That on green plots o'er precipices browse: The Yew tree bursts! Beneath its dark green boughs My gaze! Proud towers, and cots more dear to me, LINES IN THE MANNER OF SPENSER. O PEACE, that on a lilied bank dost love Who vowed to meet her ere the morning light, But broke my plighted word-ah! false and recreant wight! Last night as I my weary head did pillow With thoughts of my dissevered Fair engrost, Chill Fancy drooped wreathing herself with willow, As though my breast entombed a pining ghost. "From some blest couch, young Rapture's bridal boast, Rejected Slumber! hither wing thy way; But leave me with the matin hour, at most! As night-closed floweret to the orient ray, My sad heart will expand, when I the Maid survey." But Love, who heard the silence of my thought, He spake, and ambushed lay, till on my bed When as I 'gan to lift my drowsy head "Now, Bard! I'll work thee woe!" the laughing Elfin said. Sleep, softly-breathing God! his downy wing Was fluttering now, as quickly to depart; When twanged an arrow from Love's mystic string, Or did he strike my couch with wizard lance? (No fairer decked the bowers of old Romance) That Sleep enamored grew, nor moved from his sweet trance! My Sara came, with gentlest look divine; Bright shone her eye, yet tender was its beam: I felt the pressure of her lip to mine! Whispering we went, and Love was all our theme Love pure and spotless, as at first, I deem, IIe sprang from Heaven! Such joys with Sleep did 'bide That I the living image of my dream, Fondly forgot. Too late I woke, and sigh'd "()' how shall I behold my Love at even-tide !" IMITATED FROM OSSIAN. THE stream with languid murmur creeps, In Lumin's flowery vale : Beneath the dew the Lily weeps Slow-waving to the gale. "Cease, restless gale! it seems to say, The honors of my vernal day On rapid wing are flying. "To-morrow shall the Traveller come His searching eye shall vainly roam With eager gaze and wetted cheek Thus, faithful Maiden! thou shalt seek But I along the breeze shall roll And dwell, the Moon-beam of thy soul, THE COMPLAINT OF NINATHOMA. How long will ye round me be swelling, Nor beneath the cold blast of the tree. And they blessed the white-bosomed Maid! A Ghost! by my cavern it darted! When they visit the dreams of my rest! Ah no! reject the thoughtless claim In pity to your Lover! That thrilling touch would aid the flame, It wishes to discover. TO AN INFANT. АH! cease thy tears and sobs, my little Life! To anger rapid and as soon appeased, For trifles mourning and by trifles pleased, Break Friendship's mirror with a tetchy blow, Yet snatch what coals of fire on Pleasure's altar glow! O thou that rearest with celestial aim The future Seraph in my mortal frame, Thrice holy Faith! whatever thorns I meet As on I totter with unpractised feet, Still let me stretch my arms and cling to thee, LINES WRITTEN AT SHURTON BARS, NEAR BRIDGEWATER, SEPTEMBER, 1795, IN ANSWER TO A LETTER FROM BRISTOL. Good verse most good, and bad verse then seems better As one rude rhyme warm from a friendly heart?—ANON NOR travels my meandering eye Nor now with curious sight I mark the glow-worm, as I pass, Move with "green radiance" through the grass, O ever present to my view! And soothes your boding fears: Beloved Woman! did you fly But why with sable wand unblest I felt it prompt the tender dream, And hark, my Love! The sea-breeze moans The onward-surging tides supply With mimic thunders deep. Dark reddening from the channelled Isle* (Where stands one solitary pile *The Holmes, in the Bristol Channel. |