "Ah! then, my dear Albina, cease to grieve,, 
 "Nor at thy lover's glorious fate repine ; 
 
 *' For, though my present favoured form I leave, 
 " This constant heart shall still be only thine. 
 
 " Alas! e'en now I feel the icy hand 
 
 " Of hasty death, press down my swelling heart 
 " E'en now I hear a sweet aerial band, 
 
 K Summon thy faithful Arthur to depart. 
 
 * The Druids are said to have preached the doctrine of 
 transmigration, in order to inspire their warriors with ther 
 greater contempt of death. 
 
" Let not thy tears an absent lover mourn, 
 " Remember that he bravely, nobly died ; 
 
 " Remember that he quickly will return, 
 
 " And claim again his lov'd, his destin'd bride." 1 
 
 As thus the warrior's fainting spirits fled, 
 
 And parting life stream' d forth at every vein, 
 
 His quivering lip, in whispers, softly said, 
 " Remember, Arthur dies to live again!" 
 
 " Oh stay, dear youth 1" the hapless maiden cries, 
 " My best-lov'd Arthur, but one moment stay! 
 
 " And close not yet those all-enlivening eyes, 
 " So lately lighted at the torch of day. 
 
 <c Ah! yet once more, that look of tender love, 
 " Of fond regret, my Arthur, let me view ! 
 
 *' Let one more effort thy affection prove, 
 44 And bid me once, once more, a long adieu. 
 
 <; Now, ere the moon withdraws her feeble light, 
 " Ope yet again on me thy fading eye! 
 
 ic He hears not! memory has ta'en her flight, 
 " And vanish'd with that last convulsive sigh. 
 
10 
 
 " Why did I variegaied wreaths prepare, 
 "To pay the conqueror every honor due? 
 
 "Or, why, with fillets, bind my flowing hair, 
 " And tinge my arms of the bright azure hue?* 
 
 " Oh! must this constant bosom beat no more?^ 
 "This skilful hand no more direct the spear? 
 
 " Must lost Albina still her fate deplore, 
 "And ever drop the unavailing tear? 
 
 " Must I no more that lovely face review, 
 " Expressing each emotion of the mind? 
 
 " No more repeat a sweetly sad adieu? 
 
 " No more gay chaplets on his forehead bind? 
 
 " His forehead, high and fair, with martial grace, 
 " And bold, free curls of glossy chesnut crown'd ; 
 
 "The full, dark eye-brow which adorn'd his face, 
 " Overwhelming foes with terror as he frowivd. 
 
 * The practice of staining themselves with blue vas common 
 .among the Britons, 
 
II 
 
 u His voice, though strong, harmoniously clear, 
 " No more shall fill Albina with delight; 
 
 14 No more shall sooth her still-attentive ear, 
 " And make her fancy every sorrow light. 
 
 f< Farewell to love, to happiness, and joy! 
 
 " Yet will I cull the summer's choicest bloom; 
 f ; Funereal chaplets shall my time employ, 
 
 " And wither daily on my Arthur's tomb." 
 
 As thus she mourn'd, with bitterest woe opprest, 
 A ray of light illumin'd all the grove, 
 
 And a consoling voice the fair addrest, 
 In the soft accents of parental love. 
 
 Though still she clasp'd her hero's valued corse, 
 She slowly rais'd her languid, streaming eyes, 
 
 And own'd astonishment's resistless force, 
 Viewing the stranger with a wild surprize. 
 
 The form was clad in robes of purest white, 
 That swept with solemn dignity the ground j 
 
 Contrasting with the blackest gloom of night, 
 Which reign'd in awful majesty around. 
 
12 
 
 The silver beard did reverence demand,* 
 And told her that a holy bard was there, 
 
 Whose shrivell* d fingers grasp'd a flaming brand. 
 Which threw a lustre on the waving hair. 
 
 His eye possess'd the brilliant fire of youth, 
 United with the wisdom of the sage; 
 
 And speaking, with the simple voice of truth, 
 He, blended the solemnity of age. 
 
 "Arise! thou loveliest of misfortune's train, 
 
 44 And cease these weak, desponding tears to shed ; 
 
 " The soft effusions of thy grief restrain^ 
 
 " Which serve but to disturb the peaceful dead. 
 
 <c The youth you mourn, far from these scenes of woe t 
 41 To worlds of never-ending joy is flown; 
 
 44 Where his blest bosom with delight shall glow, 
 44 And his fair temples wear a princely crown. 
 
 * The people, excepting the priests, shaved off all the hair 
 from their fates, but what grew on the upper lip. 
 
13 
 
 " Ah then, presumptuous ! question not the skies, 
 " Nor more with vain laments his loss deplore; 
 " Attend to this, and cease your fruitless sighs, 
 " You soon shall meet where you can part no more."* 
 
 Awe-struck, his sacred wisdom she confest, 
 Which pour'd sweet consolation on her mind; 
 
 She cross'd her blood-stain'd hands upon her breast, 
 And bow'd her humble, grateful head, resign'd. 
 
 * This equivocal manner of speech may be supposed natural 
 enough in one of this order of priests, who, it is said, held a 
 more refined idea of a future state than they preached to the 
 people. 
 
 AUGUST 27, 1794. 
 
Alas! no more that joyous morn appears 
 
 That led the tranquil hours of spotless fame ; 
 For I have steep'd a father's couch in tears, 
 
 SHENSTONE, 
 
THE FRATERNAL DUEL, 
 
 *OH ! hide me from the sun! I loath the sight! 
 
 I cannot bear his bright, obtrusive ray: 
 Nought is so dreadful to my gloom as light ! 
 
 Nothing so dismal as the blaze of day ! 
 
 No more may I its sparkling glories view! 
 
 No more its piercing lustre meet my eye ! 
 On night's black wings my only comfort flew; 
 
 At breath of morn I sicken and I die* 
 
16 
 
 Where can I fly? In what sequester' d clime 
 Does darkness ever hold her ebon reign? 
 
 Where woeful dirges measure out the time, 
 And endless echoes breathe the sullen strain. 
 
 Where dreary mountains rear their lowering heads, 
 To pierce the heavy and umbrageous clouds; 
 
 And where the cavern dewy moisture sheds, 
 
 And night's thick veil the guilty mourner shrouds. 
 
 There, lost in horrors, I might vent my sighs ; 
 
 To open misery myself resign ; 
 Might snatch each torturing vision ere it flies, 
 
 And feast on prospects desolate as mine. 
 
 Oh! let me thither quickly take my flight, 
 And chuse a favourite and a final seat, 
 
 In scenes which would each gentler mind affright, 
 But for my guilt affords a fit retreat. 
 
 There, where no ray, no gleam of light could come, 
 There, and there only, could I find relief; 
 
 There might I 'ruminate on Edward's doom, 
 And lose myself in luxury of grief. 
 
17 
 
 And, as it is, though joys around me shine, 
 
 Though pleasure here erects her dazzling brow> 
 
 Wrapt in despondence, will I droop and pine, 
 And tears of anguish shall for ever flow. 
 
 Oh Edward ! could'st thou see this alter'd frame, 
 Which youthful graces lately did adorn! 
 
 Could'st thou behold, and think me still the same, 
 Thy once gay friend, thus hapless and forlorn? 
 
 The cheek, so late by ruddy health embrown'd, 
 Now pale and faded with incessant tears ; 
 
 The eye, which once elate, disdain'd the ground, 
 Now sunk and languid in its orb appears. 
 
 Oh ! never, never will I cease to grieve ! 
 
 And sure repentance pardon may obtain! 
 Can woe unfeign'd incite heav'n to relieve 
 
 A wretch opprest with agonizing pain? 
 
 Ah no! my hands are stain'd with brother's blood! 
 
 A father's curses load my sinking head! 
 I wish to die, but dare not pass the flood, 
 
 For there, as well as here, my hopes are fled. i 
 2 
 
18 
 
 Sleep, which was meant to chase away the thought, 
 To lull the sound of dissonant despair, 
 
 Appears to me with added terrors fraught, 
 And my torn heart can find no refuge there. 
 
 If, for a moment, I its fetters wear, 
 
 And its soft pressure these pale eyes controul, 
 I injur'd Emma's just reproaches hear, 
 
 Or Edward's form appals my shrinking soul. 
 
 ji 
 
 When in those transitory sleeps I lie, 
 
 I oft his beauteous, bleeding form review; 
 
 WmilJ, benignant lustre lights his eye, 
 As come to bid a friend a last adieu. 
 
 I start, I $hudder at his tuneful voice, 
 
 When i-f, in soothing whispers, meets my ear; 
 
 That sound, which oft has made my heart rejoice, 
 I now all-trembling and affrighted hear. 
 
 Was it thy fault, dear, much-lamented youth 
 If lovely Emma did thy suit prefer? 
 
 She saw thee form'd of tenderness and truth, 
 And kings might glory to be lov'd by hor. 
 
19 
 
 Thy native sweetness won her artless heart; 
 
 And well our different characters she knew; 
 Whilst thy mild looks did happiness impart. 
 
 She saw the murderer in each glance I threw. 
 
 Yet for this, meanly, did I thee upbraid, 
 And basely urg'd an elder brother's right ; 
 
 Then, calling impious passion to my aid, 
 Forc'd thce, unwilling, to the fatal fight. 
 
 Oh! ne'er shall I forget the dreadful hour, 
 I sheath'd my weapon in thy noble breast; 
 
 Thy dying hand clasp'd mine, with feeble pow'r, 
 And to thy mangled bosom fondly prest. 
 
 Whilst o'er thee, I, in speechless anguish hung, 
 ^Thou saw'st the wild distraction of my eye; 
 And, though the chills of death restrained thy tongue, 
 Thy bosom heav'd a sympathetic sigh* 
 
 With cruel tenderness my friends contriv'd, 
 To bear me from the drear, polluted shore; 
 
 Of every joy, of peace itself deprived, 
 
 Which this despairing breast shall know no more. 
 
20 . 
 
 Since this what frenzy has inspir'd my mind! 
 
 My tortur'd mem'ry cannot it retrace; 
 No relique now of former days I find, 
 
 But horrors, which e'en madness can't efface. 
 
 My dearest brother, and my tenderest friend, 
 O come, and save me from this dark abyss! 
 
 Draw hence the darts which my rack'd bosom rend ! 
 And bear me with you to the realms of bliss! 
 
 Ah! whence that pang which smote my shuddering heai 
 Where now, for refuge, can lost Anselm fly? 
 
 'Tis Death! I know him by his crimson dart! 
 And, am I fit? Oh heav'ns! I cannot die! 
 
 My spirit is not form'd for rapid flight ; 
 
 It cannot cut the vast expanse of air, 
 No, never can it reach the realms of light, 
 
 For sin, a weight immoveable, lies there!' 
 
 Thus wTetchecl Anselm rav'd : unhappy youth! 
 
 Though passion hurried thee so far astray, 
 Thy infant soul ador'd the God of Truth, 
 
 And virtue usher'd in thy vernal day. 
 
21 
 
 Oh ! had he learn'd his passions to restrain, 
 And let cool reason in his breast preside, 
 
 His opening wisdom had not bloom'd in vain, 
 Nor had he, ere the prime of manhood, died. 
 
 Yet, if remorse could expiate his guilt, 
 
 If the worst sufferings could the crime erase, 
 
 If tears could wash away the blood he spilt, 
 Then Anselm's penitence obtained him grace. 
 
