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Then harder, till her grasp at length

Did gripe like a convulsion! Alas! said she, we ne'er can be

Made happy by compulsion!

Within this arbor, which was still

With scarlet berries hung, Were these three friends, one Sunday morn Just as the first bell rung.



"Tis sweet to hear a brook, 'tis sweet To hear the Sabbath-bell,

DEJECTION; "Tis sweet to hear them both at once, Deep in a woody dell.

Late, late yestreen, I saw the new Moon, His limbs along the moss, his head

With the old Moon in her arms;

And I fear, I fear, my Master dear!
Upon a mossy heap,

We shall have a deadly storm.
With shut-up senses, Edward lay:

Ballad of Sir Patrick Spens. That brook e'en on a working day Might chatter one to sleep.


WELL! if the Bard was weather-wise, who made And he had pass'd a restless night,

The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, And was not well in health ;

This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence The women sat down by his side,

Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade
And talk'd as 't were by stealth.

Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes,

Or the dull sobbing draught, that moans and rakes “The sun peeps through the close thick leaves,

Upon the strings of this Æolian lute,

Which better far were mute.
See, dearest Ellen! see!
Tis in the leaves, a little sun,

For lo! the New-moon winter-bright!
No bigger than your e'e;

And overspread with phantom light,
(With swimming phantom light o'erspread

But rimm'd and circled by a silver thread) “ A tiny sun, and it has got

I see the old Moon in her lap, foretelling
A perfect glory 100;

The coming on of rain and squally blast.
Ten thousand threads and hairs of light,

And oh! that even now the gust were swelling, Make up a glory, gay and bright,

And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast Round that small orb, so blue.'

Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst

they awed,

And sent my soul abroad, And then they argued of those raya,

Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give, What color they might be :

Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and Says this, “ they're mostly green;" says that,

live! • They're amber-like to me."


A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear, So they sat chatting, while bad thoughts

A stifled, drowsy, unimpassion'd grief,
Were troubling Edward's rest;

Which finds no natural outlet, no relief,
But soon they heard his hard quick pants,

In word, or sigh, or tear-
And the thumping in his breast.

O Lady! in this wan and heartless mood,
To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo'd,

All this long eve, so balmy and serene, • A Mother too!” these self-same words Have I been gazing on the western sky, Did Edward mutter plain ;

And its peculiar tint of yellow green: His faco was drawn back on itself,

And still I gaze—and with how blank an eye!
With horror and huge pain.

And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars
That give away their motion to the stars;

Those stars, that glide behind them or between, Both groan'd at once, for both knew well

Now sparkling, now bedimm’d, but always seen What thoughts were in his mind;

Yon crescent Moon, as fix'd as if it grew When he waked up, and stared like one In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue; That hath been just struck blind.

I see them all so excellently fair,

I see, not feel, how beautiful they are !
He sat upright; and ere the dream

Had had time to depart,

My genial spirits fail, . God forgive me! (he exclaim'd)

And what can these avail
I have torn out her heart."

To lift the smothering weight from off my breast?

It were a vain endeavor,
Then Ellen shriek'd, and forthwith burst

Though I should gaze for ever,
Into ungentle laughter;

On that green light that lingers in the west :
And Mary shiver’d, where she sat,

I may not hope from outward forms to win
And never she smiled after.

The passion and the life, whose fountains are within

IV. Carmen reliquum in futurum tempus relegatum. To-morrow! O Lady! we receive but what we give, and To-morrow! and Tomorrow

And in our life alone does nature live :

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Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud! Makest Devils' yule, with worse than wintry sung,

And would we aught behold, of higher worth, The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among. Than that inanimate cold world allow'd

Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds! To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd,

Thou mighty Poet, e'en to Frenzy bold ! Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth,

What tell'st thou now about? A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud

"T is of the Rushing of an Host in rout, Enveloping the Earth

With groans of trampled men, with smarting And from the soul itself must there be sent

woundsA sweet and potent voice, of its own birth, At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the Of all sweet sounds the life and element!

cold! V.

But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence ! O pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of me

And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd, What this strong music in the soul may be !

