When, Lewti! on my couch I lie, A dying man for love of thee.

Nay, treacherous image! leave my

mind

And yet, thou dids't not look unkind.

I saw a vapour in the sky,

Thin, and white, and very high:

I ne'er beheld so thin a cloud.

Perhaps the breezes that can fly
Now below and now above,

Have snatch'd aloft the lawny shroud
Of Lady fair-that died for love.
For maids, as well as youths, have perish'd
From fruitless love too fondly cherish'd.
Nay, treach'rous image! leave my mind-
For Lewti never will be kind.

Slush! my

heedless feet from under Slip the crumbling banks for ever: Like echoes to a distant thunder,

They plunge into the gentle river. The river-swans have heard my tread, And startle from their reedy bed.

O beauteous Birds! methinks ye measure

Your movements to some heavenly tune!

3

O beauteous Birds! 'tis such a pleasure
To see you move beneath the Moon,
I would it were your true delight
To sleep by day and wake all night.

I know the place where Lewti lies,
When silent night has closed her eyes—
It is a breezy jasmine-bower,

The Nightingale sings o'er her head:
VOICE of the Night! had I the power

That leafy labyrinth to thread,

And creep, like thee, with soundless tread,
I then might view her bosom white.
Heaving lovely to my sight,

As these two swans together heave
On the gently swelling wave.

Oh! that she saw me in a dream,

And dreamt that I had died for care!

All pale and wasted I would seem,

Yet fair withal, as spirits are!

I'd die indeed, if I might see

Her bosom heave, and heave for me!

Soothe, gentle image! soothe my mind!

To-morrow Lewti may be kind.

(From the Morning Post, 1795.)

THE PICTURE,

OR

THE LOVER'S RESOLUTION.

THROUGH Weeds and thorns, and matted underwood
I force my way; now climb, and now descend
O'er rocks, or bare or mossy, with wild foot
Crushing the purple whorts; while oft unseen,
Hurrying along the drifted forest-leaves,

The scared snake rustles. Onward still I toil,
I know not, ask not whither! A new joy,
Lovely as light, sudden as summer-gust,

And gladsome as the first-born of the spring,
Beckons me on, or follows from behind,
Playmate, or guide! The master-passion quell'd,
I feel that I am free. With dun-red bark

The fir-trees, and th' unfrequent slender oak,
Forth from this tangle wild of bush and brake
Soar up, and form a melancholy vault
High o'er me, murmuring like a distant sea.

Here Wisdom might resort, and here Remorse;
Here too the love-lorn Man who, sick in soul
And of this busy human heart aweary,
Worships the spirit of unconscious life
In tree or wild-flower.-Gentle Lunatic!
If so he might not wholly cease to be,

He would far rather not be that, he is;

But would be something, that he knows not of,

In winds or waters, or among the rocks!

But hence, fond wretch! breathe not contagion here!
No myrtle-walks are these: these are no groves
Where Love dare loiter! If in sullen mood

He should stray hither, the low stumps shall gore
His dainty feet, the briar and the thorn

Make his plumes haggard. Like a wounded bird
Easily caught, ensnare him, O ye Nymphs,
Ye Oreads chaste, ye dusky Dryades!

you, ye EARTH-WINDS! you that make at morn

And you, ye

The dew-drops quiver on the spiders' webs!
You, O ye wingless AIRS! that creep between
The rigid stems of heath and bitten furze,
Within whose scanty shade, at summer-noon,
The mother-sheep hath worn a hollow bed-
Ye, that now cool her fleeee with dropless Damp,
VOL. II.

K

7

Now pant and murmur with her feeding lamb.

Chase, chase him, all ye Fays, and elfin Gnomes!
With prickles sharper than his darts bemock
His little Godship, making him perforce

Creep through a thorn-bush on yon hedgehog's back.

This is my hour of triumph! I can now With my own fancies play the merry fool, And laugh away worse folly, being free.

Here will I seat myself, beside this old,

Hollow, and weedy oak, which ivy-twîne

Cloaths as with net-work: here will couch my limbs,

Close by this river, in this silent shade,

As safe and sacred from the step of man.
As an invisible world—unheard, unseen,
And listening only to the pebbly stream,
That murmurs with a dead, yet bell-like sound

Tinkling, or bees, that in the neighbouring trunk ( (i
Make honey-hoards. This breeze, that visits me,
Was never Love's accomplice, never rais'd r
The tendril ringlets from the maiden's brow, 207
And the blue, delicate veins above her cheek;

Ne'er play'd the wanton-never half disclosed.
The maiden's snowy bosom, scattering thence t
Eye-poisons for some love-distempered youth,