 AUGUST 20, 1791. 
 
LETTER to A. IL C. 
 
 O-N HER WISHING TO BE CALLED 
 
 ANNA. , 
 
 FQRGIVE me, if I wound your ear, 
 
 By calling of you Nancy, 
 Which is the name of my sweet friend, 
 
 The other's but her fancy. 
 
 Ah, dearest girl! how could your mind 
 The strange distinction frame? 
 
 The whimsical, unjust caprice, 
 Which robs you of your name. 
 
Nancy agrees with what we see, 
 A being wild and airy; 
 
 Gay as a nymph of Flora's train. 
 Fantastic as a fairy. 
 
 But Anna's of a different kind, 
 
 A melancholy maid ; 
 Boasting a sentimental soul, 
 
 In solemn pomp array 'd. 
 
 Oh ne'er will I forsake the sound, 
 
 So artless and so free! 
 Be what you will with all mankind, 
 
 But Nancy still with me. 
 
THE LONELY WALK, 
 
 To W. S. B. 
 
 WHEN the grey evening spreads a calm around, 
 Tell me, has thy bewilder'd fancy sought, 
 
 Hetir'd in some sequestered spot of ground, 
 Rest, from the labour of eternal thought? 
 
 When, wrapt in self^ the soul enjoys repose, 
 The wearied brain resigns its fervent heat, 
 
 In dream-like musing every care we lose, 
 And wind our way with slowly-moving 
 
25 
 
 Oft, to indulge the thought-exploded sigh, 
 When, slowly wandering at the close of day, 
 
 Light emanations from th'abstracted eye, 
 
 With transient beauty in the sun-beams plav^ 
 
 Thy sister seeks the solitary shade y 
 Her mind inhaling the aerial gloom, 
 
 Sees, not observing, the fair landscape fade, 
 And sullen mist usurping day-light's room. 
 
 ^ . 
 Not her's the feelings which regret inspires, 
 
 When sorrows keen, have made the spirits -low; 
 Adversity has damp'd the youthful fires, 
 And all the tears that fall are tears of woe. 
 
 Ah: no! possessing every social bliss, 
 I cannot, will not at my fate repine;. 
 
 Or ask for happiness excelling this, 
 
 When, such a world of treasures now are mine! 
 
 And, when the melancholy grove I seek, 
 Scarce can my palpitating heart controul, 
 
 While silent tears are trembling on my cheek, 
 The flood of pleasure swelling in my soul. 
 
26 
 
 But soon my too-elated thoughts are calm r 
 The tumults of the mental chaos cease- 
 
 A soft oblivion the rais'd senses charm, 
 And lull to a reflecting, soothing peace. 
 
 Hail, sweet enhancements of the languid mind? 
 
 Whose calm reposes restless worldlings scorn p 
 But from whose aid recruited strength we find, 
 
 And w r aken, lively as the bird of mcrn. 
 
 And thou, lov'd boy, in whose congenial breast^ 
 I doubt not but those sentimen's reside; 
 
 For we, our thoughts, our actions have confest, 
 As much in hearts as persons are allied ; 
 
 Hail thou, my brother! may thy steps be led 
 By heav'nly wisdom through this world of care. 
 
 And gain the realms for which our Saviour bled I 
 Nor pain, nor lassitude await us there. 
 
 OCTOBER 13, 1794, 
 
The first Percy, vu/io came overivith William the Con- 
 queror, married a Saxon lady, called Emma de Port, 
 said to have been the daughter of the last Saxon Earl 
 of Northumberland,, whose possessions had been given 
 to him (Lord William dc Percy) for his services. 
 
 I have taken the liberty of supposing this lady to haj 
 had a brother. 
 
THE OUTLAW. 
 
 BEFORE the fair Aurora spreacf 
 Her azure mantle o'er the skies, 
 
 While sleep its pleasing influence shed r 
 On grateful mortals weary eyes, 
 
 Emerg'd from a surrounding wood,, 
 On a bleak mountain's sullen brow, 
 
 A solitary outlaw stood, 
 Andview'd, through mist, the world below. 
 
With deep regret his bosom fraught, 
 
 His arms were wreath'd in sorrow's knot ;* 
 
 Nor seem'd he yet, by patience taught, 
 To beat submissively his lot. 
 
 I IPtlden w r as each enlivening grace ; 
 
 Deprest by his untimely doom ; 
 A hectic flush o'erspread his face, 
 
 Instead of nature's florid bloom. 
 
 Untutor'd in the school of grief, 
 
 His pining spirit spoke in sighs ; 
 Though almost hopeless of relief 
 
 He look'd around with eager eyes; 
 
 And fondly bent an anxious ear, 
 
 To the slow murmuring of the breeze, 
 
 Essaying oft, in vain, to hear 
 
 A friendly step beneath the trees. 
 
 " Wreathing his arms in this sad knot.'* 
 
 SHAKESPERE'S TEMPEST, 
 
so 
 
 44 Delusive wish!'* at last he cried, 
 
 44 Why wilt thou fill my aching breast? 
 
 44 And thus my miseries deride, 
 44 By telling how I might be blest. 
 
 44 No kind consolers hither bend, 
 " By sympathy to ease my care ; 
 
 44 Here comes no ever-faithful friend, 
 
 44 Who yet might shield me from despair. 
 
 44 The abbey's well-known tow'r I seek, 
 44 It fades from my impassion'd eye ; 
 
 41 The fancied outlines softly break, 
 44 And melt into the distant sky. 
 
 44 No pitying object now remains, 
 
 44 That I may know those scenes are near, 
 
 44 Where generous love and friendship reigns, 
 44 And Al win's name may claim a tear. 
 
 * 4 And you, my lov'd paternal groves, 
 44 Where I no more must shew my head ; 
 
 "* 4 In your fair walks a stranger roves, 
 44 And treacherous Normans daily tread! 
 
31 
 
 " E'en now their presence may prophane 
 44 The halls where Herbert did reside ! 
 
 44 E'en now may joy and gladness reign, 
 44 And Adelaide be Percy's bride. 
 
 44 Yet no! her soul, the seat of truth, 
 44 Would ne'er a second love receive! 
 
 44 The sacred vows of artless youth, 
 44 Her Alwin ever shall believe! 
 
 44 They still shall comfort my sad heart, 
 4< And sooth the anguish of my mind ; 
 44 Shall still a cheering hope impart, 
 
 44 And m,ake me somewhat more resign'd. 
 
 44 Ah! yet I hear her trembling hand, 
 44 Withdraw the bolt to set me free! 
 
 44 Yet hear the hasty, kind command, 
 44 My Alwio fly, and live for me! 
 
 44 No other can obtain my love! 
 
 44 I would for thee the world resign! 
 44 Then let thy prompt obedience prove 
 
 44 That thou art truly, wholly mine." 
 
52 
 
 <c And ever to her promise true, 
 " No pleasure shall her soul elate, 
 
 " For, yet her constant thoughts pursue 
 " A wretched Outlaw's hapless fate! 
 
 " In vain proud Ranulph* shall upbraid, 
 " My Adelaide is still the same ! 
 
 44 And, for thy sake, dear, lovely maid, 
 " I will not curse the Norman name ! 
 
 *' Not, though my father's large domains, 
 " Are plunder'd by the murderous bands ; 
 
 i; And rny Northumbria's fertile plains, 
 " Lie wasted by their cruel hands ; 
 
 i; Though, as a son, I mourn the fate 
 " Of those, to whom my life I owe ; 
 
 <; And hate the hearts that thus create 
 " The dimness of severest woe; 
 
 * Lord of Cumberland. 
 
33 
 
 ** Though I behold no friendly steel, 
 
 " To give my Emma vengeance, drawn ; 
 
 <4 And though a brother's pangs I feel, 
 M To know her destitute, forlorn ; 
 
 " Though, banish'd from the sight of day, 
 
 " In dreary solitude I pine ; 
 " And, forc'd to feel a tyrant's sway, 
 
 " Each dear paternal right resign ; 
 
 " Yet will I seal my lips ; nor dare 
 " To extricate my haughty foes : 
 
 " The hateful, guilty root I spare, 
 " Which can produce so fair a rose. 
 
 " But thou, my heart, wilt thou be calm ? , 
 " Oh ! tell me, can reflection cease ; 
 
 44 And this fond bosom, now so warm, 
 " Be ever tranquiliiz'd to peace ! 
 
 " Ah, no ! a father's scornful eye 
 
 " Is ever present to my view ; 
 " And tells me, Herbert dar'd to die, 
 
 " Though Normans could his son subdue, 
 3 
 
"* Each feeble plea his soul disdains, 
 u They cannot for the fault atone ; 
 
 ** Though, when I left Northumbrians plains, 
 " I had not fifteen summers known. 
 
 " And hear me, Herbert, when I swear 
 " It was not fear that urg'd my flight ; 
 
 " A worthless life was not my care, 
 " I thought but of a parent's right. 
 
 " Then pardon that my youth comply 'd, 
 " To ease a mother's anxious fears 
 
 " That, when I rather w r ould have died, 
 " I yielded to a sister's tears.. 
 
 11 Alas ! a peasant's humble shed, 
 
 " Soon saw our sainted parents' death*,. 
 
 " Who, while our hearts in anguish bled, 
 ** With pious hopes resigned her breath. 
 
 " When mists foretel the ev'ning near, 
 " And clouds of chilling dew arise,. 
 
 *' We sought the grave of her so dear, 
 " And olfer'd there our tears and sighs, 
 
35 
 
 " 'Till mild reflection lent her aid, 
 44 And bade our filial sorrows cease j 
 
 44 The fever of our souls allay'd, 
 44 We sunk into a mournful peace. 
 
 14 My pensive bosom strove to keep 
 " A dying mother's last request ; 
 
 44 I let the thoughts of vengeance sleep, 
 44 And studied to make Emma blest. 
 
 44 No longer shunning of the dawn, 
 44 Or seeking the sequester'd shade, 
 
 44 I call'd my sister to the lawn, 
 
 44 And trod with her the flow'ry glade. 
 
 14 Submitting to our wayward fate, 
 44 I talk'd not of the treasures flown ; 
 
 44 But still seem'd easy and sedate, 
 
 44 While pressing verdure not my own. 
 
 Then all I wish'd, and all I fear'd, 
 44 Was by fraternal love inspir'd ; 
 
 44 And one, by every tie endear'd, 
 44 The only friend my soul desir'cL 
 
36 
 
 w Yet soon that pleasing calmness fled, 
 44 A Norman beauty won my heart, 
 
 " Imperious love my footsteps led, 
 44 And bade all secrecy depart. 
 
 " I own'd the splendour of my race, 
 44 Altho' a peasant's form I bore ; s 
 
 " I fancied silence was disgrace, f ** 
 
 " And hid my sentiments no more. 
 
 " Her father's tongue my fate decreed, 
 
 44 And doom'd great Herbert's son to shame ;. 
 
 44 For, tho' by love from prison freed, 
 44 I bear an outlaw's hateful name. 
 
 44 My sister no fond friend can shield, 
 44 No relative allay her grief; 
 
 44 For tyranny all hearts hath steel'd, 
 44 And nought can give her soul relief. . 
 
 44 With ev'ry quality to charm, 
 
 44 A guardian will not heaven allow, 
 
 44 To screen thy artless youth from harm, 
 44 And, fair deserted ! help thee now ! 
 
57 
 
 " No aid, no comfort, can be nigh ! 
 