With groans, and tremulous shudderings—all is What, and wherein it doth exist,

[loud !

It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist, This beautiful and beauty-making power.

A tale of less affright, Juy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne'er was given,

And temper'd with delight, Save to the pure, and in their purest hour,

As Otway's self had framed the tender lay,

"T is of a little child Life, and Life's Emuence, Cloud at once and

Upon a lonesome wild,

Not far from home, but she hath lost her way,
Joy, Lady! is the spirit and the power,
Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower

And now moans low in bitter grief and fear, A new Earth and new Heaven,

And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother

hear. Endreamt of by the sensual and the proudJoy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud

VIII. We in ourselves rejoice!

'T is midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep: And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight, Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep! All melodies the echoes of that voice,

Visit her, gentle Sleep! with wings of healing, All colors a suffusion from that light.

And may this storm be but a mountain-birth,

May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling, VI.

Silent as though they watch'd the sleeping Earth. There was a time when, though my path was

With light heart may she rise, rough,

Gay fancy, cheerful eyes, This joy within me dallied with distress

Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice: And all misfortunes were but as the stuff

To her may all things live, from Pole to Pole Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness :

Their life the eddying of her living soul ! For hope grew round me, like the twining vine,

O simple spirit, guided froin above, And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seem'd mine.

Dear Lady! friend devoutest of my choice, But now afflictions bow me down to earth :

Thus mayest thou ever, evermore rejoice.
Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth.

But oh! each visitation
Suspends what nature gave me at my birth,

My shaping spirit of Imagination.
For not to think of what I needs must feel,

ODE TO GEORGIANA, DUCHESS OF But to be still and patient, all I can;

DEVONSHIRE, And haply by abstruse research to steal

From my own nature all the natural Man-
This was my sole resource, my only plan :

Till that which suits a part infects the whole,
And now is almost grown the habit of my Soul.

And hail the Chapel! hail the Platform wild !

Where Tell directed the avenging Dart,
Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind,

With well-strung arm, that first preserved his Child

Then aim'd the arrow at the Tyrant's heart.
Reality's dark dream!
I turn from you, and listen to the wind,

Which long has rayed unnoticed. What a scream SPLENDOR's fondly foster'd child !
Or agony by torture lengthen'd out

And did you hail the Platform wild, That lute sent forth! Thou Wind, that ravest Where once the Austrian fell without,

Beneath the shaft of Tell ? Bare crag, or mountain-tairn,* or blasted tree,

O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure! Os pine-grove whither woodman never clomb,

Whence learnt you that heroic measure ? Or lonely house, long held the witches' home, Methinks were fitter instruments for thee,

Light as a dream your days their circlets ran, Mad Lutanist! who in this month of showers, From all that teaches Brotherhood to Man; Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping flowers, Far, far removed! from want, from hope, from fear!

Enchanting music lull'd your infant ear, • Tairn is a small lake, generally, if not always, applied to Obeisance, praises soothed your infant heart: the lakes up in the mountains, and which are the feeders of Emblazonments and old ancestral crests, those in the valleys. This address to the Storm-wind will not With many a bright obtrusive form of art, appear extravagant to those who have heard it at night, and in a mountainous country.

Detain'd your eye from nature · stately verte

That veiling strove to deck your charms divine,

Where once the Austrian fell
Rich viands, and the pleasurable wine,

Beneath the shaft of Tell!
Were yours unearn’d by toil; nor could you see O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure !
The unenjoying toiler's misery.

Thence learnt you that heroic measure.
And yet, free Nature's uncorrupted child,
You hail'd the Chapel and the Platform wild,

Where once the Austrian fell

Beneath the shaft of Tell !
O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure !

Whence learnt you that heroic measure ?

TRANQUILLITY! thou better name

Than all the family of Fame ! There crowd your finely-fibred frame,

Thou ne'er wilt leave my riper age All living faculties of bliss ;

To low intrigue, or factious rage ; And Genius to your cradle came,

For oh! dear child of thoughtful Truth, His forehead wreathed with lambent flame,

To thee I gave my early youth, And bending low, with godlike kiss

And left the bark, and blest the stedfast shore, Breathed in a more celestial life ;

Ere yet the Tempest rose and scared me with its roar
But boasts not many a fair compeer
A heart as sensitive to joy and fear?

