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JOHN CODRINGTON BAMFYLDE

(1754-96)

As when, to one who long hath watched, the Morn Advancing, slow forewarns the approach of day (What time the young and flowery-kirtled May Decks the green hedge and dewy grass unshorn With cowslips pale and many a whitening thorn); And now the Sun comes forth, with level ray Gilding the high wood-top and mountain grey, And, as he climbs, the meadows 'gins adorn; The rivers glisten to the dancing beam,

The awakened birds begin their amorous strain, And hill and vale with joy and fragrance teem; Such is the sight of thee, thy wished return,

To eyes, like mine, that long have waked to mourn,
That long have watched for light, and wept in vain.

THOMAS RUSSELL

(1762-88)

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN AT LEMNOS

On this lone isle, whose rugged rocks affright
The cautious pilot, ten revolving years
Great Poan's son, unwonted erst to tears,
Wept o'er his wound: alike each rolling light
Of heaven he watched, and blamed its lingering flight:
By day the sea-mew, screaming round his cave,
Drove slumber from his eyes; the chiding wave
And savage howlings chased his dreams by night.
Hope still was his in each low breeze, that sighed
Through his rude grot, he heard a coming oar;
In each white cloud a coming sail he spied;
Nor seldom listened to the fancied roar

Of Eta's torrents, or the hoarser tide

That parts famed Trachis from the Euboic shore.

THOMAS RUSSELL

OXFORD, since late I left thy peaceful shore,
Much I regret thy domes with turrets crown'd,
Thy crested walls with twining ivy bound,
Thy Gothic fanes, dim aisles, and cloisters hoar,
And treasur'd rolls of Wisdom's ancient lore;

Nor less thy varying bells, which hourly sound
In pensive chime, or ring in lively round,
Or toll in the slow Curfeu's solemn roar ;
Much to thy moonlight walks, and musings grave
Mid silent shades of high embowering trees,
And much thy Sister-Streams, whose willows wave
In whispering cadence to the evening breeze;

But most those Friends, whose much lov'd converse gave

Thy gentle charms a tenfold power to please.

THOMAS RUSSELL

COULD then the babes from yon unsheltered cot
Implore thy passing charity in vain ?

Too thoughtless youth! what tho' thy happier iot
Insult their life of poverty and pain!

What tho' their Maker doom'd them thus forlorn
To brook the mockery of the taunting throng,
Beneath th' oppressor's iron scourge to mourn,
To mourn, but not to murmur at his wrong!
Yet when their last late evening shall decline,

Their evening cheerful, tho' their day distrest,
A Hope perhaps more heavenly bright than thine,
A Grace by thee unsought, and unpossest,

A Faith more fix'd, a Rapture more divine
Shall gild their passage to Eternal Rest.

SIR SAMUEL EGERTON BRYDGES

(1762-1837)

ON ECHO AND SILENCE

1

In eddying course when leaves began to fly,
And Autumn in her lap the store to strew,
As mid wild scenes I chanced the Muse to woo
Through glens untrod and woods that frowned on
high,

Two sleeping Nymphs with wonder mute I spy!— And lo, she's gone!-in robe of dark-green hue 'Twas Echo from her sister Silence flew ;

For quick the hunter's horn resounded to the sky! In shade affrighted Silence melts away.

Not so her sister!-hark, for onward still
With far-heard step she takes her listening way,
Bounding from rock to rock, and hill to hill!

Ah, mark the merry maid in mockful play,
With thousand mimic tones the laughing forest fill!

1 A favourite with Wordsworth, Prose Works, iii., 333.

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