 " And shall thy brother here remain ? 
 " Has he not fortitude to fly, 
 
 " And burst the heavy, servile chain ? 
 
 " Why should I linger here alone, 
 " Unseen by every human eye? 
 
 ** To live unfriended and unknown, 
 " And in this dreary desart die. 
 
 w For now the sun-beams gild the sky, 
 " And give the misty morning grace, 
 
 " Far from the light Fm doom'd to fly, 
 " Abandon'd by the human race. 
 
 " But no! Fll bear suspense no more! 
 
 " Too dear a price to purchase breath ; 
 " Fll seek the scenes I yet deplore, 
 
 " And meet a welcome, wish'd~ibr death/* 
 
 Tortiir'd to frenzy, Alwin flew, 
 
 And as he left his sad retreat, 
 He, turning, look'd a last adieu, 
 
 And shook the dew-drops from his feet. 
 
38 
 
 His hurried steps nor press'd the ground, 
 Nor pointed out the path he came ; 
 
 And, though so long the way he found, 
 Despair buoy'd up his fainting frame. 
 
 The sun shot forth a feeble ray, 
 But hid his glorious orb from sight, 
 
 And the pale evening's modest grey, 
 Had soften'd the too-glaring light, 
 
 When Alwin reach'd the humble cot, 
 That once he did with Emma share, 
 
 And, weeping, hail'd the well-known spot, 
 In vain, for Emma was not there. 
 
 Repuls'd, he turn'd his languid eye, 
 Where Ranulph's lofty turrets rose ; 
 
 And, heaving disappointment's sigh, 
 He sought the mansion of his foes. 
 
 His faltering step, when there he came t 
 A proud, disdainful air possest ; 
 
 Memory recall'd his former shame, 
 And indignation fill'd his breast. 
 
He enter'd, in his wild attire, 
 
 With hasty pace and haggard brow, 
 
 Scorn fill'd his azure eye with fire, 
 And gave his cheeks a deeper glow. 
 
 A graceful knight who met his view, 
 Sat pleading by a lady's side ; 
 
 And Alwin's jealous bosom knew 
 Lord Percy, and his fated bride. 
 
 Mistaken youth ! thy eyes have seen, 
 The persons pictured in thy mind ; 
 
 But who is that, with pensive mien, 
 And forehead on her hand xeclin'd ? 
 
 O'er whom Lord Ranulph fondly bends, 
 With sorrow seated on his brow ; 
 
 While the regretting tear descends 
 O'er his pale cheek, in silent woe. 
 
 " Ah! is it thus ?" sad Alwin said, 
 The fancied bride the accents knew, 
 
 Lord Percy rais'd his drooping head, 
 And lovely Emma met his view. 
 
40 
 
 Then rapture arid surprize prevailed. 
 Each bosom felt confus'd delight ; 
 
 While his return the mourner haiPd, 
 And thus his sorrows did requite. 
 
 c * O, dearest Alwin, now no more 
 " My father disapproves our flame ; 
 
 <; No longer we thy loss deplore, 
 
 *' Or tremble to pronounce thy name. 
 
 " A noble friend has gain'd our cause, 
 " And vanquished all his former hate; 
 
 " Who, ere he own'd a lover's laws, 
 
 " With generous tears had wept thy fate." 
 
 " Yes, injured youth r " Lord Ranulph cried, 
 " Thou art this day my chosen heir ; 
 
 " In Adelaide behold thy bride, 
 
 " Thy sister's future husband, there. 
 
 " Lord Percy, to a candid mind, 
 u Unites a fervour like thy own ; 
 
 " And Emma, not to merit blind, 
 " Refers his cause to thee alone* 
 
41 
 
 " If thou wilt grant his fond desire, 
 "'Twill gain a brave, a noble friend f 
 
 " And the possessions of thy sire, 
 " To his posterity descend." 
 
 " And did my Emma stay to hear, 
 " Her brother sanctify her choice? 
 
 tc Ah Percy ! now you need not fear 
 " From Alwin, a dissenting voice. 
 
 " Blest in my love, in Emma blest, 
 
 " My heart each cherish'd wish obtains j 
 
 a Northumbrians, now no more opprest, 
 " Shall own a son of Herbert reigns. 
 
 " May ye rebuild the peasant's cot, 
 " Exalt the woe-depressed head, 
 
 " And o'er each desolated spot, 
 
 " The fostering calm of quiet spread f 
 
 " May stern* reserve and caution cease ! 
 
 " With lenient hand dispense your sway* 
 " Give them the healing balm of peace, 
 
 " Their wounded spirits will obey* 
 
42 
 
 14 Ah ! cheer their gloom ! dispel their care ! 
 
 " The smile will soon replace the tear j 
 <; And, wedded to a Saxon fair, 
 
 " The foreign lord no more, appear,'* 
 
 1794, 
 
INVITATION, 
 
 To J. B. C. 
 
 NOW spring appears, with beauty crown'd, 
 
 And all is light and life around, 
 
 Why comes not Jane ? When friendship calls, 
 
 Why leaves she not Augusta's walls ? 
 
 Where cooling zephyrs faintly blow, 
 
 Nor spread the cheering, healthful glow, 
 
 That glides through each awaken'd vein, 
 
 As skimming o'er the spacious plain, 
 
 We look around with joyous eye, 
 
 And view no boundaries but the sky. 
 
44 
 
 Already April's reign is o'er, 
 Her evening tints delight no more ; 
 No more the violet scents the gale, 
 No more the mist o'erspreads the vale- 
 The lovely queen of smiles and tears, 
 Who gave thee birth, no more appears 
 But blushing May, with brow serene, 
 And vestments of a livelier green, 
 Commands the winged choir to sing, 
 with wild notes the meadows ring. 
 
 O come ! ere all the train is gone, 
 No more to hail thy twenty-one ;. 
 That age which higher honor shares, 
 And well becomes the wreath it wears. 
 From lassitude and cities flee, 
 And breathe the air of heav'n, with me- 
 
 MAY 5, 1795, 
 
WRITTEN ON 
 
 WHITSUN-MONDA Y, 
 
 1795. 
 
 AT an open window sitting, 
 
 On this day of mirth and glee, 
 'Cross a flow'ry vista flitting, 
 
 Many passing forms I see. 
 Ah ! lovely prospect, stay awhile ! 
 
 And longer glad my doating eye, 
 With poverty's delighted smile, 
 
 And lighten'd step, as passing by ; 
 
46 
 
 With labour's spruce and ruddy train, 
 
 Deck'd out in all their best array, 
 Who, months of toil and care disdain, 
 
 Paid by the pleasures of a day. 
 The village girl still let me view, 
 
 Hastening to the n.eighb'ring fair ; 
 Her cap adorn'd with pink or blue, 
 
 And nicely smooth her glossy hair. 
 
 With sparkling eye and smiling face, 
 
 Ting'd o'er with beauty's warmest glow ; 
 With timid air, and humble grace, 
 
 With clear and undepressed brow. 
 Go! lovely girl, and share the day, 
 
 To thy industrious merit due ; 
 There join the dance, or choral lay ; 
 
 Thou blooming) village rose, adieu ! 
 
 And thou, O youth, so blythe and free, 
 Bounding swiftly o'er the plain, 
 
 Go, taste the joys of liberty, 
 
 And cheer thy spirit, happy swain ! 
 
 How different to the lonely hour, 
 When slowly following the plough, 
 
47 
 
 Self-buoyant joy forgets the pow'r, 
 
 Which warms thy gladden'd bosom now* 
 
 If some rural prize desiring, 
 
 Or ambitious of applause y 
 Loud huzzas thy wishes firing, 
 
 Thy steady hand the furrow draws ; 
 Ne'er a victor fam'd in story, 
 
 Greater praise and reverence drew. 
 Than thou, attir'd in humble glory, 
 
 So, guiltless conqueror, adieu ! 
 
 Oh, here a charming group appears ! 
 
 A cottage family, so, gay, 
 Whose youthful hopes, unchecked by fears, 
 
 In smiles of thoughtless rapture play. 
 Here, borne in fond, parental arms, 
 
 The infant's roving eye we view ;. 
 Boasting a thousand, thousand charms, 
 
 Endearing innocents, adieu ! 
 
 They go ! no more with beating heart, 
 And lively, dancing step to tread 5; 
 
48 
 
 Unwillingly will they depart, 
 
 To seek again their homely shed. 
 
 Ah ! Eve, I love thy veil of grey, 
 
 Which will conceal them from my view, 
 
 For, bending home their weary way, 
 How sad would be our last adieu ! 
 
*The following *was suggested ly reading a 'whimsical 
 description^ given by Scarron^ of the deformity of hit 
 person, contrasted ivith its former elegance^ in tJie 
 'Curiosities of Literature^ voL 2, page 24-7. 
 
PHILEMON. 
 
 YE blooming youth, possest of every grace, 
 Which can delight the eye, or please the ear, 
 
 Who boast a polish'd mind and faultless face, 
 Awhile the councils of Philemon hear! 
 
 Let not pride lift the thoughtless head too high, 
 Temerity arch o'er the scornful brow, 
 
 Contemptuous glances arm the sparkling eye, 
 Or the high heart with self-complacence glow ! 
 
51 
 
 Alas ! full soon the eve of life arrives, 
 
 Though pale Disease's train approach not nigh ; 
 
 Short is the summer of the happiest lives, 
 If no rude storm disturbs the smiling sky. 
 
 This wretched body, bending to the earth, 
 Once, on the wings of health, alert and gay, 
 
 Shone forth the foremost in the train of mirth, 
 And cloudless skies announc'd a beauteous day. 
 
 My parents oft, with fond complacence vlew'd, 
 The elegance of my external form ; 
 
 And thought my mind with excellence endued, 
 Bright as my genius, as my fancy warm. 
 
 There was a time, poor as I now appear, 
 
 I admiration met in every look; 
 And, harsh as now my words may grate your ear, 
 
 Each tongue was silent when Philemon spoke. 
 
 i 
 
 Once could this voice make every bosom thrill, 
 As it pour'd forth the light or plaintive lay; 
 
 And once these fingers, with superior skill, 
 Upon the lute could eloquently play. 
 
52 
 
 By partial friendship sooth'd, by flattery fann'd, 
 I learnt with conscious grace the dance to lead, 
 
 To guide the Phaeton with careless hand, 
 
 And rule, with flowing rein, the prancing steed. 
 
 Sick with the glory of a trifler's fame, 
 By folly nurtured, I was proud and vain ; 
 
 Till Chastisement in kindest mercy came, 
 Though then her just decrees I dar'd arraign. 
 
 The form that sought so late the public view, 
 That glow'd with transport, as the world admir'd, 
 
 Fill'd with false shame, from every eye withdrew, 
 And to the shades of solitude retir'd. 
 
 Consumed by fevers, spiritless, forlorn, 
 Blasted by apoplexy's dreadful rage, 
 
 My bleeding heart by keen remembrance torn, 
 I past my prime in premature old age. 
 
 I heard my parent's ill- suppressed sighs, 
 And wish'd myself upon the peaceful bier; 
 
 I saw the anguish of their sleepless eyes, 
 The smile dissembled, and the secret tear. 
 