Who late and lingering seeks thy shrine,
And some, perchance, might wage an equal strife, On him but seldom, power divine,
Some few, to nobler being wrought,

Thy spirit rests! Satiety
Co-rivals in the nobler gift of thought.

And Sloth, poor counterfeits of thee,
Yet these delight to celebrate

Mock the tired worldling. Idle Hope
Laurell’d War and plumy State ;

And dire Remembrance interlope,
Or in verse and music dress

To vex the feverish slumbers of the mind :
Tales of rustic happiness-

The bubble floats before, the spectre stalks behind.
Pernicious Tales ! insidious Strains !
That steel the rich man's breast,

But me thy gentle hand will lead
And mock the lot unblest,

At morning through the accustom'd mead; The sordid vices and the abject pains,

And in the sultry summer's heat Which evermore must be

Will build me up a mossy seat; The doom of Ignorance and Penury!

And when the gust of Autumn crowds Bur you, free Nature's uncorrupted child,

And breaks the busy moonlight clouds, You hail'd the Chapel and the Platform wild, Thou best the thought canst raise, the heart attune Where once the Austrian fell

Light as the busy clouds, calm as the gliding Moon Beneath the shaft of Tell ! O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure !

The feeling heart, the searching soul,
Where learnt you that heroic measure ?

To thee I dedicate the whole !
And while within myself I trace

The greatness of some future race,
You were a Mother! That most holy name,

Aloof with hermit-eye I scan Which Heaven and Nature bless,

The present works of present manI may not vilely prostitute to those

A wild and dream-like trade of blood and guile, Whose Infants owe them less

Too foolish for a tear, too wicked for a smile! Than the poor Caterpillar owes

Its gaudy Parent Fly.
You were a Mother! at your bosom fed

The Babes that loved you. You, with laughing eye,
Each twilight-thought, each nascent feeling read,

TO A YOUNG. FRIEND, Which you yourself created. Oh! delight !


Without the Mother's bitter groans :
Another thought, and yet another,

By touch, or taste, by looks or tones
Oer the growing Sense to roll,

A MOUNT, not wearisome and bare and steep,
The Mother of your infant's Soul !

But a green mountain variously up-piled, The Angel of the Earth, who, while he guides Where o'er the jutting rocks soft mosses creep, His chariot-planet round the goal of day,

Or color'd lichens with slow oozing weep; All trembling gazes on the Eye of God,

Where cypress and the darker yew start wild A moment turn'd his awful face away ;

And 'mid the summer torrent's gentle dash And as he view'd you, from his aspect sweet Dance brightend the red clusters of the ash; New influences in your being rose,

Beneath whose boughs, by those still sounds be Blest Intuitions and Communions fleet

guiled, With living Nature, in her joys and woes! Calm Pensiveness might muse herself to sleep; Thenceforth your soul rejoiced to see

Till haply startled by some fleecy dam, The shrine of social Liberty !

That rustling on the bushy clift above, O beautiful! O Nature's child!

With melancholy bleat of anxious love, 'Twas thence you haild he Platform wild, Made meek inquiry for her wandering lamb



Such a green mountain 't were most sweet to climb,

E'en while the bosom ached with loneliness-
How more than sweet, if some dear friend should


While my young cheek retains its healthful hues, The adventurous toil, and up the path sublime And I have many friends who hold me dear; Now lead, now follow: the glad landscape round, -- ! methinks, I would not often hear Wide and more wide, increasing without bound! Such melodies as thine, lest I should lose

All memory of the wrongs and sore distress,

For which my miserable brethren weep!
O then 't were loveliest sympathy, to mark

But should uncomforted missortunes steep
The berries of the half-uprooted ash
Dripping and bright; and list the torrent's dash, - My daily bread in tears and bitterness ;

And if at death's dread moment I should lie
Beneath the cypress, or the yew more dark,

With no beloved face at my bed-side,
Seated at ease, on some smooth mossy rock ;

