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Give me a cottage on some Cambrian wild,
Where, far from eities, I may spend my days, And, by the beauties of the scene beguiled,
May pity man's pursuits, and shun his ways. While on the rock I mark the browsing goat,
List to the mountain-torrent's distant noise, Or the hoarse bittern's solitary note,
I shall not want the world's delusive joys : But with my little scrip, my book, my lyre,
Shall think my lot complete, nor covet more; And when, with time, shall wane the vital fire,
I 'll raise my pillow on the desert shore, And lay me down to rest, where the wild wave Shall make sweet music o'er my lonely grave.
SONNET IN HIS SICKNESS.
Yes, 't will be over soon.-This sickly dream
Of life will vanish from my feverish brain ; And death my wearied spirit will redeem
From this wild region of unvaried pain. Yon brook will glide
as softly as before, Yon landscape smile,-yon golden harvest grow,Yon sprightly lark on mounting wing will soar
When Henry's name is heard no more below. I sigh when all my youthful friends caress,
They laugh in health, and future evils brave; Them shall a wife and siniling children bless,
While I am mouldering in my silent grave. God of the just—Thou gavest the bitter cup; I bow to thy behest, and drink it up.
SONNET TO CONSUMPTION.
GENTLY, most gently, on thy victim's head,
Consumption, lay thine hand !-let me decay,
Like the expiring lamp, unseen, away, And softly go to slumber with the dead. And if 't is true, what holy men have said,
That strains angelic oft foretell the day,
Of death to those good men who fall thy prey,
Whisper the solemn warning in mine ear,
Ere I depart upon my journey drear: And, smiling faintly on the painful past,
Compose my decent head, and breathe my last.
i 'M PLEASED AND YET I 'M SAD.
One, two, three, four, and five,
To bliss am all alive.
And I am inly glad,
I'm pleased, and yet I 'm sad.
Does that disturb my breast ?
Or pleasure's fading vest?
Must bend my lonely way?
At home where'er I stray.
When thou no more canst hear?
That holds me when I 'm glad ;
Or wherefore I am sad.
THE SHIPWRECKED SOLITARY'S SONG TO THE NIGHT.
Thou, spirit of the spangled night!
Of lonely mariner.
The winds are whistling o'er the wolds, The distant main is moaning low; Come, let us sit and weave a song
A melancholy song!
Sweet is the scented gale of morn,
That marks thy mournful reign.
A solitary man.
And I have linger'd in the shade,
To sing my evening song.
To hymns of harmony.
But never could I tune my reed,
1 haid thy star-beam mild.
The day-spring brings not joy to me,
My woes are mixt with joy.
And then I talk, and often think
A solitary man.
And when the blustering winter winds Howl in the woods that clothe my cave, I lay me on my lonely mat,
And pleasant are my dreams.
And Fancy gives me back my wife;
And all its placid joys,
Then hateful is the morning hour,
The same dull sounds again.
The deep-toned winds, the moaning sea,
The condor's hollow scream.
TO THE HERB ROSEMARY.
SWEET Scented flonor! who art wont to bloom
On January's front severe,
To waft thy waste perfume !
And as I twine the mournful wreath,
The melody of death.
Come, funeral flower! who lov'st to dwell
With the pale corse in lonely tomb,
A sweet decaying smell.
And we will sleep a pleasant sleep,
So peaceful and so deep.
And hark! the wind-god, as he flies,
Moans hollow in the forest trees,
Mysterious music dies.
The cold turf altar of the dead;
A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed.
* The Rosemary buds in January. It is the flower commonly put in the coffins of the dead.
ODE TO DISAPPOINTMENT..
Not in thy terrors clad;
But I recline
Beneath thy shrine, And round my brow resign'd, thy peaceful cypress twine.
Though Fancy flies away
Before thy hollow tread,
And though the tear
By chance appear, Yet she can smile, and say, “My all was not laid here.”
Come, Disappointment, corne!
Though from Hope's summit hurld,
To turn my eye
What is this passing scene ?
A peevish April day!
Man (soon discuss’d)
his trust, And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust.
0, what is beauty's power ?
It flourishes and dies;
Mute, mute is all
O’er Beauty's fall; Her praise resounds no more when mantled in her pall.
The most beloved on earth,
Not long survives to-day;