55 
 
 Oft, with a kind of gratifying woe, 
 
 I recollected every former charm, 
 And, with the spleen of a malicious foe, 
 
 Delighted still to keep my sorrows warmv 
 
 " Where is the lustre of the gladsome eye, 
 " The airy smile, the animated mien, 
 
 " The rounding lip of liveliest crimson dye, 
 " So lately envied, now no longer seen, 
 
 u I too have gloried in my waving hair, 
 
 " No ringlets now remain to raise my pride j 
 
 u Nor can I now lay the white forehead bare, 
 " And push the too luxuriant locks aside." 
 
 Thus, like a child, I sigh'd for pleasures past, 
 And lost my hours in a delusive dream ; 
 
 But Reason op'd my blinded eyes at last, 
 
 And clear'd each mist by her refulgent beam, 
 
 I saw futurity before me spread, 
 
 A scourge or sceptre offered to my view, 
 
 Alarm'd, from Folly's erring mazes fled,, 
 And to my God with humble rev'rence drew* 
 
54 
 
 I bow'd, submissive, at the holy shrine, 
 His mercy with warm gratitude confest, 
 
 Which had reveal'd the spark of life divine, 
 That slumber'd in my earth-enamoured breast. 
 
 Had I, as friendship and self-love desir'd, 
 Still suck'd delirium at the fane of praise, 
 
 I might, my conscience lull'd.and passions nYd, 
 Have lost my soul in the bewitching blaze. 
 
 Dear rising train, let not my words offend ! 
 
 Nor the pure dictates of my love despise ; 
 To one, late like yourselves, attention lend, 
 
 And, taught by his experience, be wise ! 
 
 Ah! banish from your eye the fiend Disdain ^ 
 
 Let fair simplicity supply its place; 
 Nor longer let conceit the bosom stain ; 
 
 The child of weakness, followed by disgrace. 
 
 Should time from you each glowing beauty wrest, 
 You will not then those self-reproaches feel, 
 
 Which every eye awaken'd in my breast, 
 And twenty winters scarce suffic'd to heel* 
 
55 
 
 Nor will your friends observe each faded charm, 
 Since still your countenance its smile retains, 
 
 .And the same lov'd companion, kind and warm, 
 With unassuming manners, yet remains. 
 
 SEPT, 8, 1795, 
 
ON" A FAN. 
 
 NOW Fve painted these flowers, say what can I doj, 
 To render them worthy acceptance from you ? 
 I know of no sybil, whose wonderful art 
 Could to them superior virtues impart, 
 Who, of magical influence wonders could tell, 
 And, who over each blossom could mutter a spell. 
 
 You only the humbler enchantments can prove, 
 That arise from esteem, from respect, and from love: 
 With such I assail you, and powerful the charm, 
 When applied to a heart sympathetic and warm ; 
 To a heart such as that, which, if right I divine, 
 O C 11 n n! dwells in that bosom of thine* 
 
 Kov, 10, 
 
TO SIMPLICITY. 
 
 FAIR village nymph, ah! may I meet 
 Thy pleasing form where'er I stray! 
 
 With open air and converse sweet, 
 Still cheer my undiscovered way! 
 
 With eyes, that shew the placid mind, 
 And with no feign'd emotions roll ; 
 
 With mieri, that sprightly or resign'd^ 
 Bespeaks the temper of the souL 
 
58 , 
 
 With smiles, where not the lips alone 
 Receive a brighter, vermil hue, 
 
 The cheek does warmer roses own, 
 MB the eyes beam a deeper blue ! 
 
 Though Fashion's minions scorn thy pow'r, 
 And slight thee, 'cause in russet drest, 
 
 Yet Joy frequents thy peaceful bow'r, 
 And sorrow flies to thee for rest. 
 
 The echoing laugh, the rapturous tear, 
 The smile of friendship, gay and free, 
 
 Delight but when they are sincere, 
 And given, lovely nymph, by thee* 
 
 When my Rosina reads a tale, 
 
 Though sweet the tuneful accents flow, 
 No studied pathos does prevail 
 
 To bid the hearer's bosom glow j 
 
 Her voice to sympathy resign'd, 
 Each different feeling can impart. 
 
 And, tell me not, we me'er can find 
 A modulator, like the heart! 
 
59 
 
 And Mary's locks of glossy brown, 
 
 That fall in waves, with graceful swell* 
 
 In ever-varying ringlets thrown, 
 
 The fairest curls of art excel. m> 
 
 Still rob'd in innocence and ease, 
 
 Daughter of Truth, shall thou prevail^ 
 
 When Affectation cannot please, 
 And all the spells of Fashion faiL 
 
 Nov. 17, 1795* 
 
THE TERRORS OF GUILT. 
 
 YON coward, with the streaming hair, 
 And visage, madden'd to despair, 
 With step convuls'd, unsettled eye, 
 And bosom laboring with a sigh, 
 Is Guilt ! Behold, he hears the name, 
 And starts with horror, fear, and shame I 
 
 See ! slow Suspicion by his side, 
 With winking, microscopic eye ! 
 
 And Mystery, his muffled guide, 
 With fearful speech, and head awry. 
 
61 
 
 Seel scowling Malice there attend, 
 Bold Falsehood, an apparent friend ; 
 Avarice, repining o'er his pelf, 
 Mean Cunning, lover of himself; 
 Hatred, the son of conscious Fear, 
 Impatient Envy, with a fiend-like sneer, 
 And shades of blasted Hopes, which still are 
 hovering near! 
 
 All other woes will find relief, 
 And time alleviate every grief; 
 Memory, though slowly, will decay, 
 And Sorrow's empire pass away. 
 Awhile Misfortune may controul, 
 And Pain oppress the virtuous soul, 
 Yet Innocence can still beguile 
 The patient sufferer of a smile, 
 The beams of Hope may still dispense 
 A grateful feeling to the sense ; 
 Friendship may cast her arms around, 
 And with fond tears embalm the wound, 
 Or Piety's soft incense rise, 
 And waft reflection to the skies ; 
 But those fell pangs which he endures, 
 Nor Time fqrg.ets, nor Kindness cures j 
 
62 
 
 Like Ocean's waves, they still return, 
 Like Etna's fires, forever burn. 
 
 Round him no genial zephyrs fly, 
 
 No fair horizon glads his eye, 
 
 No joys to him does Nature yield, 
 
 The solemn grove, or laughing field ; 
 
 Though both with loud rejoicings ring, 
 
 No pleasure does the echo bring. 
 
 Not bubbling waters as they roll, 
 
 Can tranquillize his bursting soul, 
 
 For Conscience still, with tingling smart, 
 
 Asserts his empire o'er his heart, 
 
 And even when his eye-lids close, 
 
 With clamourous scream affrights repose. 
 
 Oppress'd with light, he seeks to shun 
 The splendid glories of the sun ; 
 The busy crowds that hover near, 
 Torment his eye, distract his ear : 
 He hastens to the secret shades, 
 Where not a ray the gloom pervades ; 
 Where Contemplation may retreat, 
 And Silence take his mossy seat ; 
 
63 
 
 Yet even there no peace he knows, 
 
 ' 
 
 His fev'rish blood, no calmer flows ; 
 
 Some hid assassins Vengeful knife, 
 
 Is rais'd to end his wretched life. 
 
 He shudders, starts, and stares around, 
 
 With breathless fright, to catch the fancied sound ; 
 
 Seeks for the dagger in his breast, 
 
 And gripes it 'neath his ruffled vest. 
 
 Lo ! now he plunges in the flood, 
 
 To cleanse his garments, stain'd with blood, 
 
 His sanguine arm, in terror, laves ; 
 
 But ah ! its hue defies the waves. 
 
 Deprest, bewilder'd, thence he flies, 
 
 And, to avoid Detection, tries, 
 
 Who, frowning, still before him stands, 
 
 The sword of Justice in her hands; 
 
 Abhorrent Scorn, unpitying Shame, 
 
 And Punishments without a name, 
 
 Still on her sounding steps attend, 
 
 And every added horror lend. 
 
 He turns away, with dread and fear, 
 
 But the fell spectres still are near. 
 
 Though Falsehood's mazes see him wind ! 
 
 Yet Infamy is close behind, 
 
64- 
 
 Lifting her horn, with horrors fraught, 
 Whose hideous yell is -frenzy to the thought 
 
 Now,, maniac-like, he comes again, 
 And mixes with the jocund train ; 
 But still those eyes that wildly roll, 
 Bespeak the tempest in his soul. 
 In yon deep cave he strives to rest, 
 But Mem'ry harrows up his breast ; 
 He clasps the goblet, foe to Care, 
 And lo ! Distraction hovers there. 
 
 Ah, hapless wretch ! condemn'd to know, 
 The sad varieties of woe ; 
 Where'er thy footsteps turn, to meet, 
 An earthquake yawning at thy feet, 
 While o'er thy head pale meteors glare, 
 And boding tempests fill the air, 
 In throbbing anguish doom'd to roam, 
 Yet never find a peaceful home. 
 Haste 1 to the shrine of Mercy hie, 
 There lift the penitential eye, 
 With breaking heart thy sins deplore, 
 And wound Integrity no more 3 
 
65 
 
 Repentance then thy soul shall save, 
 
 And snatch thee, ransotn'd, from the grave. 
 
 JULY 1796. 
 
The death of Selred^ last King of the East-Saxons, re* 
 duced that part of the Heptarchy to dependance on 
 Merda. The rest ts Imaginary. 
 

 CEN'UN, PRINCE OF MERC I A. 
 
 >>>,>,>,.>,.>,.><..<.,.<<<< 
 
 WHEN Britain many chiefs obey'd, 
 And seven Saxon princes sway'd, 
 The Mercian monarch, fam'dafar, 
 In peace respected, fear'd in war, 
 Favoured by heav'n above the rest. 
 In kis brave son was fully blest ; 
 For none like Cen'lin did arise, 
 So virtuous, elegant, and wise. 
 
 Of partial Mercian eyes the joy, 
 His parents idoliz'd the boy 5 
 
68 
 
 Saw with just pride each op'ning grace, 
 His charms of mind, of form, and face. 
 And as he oft, with modest air, 
 His thoughts and feelings did declare, 
 His father would delighted hear, 
 Would fondly drop the grateful tear ; 
 And proudly cast his eyes around, 
 But not an equal could be found. 
 Warm from each lip applauses broke, 
 And every tongue his praises spoke ; 
 The list'ning courtiers spread his fame, 
 And blessings followed Cen'lins name. 
 
 Now twenty summer's suns had flown, 
 And Mercia's hopes were fully blown ; 
 When ah! conceal'd in coarse disguise, 
 To Selred's* court their darling flies. 
 Selred, his father's scorn and hate, 
 Became the ruler of his fate. 
 There flatter'd, lov'd, the youth rerriain'd, 
 Till Cenulph's threats his heir regained. 
 
 * King of the East-Saxons. 
 
But ah! no more the son of mirth, 
 His pensive eye now sought the earth ; 
 No more within the dance to move, 
 Or list to sages, did he love ; 
 But from surrounding friends would fly, 
 To pour in solitude the sigh. 
 And soon again the youth withdrew. 
 Again to th'Eastern-Saxons flew. 
 His father heard, opprest with woe, 
 His aged heart forgot to glow ; 
 He learnt his foes an army led, 
 With youthful Cen'lin at their head, 
 He call'd his warriors forth to meet, 
 And stretch the rebel at his feet : 
 Tears from his eyes in anguish broke, 
 As thus the aged monarch spoke : 
 
 " Ye Mercians, let your banners fly! 
 " The graceless youth this day shall die ! 
 " For, since he dares an army bring 
 " Against his father and his king, 
 *' Though dear as life, I will not spare, 
 " Nor listen to affection's pray'r ! 
 " If all my people should implore, 
 44 I'll pardon the rash boy no more ! 
 