To fix the last glance of my closing eye,
In social silence now, and now to unlock
The treasured heart; arm link'd in friendly arm,

Methinks, such strains, breathed by my angel-guide

Would make me pass the cup of anguish by, Sare if the one, his muse's witching charm

Mix with the blest, nor know that I had died ! Muttering brow-bent, at unwatch'd distance lag;

Till high o'erhead his beckoning friend appears,
And from the forehead of the topmost crag
Shouts eagerly: for haply there uprears

ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG MAN OF FORTUNE That shadowing pine its old romantic limbs,

Which latest shall detain the enamour'd sight
Seen from below, when eve the valley dims,

HENCE that fantastic wantonness of woe,
Tinged yellow with the rich departing light;
And hap!y, basin'd in some unsunn'd cleft,

0 Youth to partial Fortune vainly dear! A beauteous spring, the rock's collected tears,

To plunder'd Want's half-shelter'd hovel go, Sleeps shelter'd there, scarce wrinkled by the gale!

Go, and some hunger-bitten Infant hear Together thus, the world's vain turmoil left,

Moan haply in a dying Mother's ear: Streich'd on the crag, and shadow'd by the pine,

Or when the cold and dismal fog-damps brood And bending o'er the clear delicious fount,

O'er the rank church-yard with sere elm-leaves Ah! dearest youth! it were a lot divine

strew'd, To cheat our noons in moralizing mood,

Pace round some widow's grave, whose dearer part While west-winds fann'd our temples toil-bedew'd :

Was slaughter'd, where o'er his uncoffin'd limbs Then downwards slope, oft pausing, from the The flocking flesh-birds scream'd! Then, while thy

heart mount, To come lone mansion, in some woody dale,

Groans, and thine eye a fiercer sorrow dims, Where smiling with blue eye, domestic bliss

Know (and the truth shall kindle thy young mind) Gives this the Husband's, that the Brother's kiss!

What Nature makes thee mourn, she bids thee heal!

O abject! if, to sickly dreams resign'd,

All effortless thou leave life's commonweal
Thus rudely versed in allegoric lore,

A prey to Tyrants, Murderers of Mankind.
The Hill of Knowledge I essay'd to trace ;
That verdurous hill with many a resting-place,
And many a stream, whose warbling waters pour

To glad and fertilize the subject plains ;
That hill with secret springs, and nooks untrod, DEAR native Brook! wild Streamlet of the West!
And many a fancy-blest and holy sod,

How many various-lated years have past, Where Inspiration, his diviner strains

What happy, and what mournful hours, since last Low murmuring, lay; and starting from the rocks I skimm'd the smooth thin stone along thy breast, Suff evergreens, whose spreading foliage mocks Numbering its light leaps ! yet so deep imprcst Want's barren soil, and the bleak frosts of age, Sink the sweet scenes of childhood, that mine eyes And Bigotry's mad fire-invoking rage!

I never shut amid the sunny ray,

But straight with all their tints thy waters rise, O meek retiring spirit! we will climb,

Thy crossing plank, thy marge with willows gray,

And bedded sand that vein'd with various dyes Cheering and cheerd, this lovely hill sublime ;

Gleam'd through thy bright transparence! On my And from the stirring world uplifted high (Whose noises, faintly wafted on the wind,


Visions of childhood! oft have je beguiled To quiet musings shall attune the mind,

Lone manhood's cares, yet waking fondest sighs : And oft the melancholy theme supply),

Ah! that once more I were a caruless child ! There, while the prospect through the gazing eye

Pours all its healthful greenness on the soul,
We'll smile at wealth, and learn to smile at fame,
Our hopes, our knowledge, and our joys the same,

As neighboring fountains image, each the whole :
Then, when the mind hath drunk its fill of truth,


HAVING RECEIVED INTELLIGENCE OF THE BIRTH We'll discipline the heart to pure delight, Rekindling sober Joy's domestic fame.

OF A SON, SEPTEMBER 20, 1796. They whom I love shall love thee. Honor'd youth! Oft o'er my brain does that strange fancy roll Now may Heaven realize this vision bright! Which makes the present (while the flash doth last)

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