70 
 
 *' His hardened heart, to duty blind,. 
 
 " No ties of gratitude can bind ; 
 
 " This hoary head would else have rest, 
 
 " And pleasure warm this aching breast. 
 
 *' Ah, cruel youth ! thy wrongs I feel, 
 
 *' M( re deep than wounds of pointed steel. 
 
 " For, if forlorn the parent's doom, 
 
 " Who bears his offspring to the tomb, 
 
 " Some comfort still his breast may know, 
 
 * ; Some soothing thought may calm his woey 
 
 tc And when he gives a loose to pain, 
 
 *' He feels not that he mourns in vain, 
 
 " But fancies still his darling nigh, 
 
 *' And grateful for each bursting sigh, 
 
 tf4 Still bending o'er, with list'ning ear, 
 
 <4 Each weeping, fond complaint to hear,, 
 
 " The dear-lov'd phantom hovers round, 
 
 * c And pours a balm in every wound. 
 
 *' How doubly poignant is my smart, 
 * 4 Bereaved of my Cen'lin's heart ! 
 *' ExiPd from that deluded breast, 
 " Where I had fondly hop'd to rest, 
 " With faith undoubting, sweet repose, 
 *' Till Death should bid my eye-lids close* 
 
71 
 
 ** And sometimes yet will hope arise ; 
 
 " Till now he ever scorn'd disguise ; 
 
 " Some cursed fiend might taint his youth, 
 
 " And warp a temper form'd for truth. 
 
 " When late he humbly knelt for grace, 
 
 " And clasp'd my knees in close embrace, 
 
 i; Upon his lips a secret hung, 
 
 " But something seeni'd to stay his tongue; 
 
 *' I prest not, for my anger slept, 
 
 " And fondness only saw he wept j 
 
 " Ah ! fatal haste ! then had I known 
 
 " The serpent, I had sav'd my son I 
 
 44 Yet surely pardon frank as mine, 
 
 44 A noble heart would more confine ! 
 
 44 When leaguing with my bitter foe, 
 
 44 To strike some grand, decisive blow ; 
 
 " Perhaps to rob me of my throne, 
 
 44 And make it, ere the time, his own ; 
 
 " Or, should wan guilt a danger dread, 
 
 44 To humble this devoted head, 
 
 44 Each throbbing pang of conscience drown, 
 
 44 And seize, with bloody hands, the crown. 
 
 44 O'er this offence I cast a veil, 
 
 44 And fondly hush'd the whisper'd tale. 
 
 " Ah fool ! deluded by the grace, 
 
 " Of that fine form, and perfect face j 
 
72 
 
 <c I thought his bosom free from sin, 
 
 ' Nor dreamt a demon lurk'd within. 
 
 " His voice, which ever could controul, 
 
 ** Each passion of the hearer's soul, 
 
 <; With ease my partial heart beguil'd, 
 
 i; Who knew no sorrows when he smil'd. 
 
 " And ah ! my friends, your downcast eyes, 
 
 <; Your pensive air, and smother'd sighs, 
 
 <c All tell me you lament the fate, 
 
 " Of him, whom yet you cannot hate. 
 
 " And shall I bear then to behold, 
 
 u That form inanimate and cold, 
 
 " His smiling lips depriv'd of breath, 
 
 * 4 His eyes for ever clos'd in death ! 
 
 " Ah no ! my heart with anguish swells, 
 
 <c And every throbbing vein rebels. 
 
 " Let sorrow weep, or anger thrill, 
 
 " Yet all the parent triumphs still. 
 
 " Oh Father ! who in mercy reigns, 
 * 6 If thy all-ruling will ordains, 
 "That my unhappy Cen'lin dies, 
 " Remove the picture from my eyes ! 
 " At the same moment set us free, 
 ** Both rebel sons, my God, to thee ! " 
 
73 
 
 Thus did the king pour forth his pray'r. 
 With all the wildness of despair ; 
 Then, stilling every rising sigh, 
 He calm'd the anguish of his eye, 
 And though within the burthen lay, 
 He wip'd the falling tears away. 
 
 When lo ! there comes a youthful train, 
 Descending swiftly to the plain, 
 Drest like the fairest sons of day, 
 In floating robes and colours gay; 
 No crested helmets there appear, 
 No glittering shield or pointed spear, 
 But youths with honey-suckles crown'd, 
 Or their fair locks with fillets bound, 
 Whose circling ranks and varied dyes, 
 Shew'd like the bow that gilds the skies. 
 Whilst in the van a pair were seen, 
 Of peerless charms and graceful mien ; 
 One lovely form the Mercians knew, 
 And gladden'd at the pleasing view, 
 Who, with the glow of youthful prime ? 
 Had all the majesty of time. 
 And beauteous was the fair he led> 
 As any fabled Grecian maid ^ 
 
74 
 
 The nymphs who tend Aurora's car, 
 And usher in the morning star, 
 Though made inhabitants of air, 
 Were not more elegant and fair; 
 Nor Dian's ever-healthful train, 
 When skimming o'er the spacious plain, 
 Had not more pure, more lively dyes, 
 Or brighter lustre in their eyes. 
 
 The king, so late by woe deprest, 
 Felt hope reanimate his breast, 
 And as his Cen'lin nearer drew, 
 His waking hopes more vivid grew. 
 *' My friends," he cried, " will you. believe, 
 " That open mien can e'er deceive ? 
 *' That blooming form can e'er unfold, 
 i; A heart ungenerous and cold, 
 " That melting softness of the eye, 
 <c Can harbour direst cruelty ? 
 " Ah^no ! a poison's baleful pow'r, 
 " Lurks not beneath so fair a flow'r. 
 " Nor are those youths with amber hair, 
 " Such as fell treason would prepare, 
 *' An aged monarch to dethrone, 
 i( And hear, unmov'd, a father's groan. 
 
75 
 
 * Gay are their looks, no dark disguise, 
 
 44 Dims the mild radiance of their eyes; 
 
 4< No murderous thoughts their souls employ,, 
 
 4; But, heralds of transporting joy, 
 
 ** They come to bid suspicion cease^ 
 
 u And sooth my sorrow into peace." 
 
 Caution could scarce awhile controul 
 
 The strong delights of Cenulph's sou?, 
 
 When Cen'Iin knelt, and by his side 
 
 Half-kneeling, bent his lovely bride; 
 
 But, when he first essay'd to speak, 
 
 A hasty blush pass'd o'er his cheek, 
 
 He hung awhile his graceful head, 
 
 Till thus, with air confus'd he said : 
 
 " I come, by love with honours crown'd, 
 
 *' Yet sorrow casts a shade around, 
 
 * That when my consort here I bring, 
 
 46 The heiress of a potent king, 
 
 44 The Mercians, clad in armour, come ? 
 
 46 To lead their princess to her home.. 
 
 4; No joyful hail our nuptial greets^ 
 
 44 No proof of love my Ela meets, 
 
 44 But scarlet banners,, waving high, 
 
 <; The bridal knot and wreath supply. 
 
 46 Alas ! I see mistrust has won 
 
 "E'en Cenulph's fondness from his son 5 
 
76 
 
 44 Or. could my ever-honour'd sire, 
 
 44 A proof of Cen'lin's faith require? 
 
 44 Can force so needful now appear, 
 
 44 To aid a pow'r which I revere ? 
 
 44 When eager beauty's form to view, 
 
 44 I first to Selred's court withdrew, 
 
 44 A single wish thy pow'r maintain'd, 
 
 " A single wish thy son regain'd. 
 
 44 1 left the maid whose matchless charms, 
 
 44 Each rooted prejudice disarms, 
 
 44 Who rul'd my heart with sovereign sway, 
 
 44 And taught a Mercian to obey 
 
 44 Laws that East-Saxons can impart, 
 
 44 When wit and beauty string the dart ; 
 
 * 4 Left her when hope my doubts beguil'd, 
 
 44 And on our love her father smil'd. 
 
 44 Oft have I tried to win thine ear, 
 
 44 The fond, romantic tale to hear, 
 
 44 But when I found a lonely hour, 
 
 ^ ' 
 
 44 My coward soul has lost the pow'r; 
 44 As on my lips the accents hung, 
 44 Thy hate to Selred check'd my tongue. 
 44 Yet flattering hopes my passion fed, 
 4C And from thy court again I fled ; 
 44 1 thought when you my fair beheld, 
 44 And knew how greatly she excelled,, 
 
77 
 
 " In every charm, each art refm'd, 
 
 " And virtue of the female mind, 
 
 " Thy judgment would approve my choice, 
 
 " And bless it with a cheerful voice. 
 
 " And ah ! though fortune did combine 
 
 " With love, in making Ela mine, 
 
 " I cannot from a grief refrain, 
 
 " Remembering that I gave thee pain. 
 
 " Yet if thy'Cen'lin e'er could please, 
 
 " If e'er my cares could give thee ease, 
 
 " Let mild affection now arise, 
 
 " And beam forgiveness from thine eyes ! 
 
 <c No more thy son shall make thee know 
 
 " A pain, or give thee cause of woe. 
 
 " No flights the Mercians have to fear, 
 
 " For all I love is centered here." 
 
 He spoke, and o'er his father's soul, 
 
 A stream of healing comfort stole ; 
 
 He rose, with slow, majestic grace, 
 
 Tears of delight adorn'd his face, 
 
 His pious heart with rapture glow'd, 
 
 And joy a second youth bestow'd. 
 
 46 To meet thee thus, my son," he cried, 
 ct This peerless maiden for your bride, 
 
78 
 
 ** Bids each distressing thought depart, 
 
 * 6 And joy again possess my heart. 
 
 " Fair princess, thine the happy fate, 
 
 " To heal the wounds of mutual hate; 
 
 " No longer shall this bosom know, 
 
 " An Eastern-Saxon as my foe ; 
 
 " And she, who bids that passion rest, 
 
 " Doubt not, shall be supremely blest : 
 
 <; The part is holy and benign, 
 
 " Befitting such a form as thine. 
 
 ** This day, far dearer than before, 
 
 " Kind heav'n does twice my son restore, 
 
 " For by those speaking looks I see, 
 
 " Another valued child in thee." 
 
 As then he rais'd them to his breast, 
 Around the joyful Mercians prest, 
 And made their shouts of triumph rise, 
 To the fair concave of the skies. 
 
 OCTOBER, 1795, 
 
RHAPSODY. 
 
 LO ! here a cloud comes sailing, richly clad 
 In royal purple, which the parting beams 
 v Of bounteous Phoebus edge with tints of gold 
 And lucid crimson. One might fancy it 
 A noble bird, that laves its graceful form, 
 And bathes its rosy bosom in the light. 
 Look ! how it swells and rears its snowy crest 
 With haughty grandeur ; while the blue expanse, 
 In smiling patience lets the boaster pass, 
 And swell his train with all the lazy vapours 
 
80 
 
 That hover in the air : an easy prey 
 To the gigantic phantom, whose curl'd wing, 
 Sweeps in these worthless triflers of the sky, 
 And wraps them in his bosom. Go, vain shadow I 
 Sick with the burthen of thy fancied greatness, 
 A breath of zephyr wafts thee into nothing, 
 Scatters thy spreading plumes, uncrowns thy front, 
 And drives thee downward to thy mother earth, 
 To mix with vapour and dissolve in dew. 
 
 Such are the dreams of hope, which to the eye 
 Of youthful inexperience, seem to touch 
 The pure, unclouded sky of certainty. 
 Buoy'd up by the fond eloquence of thought, 
 And nurtured by the smile of vanity, 
 Each hour the air-born vision gathers bulk, 
 And Fancy decks it with a thousand hues, 
 Varied and wild, till it abounds in charms 
 Which sink the soul to sadness, when the breath 
 Of gentle Reason breaks the beaut-eons bubble, 
 And leaves us nought but vain regret behind. 
 
 FEBRUARY I, 
 
' 
 
 HUMAN PLEASURE OR PAIN. 
 
 WHEN clouds and rain deform the sky, 
 And light'nings glare around, 
 
 Amidst the dreary, cheerless scene, 
 Some comfort may be found. 
 
 There will, at some far-distant spot, 
 
 A streak of light appear, 
 Or, when the sullen vapours break, 
 
 The ether will be clear. 
 
82 
 
 \ 
 
 And if the sun illumes the east, 
 
 And sheds his gladsome ray, 
 Some boding mist, or passing cloud 
 
 Will threat the rising day. 
 
 The heart rejoicing in the view, 
 
 And dancing with delight, 
 Oft feels the touch of palsied fear, 
 
 And sinks at thought of night. 
 
 So Hope's bright torch more clearly shines, 
 
 Amidst surrounding gloom, 
 And, beldame Fortune vainly throws 
 
 Her mantle o'er the tomb. 
 
 15, 
 
THE COMPLAINT OF FANCY. 
 
 To A. R. C. 
 
 AS, musing, late I sat reclin'd, 
 
 And waking dreams absorbed my mind, 
 
 A damsel came, of various dyes, 
 
 Like painted Iris from the skies ; 
 
 A purfled saffron was her vest, 
 
 And sweet gum-cistus form'd her crest ; 
 
 In many .a playful ring, her hair 
 
 Flew light and flossy in the air ; 
 
 The mantle, blue and gold, she wore, 
 
 A rose, of opals held before^ 
 
84 
 
 While, graceful in her fairy hand, 
 Appeared a crimson-tufted wand, 
 Whose shade on every object threw 
 A glowing tint of roseate hue. 
 
 " Whence art thou, blooming nymph?" I cried, 
 And thus a tuneful voice replied : 
 " Men call me Fancy ; at my shrine 
 " Myriads confess my power divine ; 
 " There painters bend the willing knee, 
 46 And laurelPd poets sue to me : 
 46 For mine is every vivid ray, 
 " Which partial Nature gave the day ; 
 44 And, to the music of my song, 
 " A thousand nameless charms belong. 
 
 " The friend of Happiness, I dwell 
 " Belov'd alike in court or cell ; 
 4 * Where Glory lifts her ardent eye, 
 44 With hasty, kindred zeal I fly, 
 " In sun-beams place the hero's form, 
 4; And bid his arm command the storm ; 
 46 On swelling clouds an altar raise, 
 " And fan the tow'ring flame of praise. 
 
85 
 
 " Oft, from the lorn enthusiast's lyre, 
 " My fingers strike etherial fire, 
 44 And give to sounds of piercing woe, 
 44 Extatic rapture's fervent glow. 
 44 Oft sooth the maniac's throbbing vein, 
 " And grace her simple, wilder'd strain j 
 " The tribe of Pain in fetters keep, 
 <; Lull wounded Memory to sleep, 
 44 And, in the mind of gloomy Care, 
 " Bid Thought an angel's semblance wear. 
 
 44 Dear to each blest aerial pow'r, 
 ** E'en Wisdom calls me to her bow'r * 
 " My songs her leisure hours beguile, 
 "And teach her holy lip to smile. 
 44 And, when the Muse, with thoughtful care, 
 " Has woven chaplets for her hair, 
 44 I let her, with her myrtles, twine, 
 44 Full many a fragrant rose of mine. 
 
 44 Then why, since all the wise and gay, 
 44 To me a grateful homage pay, 
 44 Since I to all my hand extend, 
 44 And, liberal, every heart befriend, 
 
" Does Nancy from the croud retire, 
 * c And rend my blossoms from her lyre ? 
 " Though every string the loss bewail^ 
 " And tones of mellow sweetness fail, 
 ** Which us'd to charm the pensive ear, 
 14 When listening Friendship bent to- hear* 
 
 " Tell her I wish not to intrude 
 " Upon her sacred solitude, 
 " Nor cast my undulating chain, 
 i; Around her glowing heart again j 
 " No ! every claim I now resign, 
 * c Yet let some small regard be mine ; 
 " Let one, who nurs'd her infant years, 
 *' And wip'd away some bitter tears, 
 " Still animate the scenes around, 
 " And make her tread on fairy ground ; 
 " Give playful sweetness to each lay, 
 " And decorate the passing day. 
 
 u Tell her, if now she scorns my strain, 
 <c She may invoke my name in vain j 
 *' In vain my proffered aid implore, 
 44 Contemn'd, I hardly pardon more," 
 
87 
 
 She said, and springing from the earth, 
 Attending found her suitor Mirth, 
 Who caught her hand, with lively air, 
 And plac'd her in his silver chair, 
 Which through the yielding ether flew, 
 And quickly bore them from my view. 
 
ON THE 
 
 EVE OF DEPARTURE 
 
 From O 
 
 LOUD beats the rain ! The hollow groan 
 
 Of rushing winds I hear, 
 That with a deep and sullen moan, 
 
 Pass slowly by the ear. 
 
 Soon will my dying fire refuse 
 
 To yield a cheerful ray, 
 Yet, shivering still 1 sit and muse 
 
 The latest spark away. > 
 
 A L \ 
 
y 89 
 
 Ah, what a night ! the chilly air 
 
 Bids comfort hence depart, 
 While sad repining's clammy wings 
 
 Cling icy to my heart. 
 
 To-morrow's dawn may fair arise, 
 
 And lovely to the view ; 
 The sun with radiance gild the skies, 
 
 Yet then I say adieu ! 
 
 Oh, stay, dear Night, with cautious care, 
 And lingering footsteps move, 
 
 Though day may be more soft and fair, 
 Not her, but thee, I love. 
 
 Stay, wild in brow, severe in mien,. 
 
 Stay! and ward off the foe ; 
 Who, unrelenting smiles serene, 
 
 Yet tells me I must go. 
 
 Forsake these hospitable halls, 
 
 Where Truth and Friendship dwell, 
 
 To these high towers and ancient walls, 
 Pronounce a long farewell. 
 
90 
 
 Alas ! will Time's rapacious hand. 
 These golden days restore ? 
 
 Or will he suffer me to taste 
 These golden days no more ? 
 
 Will he permit that here agairr, 
 
 I turn my willing feet ? 
 That my glad eyes may here again, 
 
 The look of kindness meet? 
 
 That here I ever may behold, 
 
 Felicity to dwell, 
 And often have the painful task 
 
 Of sighing out farewell ? 
 x 
 
 Ah, be it so ! my fears I lose y 
 By hope's sweet visions fed ; 
 
 And as I fly to seek repose, 
 She flutters round, my bed. 
 
TO M. A 
 
 THOU, Margaret, lov'st the secret shade, 
 The murmuring brook, or tow'ring tree ;, 
 
 The village cot within the glade, 
 
 And lonely walk have charms for thee. 
 
 t 
 
 To thee more dear the jasmine bow'r y 
 That shelt'ring, undisturbed retreat, 
 
 Thau the high canopy of pow'r, 
 Or Luxury's embroider'd seat* 
 
92 . 
 
 More sweet the early morning breeze, 
 Whose odours fill the rural vale, 
 
 The waving bosom of the seas, 
 When ruffled by the rising gale. 
 
 Than all which pride or pomp bestow, 
 To grace the lofty Indian maid, 
 
 Who prizes more the diamond's glow, 
 Than all in humbler vest array'd. 
 
 Sweet is the rural festive song, 
 
 Which sounds so wildly o'er the plain, 
 
 When thoughtless mirth the notes prolong, 
 And heart-felt pleasure pours the strain. 
 
 Sweet is the dance where light and gay, 
 The village maiden trips along ; 
 
 Her simple robe in careless play, 
 
 As her fleet step winds round the throng. 
 
 Sweet is the labourer's blazing fire, 
 When evening shades invite to rest; 
 
 Though weary, home does joy inspire, 
 And social Jove culatqs his breast. 
 
93 
 
 His rural lass with glee prepares, 
 
 The dainties fondness made her hoard ; 
 
 Her husband now the banquet shares, 
 And children croud around the board. 
 
 Ah ! who could wisfcuto view the air 
 Of listless ease and languid wealth ? 
 
 Who with such pleasures could compare 
 The joys of innocence and health ? 
 
 AUGUST 20, 1796. 
 
CANTATA. DELm METASTASIO. 
 
 D'atre nubi e il sol ravvolto, 
 Luce infausta il Ciel colora. 
 Pur chi sa ? Quest' alma ancora 
 La speranza non perde. 
 
 .Non funesta ogni tempesta 
 Co' naumgj all' onde il seno ; 
 Ogni tuono, ogni baleno 
 Seropre un fulmine non e," 
 
TRANSLATION. 
 
 Dark, mournful clouds hang o'er the sun, 
 Lights gleam portentous in the air, 
 
 And yet who knows ? This troubled heart 
 Still gives not up to blank despair. 
 
 "Not big with shipwrecks every storm, 
 That sweeps the bosom of the main, 
 
 Nor does the threatening, turbid sky, 
 Always the thunder-bolt contain. 
 
96 
 
 LA FORTUNA. DELLO STESSO. 
 
 A chi sercna io miro, 
 
 Chiaro e di notte il cielo : 
 Torna per lui nel gelo 
 La terra a germogliar. 
 
 Ma se a taluno io giro 
 
 Torbido il guardo, e fosco, 
 Fronde gli mega il bosco, 
 Onde non trova in mar. 
 
TRANSLATION, 
 
 To him whom kindly I behold, 
 The midnight sky is clear, 
 
 And 'mid the wintry frost and cold, 
 The blushing flowers appear. 
 
 But to the wretch who meets my eye, 
 When kindled by disdain, 
 
 The very grove will leaves deny, 
 And waveless be the main. 
 
CANTATA DELLO STESSO. 
 
 Finche nn zeffiro soave 
 
 Tien del mar 1' ira placata, 
 
 Ogni nave 
 
 E fortunate, 
 
 E felice ogni nocchier ; 
 
 E ben prova di coraggio 
 Incontrar 1'onde funeste, 
 Navigar fra le tempeste, 
 E non perdere il sentier. 
 
99 
 
 TRANSLATION. 
 
 Whilst zephyr sooths the angry waves 
 
 Of Ocean into rest, 
 Each vessel is in safety borne, 
 
 And every pilot blest. 
 
 But he indeed demands our praise, 
 Who stems the tempest's force, 
 
 And midst the ire of hostile waves, 
 Pursues his destined course. 
 
100 
 
 SONETTO. 
 
 DI GIOVANNI DELLA CASA 
 
 Oh sonno, oh delta cheta, umida, ombrosa 
 Notte placido figlio ; oh de j mortal! 
 Egri conforto, oblio dolce de' mali, 
 Si gravi, ond' e la vita aspra, e nojosa: 
 
 Soccorri al core omai, che langue, e posa 
 Non have ; e queste membra stanche, e fralt 
 Solleva : a me ten vola, oh sonno, e P ali 
 Tue brune sovra me distendi, e posa. 
 
 Ov' e il silenzio, che '1 di fugge, e '1 lume ? 
 E i lievi sogni, che con non secure 
 Vestigia di seguirti han per costume ? 
 
 Lasso, che'nvan te chiamo, e queste oscure, 
 E gelide ombre invan lusingo ; oh piume 
 D' asprezza coline; oh notti acerbe, e dure ! 
 
101 
 
 SONNET, TO SLEEP. 
 
 TRANSLATION. 
 
 Son of the silent, dark, and humid Night, 
 Consoler of the wretched, by whose sway 
 
 The gloomy train of ills are put to flight, 
 That blacken Life's uncertain, tedious day, 
 
 O ! succour now this restless, pining heart ! 
 
 Give to these feeble, weary limbs repose ! 
 Fly to me, Sleep ! and let thy sombre wings 
 
 Over my couch their dusky plumes disclose ! 
 
 O ! where is Silence, w r ho avoids the light ? 
 
 Where the wild dreams that flutter in thy train ? 
 Alas ! in vain I call thee, cruel Night ! 
 
 And flatter these insensate shades in vain. 
 
 And oh! without thy cheering dews are shed, 
 How full of hardships is the downy bed ! 
 
EDITHA. 
 
 BREATHING the violet-scented gale, 
 Near to a river's limpid source, 
 
 Which, through a wide-extended vale, 
 Wound slowly on its sleeping course, 
 
 Attended by a youthful pair, 
 With rubied lip and roving eye, 
 
 Oft would fair Editha repair, 
 And let her children wander niglu 
 
1O3 
 
 There pleas'd behold their footsteps turn 
 To each new object in their way, 
 
 Their ringlets glittering in the sun, 
 Their faces careless, blythe, and gay* 
 
 Once, when they drest their flaxen hair, 
 With flow'rets wild of various hue, 
 
 And with a proud, exulting air, 
 To their delighted parent drew r 
 
 u Ah ! thus may every day arise L 
 
 " And pleasure thus your hearts pervade !'* 
 
 The widow'd mother fondly cries, 
 " Before the youthful blossoms fade. 
 
 " My sighs arc all dispersed in air, 
 " Resign'd to fate, I weep no more, 
 
 cr Your welfare now is all my care, 
 " Yet am I constant as before- 
 
 The world, because a vermil bloom, 
 " Tinges my yet unfading cheek, 
 Says I forget my William's tomb, 
 * ( A new and earthly love to seeL. 
 
104 
 
 " Because I join the social train, 
 
 " With lip that wears a kindred smile ; 
 
 " And a gay sonnet's lively strain, 
 " Does oft the lonely hour beguile : 
 
 " Because no longer now I mourn, 
 " With sweeping robes of sable hue ; 
 
 44 No more I clasp the marble urn, 
 " Or vainly bid the world adieu. 
 
 " Ah ! ill my secret s&ul they know, 
 " Where my lost hero still remains, 
 
 " Where memory makes my bosom glow, 
 a And binds me still in closer chains. 
 
 " Whoe'er hath seen my William's form, 
 " Heightened with every martial grace, 
 
 u The ever-varying, unknown charm, 
 " Wich beam'd in his expressive face ;. 
 
 M Or heard his fine ideas try,, 
 " In Fancy's fairy garb to teach, 
 
 * c While the sweet language of his 
 " Excell'd tke eloxnieixce of speech, 
 
105 
 
 i Could ne'er suppose my faith would fail, 
 " Or aught again this heart enslave ; 
 
 *' That absence would o'er love prevail, 
 " Or hope be bounded by the grave. 
 
 i; Could all but I his merit know ? 
 
 " His wit and talents see? 
 " And is his name by all below 
 
 " Remembered, but by me ? 
 
 " No, ne'er will I the memory lose, 
 
 " Though from my sight thy form is flown, 
 
 " Of tenderness for other's woes, 
 " And noble firmness in thy own. 
 
 " No slavish fear thy soul deprest, 
 " Of-Death, or his attendant train ; 
 
 a For in thy pure and spotless breast, 
 " The fear f heav'n did only reign. 
 
 tfc Thus, when the stiil-unsated waves 
 
 " Spread o'er thy head their whelming arms r 
 
 u When horrid darkness reign'd around, 
 " And lightnings flash'd thek dire alarms, 
 
106 
 
 * " When, wing'd with death, each moment i 
 " And blood the foaming ocean stain'd, 
 
 " Thy courage cool, consistent, true, 
 " Its native energy maintained. 
 
 ** And when the fatal moment came, 
 " The bullet enter'd in thy side, 
 
 " Only thy spirit's beauteous frame, 
 " Its prisoner flying, droop'd and died. 
 
 " This is it that consoles my mind, 
 " Which to my love aspiring flies, 
 
 " And makes me hope, in future days, 
 " To hail my William in the skies, 
 
 " Should tears from my pale eyelids steal, 
 " I teach my children's how to flow, 
 
 " And make their little bosoms feel, 
 " Before their time, the touch of woe. 
 
 * I know not if I have expressed myself with much clear*- 
 ness here, but I meant to describe a sea-fight as concisely as. 
 isible.. 
 
107 
 
 44 I will not weep ! the world shall see 
 " That I a nobler tribute pay ; 
 
 ct More grateful both to heaven and thee, 
 " By guiding them in virtue's way." 
 
 Embracing then her fondest cares, 
 She cast her raptur'd eyes above, 
 
 And breath'd to heav'n emphatic pray'r<? 5 
 Of mingled reverence and love. 
 
 
 > 1795*. 
 
TO M, L 
 
 LIGHT breezes dance along the alr y 
 
 The sky in smiles is drest, 
 And heav'ns pure vault, serene and fair f 
 
 Pourtrays the cheerful breast. 
 
 Each object on this moving ball 
 
 Assumes a lovely hue ; 
 So fair good-humour brightens all ' 
 
 That comes within her view. 
 
 Her presence glads the youthful train, 
 
 Reanimates the gay, 
 And, round her, by the couch of pain f 
 
 The light-wing'd graces play. 
 
109 
 
 Her winning mien and prompt reply, 
 
 Can sullen pride appease ; 
 And the sweet arching of her eye 
 
 E'en apathy must please. 
 
 To you, with whom the damsel dwells 
 
 A voluntary guest, 
 To you, Maria, memory tells, 
 
 This tribute is addrest. 
 
 The feeble strains that I bequeath, 
 
 With melody o'erpay ; 
 And let thy lov'd piano breathe 
 
 A sweet responsive lay. 
 
 Although the mellow sounds will rise, 
 
 So distant from my ear, 
 The charmer Fancy, when she tries, 
 
 Can make them present here. 
 
 Can paint thee, as with raptur'd bend, 
 You hail the powers of song ; 
 
 When the light fingers quick descend, 
 And fly the notes along ; 
 
no 
 
 Feel the soft chord of sadness meet, 
 
 An echo in the soul, 
 And waking joy the strains repeat, 
 
 When Mirth's quick measures roll. 
 
 This fc mistress of the powerful spell," 
 
 Can every joy impart ; 
 And ah ! you doubtless know too well 
 
 How she can wring the heart. 
 
 She rules me with despotic reign, 
 
 As now I say adieu* 
 N nd makes me feel a sort of pain, 
 As if I spoke to you. 
 
 FEB. 14, 1797. 
 
WRITTEN IN 
 ZIMMERMANNs SOLITUDE. 
 
 HAIL, melancholy sage ! whose thoughtful eye, 
 Shrunk from the mere, spectator's careless gaze, 
 And, in retirement sought the social smile, 
 The heart-endearing aspect, and the voice 
 Of soothing tenderness, which Friendship breathes, 
 And which sounds far more grateful to the ear, 
 Than the soft notes of distant flute at eve, 
 Stealing across the waters : Zimmermann ! 
 Thou draw'st not Solitude as others do, 
 With folded arms, with pensive, nun-like air, 
 
112 
 
 And tearful eye, averted from mankind. 
 No ! warm, benign, and cheerful, she appears 
 The friend of Health, of Piety, and Peace ; 
 The kind Samaritan that heals our woes, 
 The nurse of Science, and, of future fame 
 The gentle harbinger : her meek abode 
 Is that dear home, which still the virtuous heart, 
 E'en in the witching maze of Pleasure's dance, 
 In wild Ambition's dream, regards with love, 
 And hopes, with fond security, to pass 
 The evening of a long-protracted -day, 
 Serenely joyful, there. 
 
IK MEMORY OP 
 
 Mr. AGOSTINO I SOLA, 
 
 OF CAMBRIDGE, 
 Who died on the 5th of June, 1797. 
 
 AWAKE, O Gratitude ! nor let the tears 
 Of selfish Sorrow smother up thy voice, 
 When it should speak of a departed friend. 
 A tender friend, the first I ever lost ! 
 For Destiny till now was merciful, 
 And though I oft have felt a transient pang, 
 For worth unknown, and wept awhile for those, 
 Whom long acquaintance only made me love t 
 No keen regret laid pining at my heart, 
 Nor Memory in the solitary hour, 
 
114 
 
 Would sting my soul with grief, as when she speaks 
 Thy virtue, knowledge, wisdom, gentleness, 
 Thy venerable age, and says that I 
 Had once the happiness to call thee friend. 
 
 Yes! I once bore that title, and my heart 
 Thought nobler of itself, that one so good, 
 So honor'd, so rever'd, should give it me. 
 
 Isola ! when that glad season comes, 
 Which brought redemption to a ruin'd world, 
 And, like thee, hides beneath the snow of age, 
 A gay, benevolent, and feeling heart, 
 
 1 hop'd again to hear thy tongue repeat, 
 With youthful warmth and zealous energy, 
 Those passages, where Poetry assumes 
 
 An air divine, and wakes th' attentive soul 
 To holy rapture ! Then you promis'd me 
 The luxury to weep o'er Dante's muse, 
 And fair Italia's loftier poets hail. 
 
 I have often heard 
 
 That years would blunt the feelings of the soul, 
 And apathy ice the once-glowing heart. 
 Injurious prejudice ! Dear, guileless friend ! 
 Thou read's! mankind, but saw not, or forgot 
 
115 
 
 Their faults and vices ; for thy breast was still 
 The residence of sweet Simplicity, 
 Daughter of letter'd Wisdom, and the friend 
 Of Love and Pity. Happy soul, farewell ! 
 Long shall we mourn thee ! longer will it be, 
 " Ere we shall look upon thy like again " 
 
 This humble tribute to the memory of my venerated friend, 
 was written in the first impulse of my sorrow for his loss, and 
 though unworthy of his virtues, is still a small memorial of my 
 respect for a man, on whose tomb might justly be inscribed, as 
 I have seen on an old monument : 
 
 " Heven hath his souie, 
 He fruits of Pietie, 
 This Towne his want, 
 t)ur hearts his Memorie," 
 

 TO THE 
 
 2K7NS OF BODNEY. 
 
 ->>>>>>> t 
 
 YE holy women, say ! will ye accept 
 The passing tribute of a humble friend ? 
 Stranger indeed to you and to your faith, 
 But O ! I hope not stranger to the zeal, 
 Which warm'd your bosoms in Religion's cause. 
 When impious men commanded you to break 
 The vow which bound your souls, and which in youth 
 Warm Piety's emphatic lips had made. 
 Say! will ye suffer me on that rude tomb, 
 Where she reposes (whose benignant smile, 
 Whose animated, life-inspiring eye, 
 And faded form, majestic, still appears 
 
117 
 
 In Thought's delusive hour) to shed a tear? 
 
 On her, whose sainted look, though seen but once, 
 
 I never can forget, till Time shall wrap 
 
 The veil of Death around me, and make dumb 
 
 The voice of Memory. Ah ! " how low she lies !" 
 
 No marble monument to speak her praise, 
 
 And tell the world that here a DILLON rests. 
 
 One, who in beauty's prime forsook the world, 
 
 And, self -b ere a^ d of all it holds most dear, 
 
 Retir'd, to pass the pilgrimage of life, 
 
 In solemn prayer and peaceful solitude. 
 
 Ah, vain desire ! Ambition's scowling eye 
 
 Must see the cloister, as the palace, low, 
 
 And meek-ey'd Quiet quit her last abode, 
 
 Ere he can pause to look upon the wreck, 
 
 And rue the wild impatience of his hand. 
 
 Hail ! blessed spirit ! This rude cypher'd stone, 
 On which a sister's pensive eye shall muse 
 In sorrow, arid another relative 
 In sweet, though mournful, recollection, bend, 
 Shall call a tear into the stranger's eye 
 Whene'er he hears the tale, yet make him proud 
 That Britain's hospitable land should yield 
 All that you could accept, an humble grave. 
 

 . 
 
 Written in London, on tie 19/^ of March) 17 
 
 >>>>>*-<<"<<<<<< 
 
 A lov'd companion, chosen friend, 
 
 Does at this hour depart, 
 Whom the dear name of father binds 
 
 Still closer to my heart. 
 
 On him may joy-dispensing heav'n 
 Each calm delight bestow, 
 
 And eas'd of peace-destroying care 
 His life serenely flow ! 
 
 Bid I but know his bosom calm, 
 And free from anxious fear, 
 
 Around me in more cheerful hues 
 Would every scene appear. 
 
119 
 
 And I will hope that he, who ne'er 
 Repin'd at heav'n's decree, 
 
 But ever patient and resigned, 
 Submissive bent the knee: 
 
 Who, best of fathers, never sought 
 
 For arbitrary sway, 
 But free within each youthful mind, 
 
 Bade Reason lead the way. 
 
 Who taught us, 'stead of servile fear, 
 A warm esteem to prove, 
 
 And bade each act of duty spring, 
 From gratitude and love. 
 
 Yes, I must hope that generous mind 
 With many cares opprest, 
 
 Shall in the winter of his days 
 With sweet repose be blest. 
 
A friend^ a year or two since, gave me Joseph's 
 Reconciliation with his Brethren, as a subject to 
 write upon ; but I was afraid of not treating it hi 
 such a manner as a sacred story deserved, and gave 
 up the attempt, when I had written little more than 
 the following lines, to account for their not knowing 
 him, although he well remembered them \ and am 
 persuaded to let them appear here. 
 
FRAGMENT. 
 
 They, ere he left them, had attained their prime 
 And were less alter'd by the hand of Time; 
 But, the slim youth no longer met their view, 
 Fair, as the fancy e'er a seraph drew. 
 Who still, upborne by joy, in smiles was found, 
 With step elate that scarcely press'd the ground. 
 Before a grief had raz'd his youthful breast, 
 Or care had robb'd his brilliant eyes of rest. 
 When lofty visions swam b'efore his sight, 
 And dreams of empire wrapt his soul at night. 
 
122 
 
 Whose hair luxuriant flow'd in glossy pride. 
 And, from his snowy forehead, wav'd aside ; 
 Which, vein'd with purest azure, rose serene, 
 And threw complacence o'er a rapturous mien. 
 The wandering light that sparkled in his eye, 
 The rounding lip of liveliest crimson dye, 
 The speaking form, by each emotion sway'd, 
 The voice, that softest music had convey'd, 
 Were now matur'd. No more the child they saw. 
 But one, with majesty, inspiring awe; 
 Whose silken locks no more in ringlets flow, 
 But gold and purple bind his manly brow : 
 No more the envied robe his limbs invest, 
 In all the pomp of eastern monarchs drest. 
 The sun of Egypt had embrown'd his face, 
 And time had ripen'd every youthful grace. 
 
 As when the morn, in vivid colours gay, 
 And tender beauty, flies to meet the day, 
 Her lively tints lose their primeval hue, 
 The white and saffron mingle with the blue, 
 A glowing blush o'er the whole ether reigns, 
 But not a cloud its genuine tint retains. 
 
 M :;. . 
 
FRAGMENT. 
 
 WHERE yonder mossy ruins lie, 
 And desolation strikes the eye, 
 A noble mansion, high and fair, 
 Once rear'd its turrets in the air. 
 There infant warriors drew their breath, 
 And learn'd to scorn the fear of death. 
 In halls where martial trophies hung, 
 They listened while the minstrels sung, 
 Of pain and glory, toil and care, 
 And all the horrid charms of war : 
 There caught the fond desire of fame, 
 And panted for a hero's name. 
 Alas ! too oft in youthful bloom, 
 Renown has crown'd the early tomb, 
 
124 
 
 Has pierc'd the widow's bosom deep, 
 And taught the mother's eyes to weep. 
 She, on whose tale the stripling hung, 
 While pride and sorrow rul'd her tongue. 
 His father's gallant acts to tell, 
 How bold he fought, how bravely fell. f| 
 
 Methinks e'en now I hear her speak, 
 I see the tear upon her cheek ; 
 The musing boy's abstracted brow, 
 And the high-arching eye below. 
 The stifled sigh and anxious heave, 
 The kindling heart which dares not grieve ; 
 The finely-elevated head, 
 The hand upon the bosom spread, 
 Proclaim him wrought by potent charms, 
 And speak his very soul in arms. 
 
 Incautious zeal ! what hast thou done ? 
 The tale has robb'd thee of thy son. 
 And while thy pious tears deplore, 
 The loss of him who lives no more, 
 Ambition wakes her restless fire, 
 The boy will emulate his sire, . 
 
Written April the 18/A, 1796. 
 
 THE beauteous queen of social love* 
 Descending from the realms above, 
 Through the wide space of ether flew, 
 With care this little world to view, 
 Till, tir'd with wandering, at the last, 
 Through every different climate past, 
 She sought not out a splendid dome, 
 But made this humble cot her home. 
 
 The sweetest lyre would strive in vain, 
 To sing the pleasures of her reign, 
 
126 
 
 Whose powerful influence does impart, 
 New softness to the feeling heart, " 
 Bids it each narrow thought resign, 
 And fills it with a warmth benign. 
 
 From morning till the close of day, 
 Here all a grateful homage pay, 
 For here she plays her harmless wiles, 
 And scatters her endearing smiles; 
 Here no proud rivals intervene, 
 And all, though glowing, is serene. 
 Here, since she first her visit paid, 
 Still has the sweet enchantress staid, 
 And never met a single slight, 
 Or spread her snowy plumes for flight. 
 
 Contented 'neath the humble roof. 
 No timid heart is kept aloof; 
 A kind and condescending guest, 
 She lightens each despairing breast ; 
 Where pain her poignant venom spreads, 
 The balm of tenderness she sheds, 
 Which breathes a calm repose around, 
 And heals at last the burning wound. 
 
127 
 
 When the heart throbs with bitter woe, 
 Her winning mien disarms the foe, 
 And the kind glances of her eye, 
 Force the desponding power to fly. 
 She gives a zest to every joy, 
 Forbids tranquillity to cloy, 
 Softens misfortune, chases fear, 
 And balm distills in every tear. 
 'Tis she alone can make us know, 
 A truly blissful hour below, 
 Can smooth the furrow'd brow of life, 
 And hush the thundering voice of strife. 
 
 O, may she still exert her power, 
 Still lead us to the rural bower, 
 Which vaunting Pride does ne'er disgrace, 
 Or critic Envy's spiteful face. 
 * Here Raymond ever shall delight, 
 To sit and watch the closing night ; 
 And open-hearted Gertrude here, 
 With her sweet infant shall appear. 
 Here oft her brother shall prepare, 
 A wreath for Mary's curling hair ; ") 
 While soft-voic'd Anna, fond of play, 
 And all the train, alert and gay, 
 
128 
 
 In healthful games shall frolic round, 
 And revel on the mossy ground. 
 
 Here Edmund shall forget his care, 
 And often fill an elbow chair ; 
 While Sophia, friendly and sincere, 
 Shall ever find a welcome here. 
 
 Yet would my hovering fancy trace, 
 The features of each happy face ; 
 And sympathy informs my mind, 
 That they the same emotions find ; 
 That in each scene of harmless glee, 
 Memory recalls the absent three : 
 And all, though distance strives to part, 
 Will hold communion in the heart. 
 
 FINIS. 
 
Genealogical Tables of the Sovereigns of the ff r orlt/ 9 
 from the earliest to the present Period^ by the Rev* 
 William Betham, of StoJiham Asjiall, Suffolk. 
 
 Folio, 716 Tables, 31. 13s, 6d. Fine paper, 41. 14s. 6d. boards, 
 Robinsons, &c. 
 
 BntisJi Critic for Sep. 1796. 
 
 ^We are^ad to see a production of so very laborious as well as 
 useful a kind encouraged by a considerable number of subscri- 
 bers ; and we doubt not that, as the book shall become more 
 known, tire author will find it -in demand by all who seek to 
 stock their libraries with books of general reference. A work of 
 this kind, though apparently barren and uninteresting to the ca- 
 sual inspector, will often furnish a key, which could in no other 
 way be obtained, for unlocking the obscurities of history, and 
 giving, in a clear and distinct view, that which narrative usually 
 delivers with more or less of confusion, 
 
 PREFACE, Jan. 1797. The Work is magnificent in form, 
 comprehensive in its plan, and of easy reference. 
 
 Monthly Review, October, 1796. 
 
 These Tables must have cost the indeiatigable compiler prodi- 
 gious labour and atten ion. As a book of occasional consulta- 
 tion and reference, it will rank (we imagine) with the most 
 esteemed productions of the kind. Indeed we scruple not to 
 give it the preference even to Anderson's " Royal Genealogies" 
 (the most considerable of our former compilcments of this kind) 
 bn account of the greater simplicity and neatness of his method, 
 and the disembarrassment of his performance from extraneous 
 historical matter: we have often found ourselves rather confused 
 than enlightened by consulting Anderson. The volume is 
 printed with uncommon neatness, and every indication of accu- 
 racy and care. 
 
Speedily will I e published ^ In Four Vols. Octavo, and 
 One large Vol. Folio, 
 
 THE 
 
 BARONETAGE OF ENGLAND, 
 
 WITH SUCH 
 
 BARONETS OF SCOTLAND 
 
 As are of English Families, 
 WITH 
 
 Genealogical Tables, 
 
 AND 
 
 ENGRAVINGS OF THEIR COATS OF ARMS, 
 
 COLLECTED 
 
 From the present Baronetages Approved Historians Public 
 
 Records Authentic Manuscripts---Well-attested 
 
 Pedigrees, and Personal Information. 
 
 By the Rev. WILLIAM BETI1AM. 
 Price Four Guineas Vellum Paper Six Guineas,