Beware a speedy friend, the Arabian said,

And wisely was it he advised distrust:

The flower that blossoms earliest fades the first. Look at yon Oak that lifts its stately head, And dallies with the autumnal storm, whose rage

Tempests the ocean waves; slowly it rose,
Slowly its strength increased through many an age,

And timidly did its light leaves disclose,
As doubtful of the spring, their palest green.

They to the summer cautiously expand,

And by the warmer sun and season bland
Matured, their foliage in the grove is scen,
When the bare forest by the wintry blast
Is swept, still lingering on the bouglis the last.

1798.

FAREWELL my home, my home no longer now,

Witness of many a calm and happy day; And thou fair eminence, upon whose brow

Dwells the last sunshine of the evening ray, Farewell! Mine eyes no longer shall pursue

The western sun beyond the utmost height,

When slowly he forsakes the fields of light.
No more the freshness of the falling dew,
Cool and delightful, here shall bathe my head,

As from this western wiudow dear, I lean,

Listening, the while I watch the placid scene, The martins Twittering underneath the shied. Farewell, my home! where many a day has past In joys whose loved remembrance long shail last.

1799.

TO A GOOSE.

If thou didst feed on western plains of yore;

Or waddle wide with flat and flabby feet Over some Cambrian mountain's plashy moor;

Or tind in farmer's yard a safe retreat

From gypsey thieves, and foxes sly and fleet; If thy grey quills, by law yer guided, trace Deeds big will ruin to some wretched race,

Or love-sick poet's sonnet, sad and sweet,

Wailing the rigour of his lady fair;
Or if, the drudge of housemaid's daily toil,
Cobwebs and dust thy pinions white besoil,

Departed goose! I neither know nor care.
Dut this I know, that thou wert very fine,
Season'd with
sage, and onions, and port wine.

1797

Porlock, thy verdant vale so fair to sight,

Thy lofty hills with fern and furze so brown,

The waters that so musical roll down Thy woody glens, the traveller with delight

Recalls to memory, and the channel grey

Circling its surges in thy level bay ;Porlock, I also shall forget Uiee not,

Here by the unwelcome summer rain confined;

And often shall hercafter call to mind How here, a patient prisoner, 't was my lot To wear the lonely, lingering close of day,

Making my Sonnet by the alchouse fire,

Whilst Idleness and Solitude inspire
Duil rhymes to pass the duller hours away.

August 9, 1799.

I MARVEL not, O sun! that unto thee
In adoration man should bow the knee,
And
pour

his

prayers of mingled awe and love ; For like a God thou art, and on thy way Of glory sheddest with benignant ray,

Beauty, and life, and joyance from above.

No longer let these mists thy radiance shroud, These cold raw mists that chill the comfortless day; But shed thy splendour through the opening cloud

And cheer the carth once more. The languid tlowers Lie odourless, bent down with heavy rain,

Earth asks thy presence, saturate with showers! O Lord of Light! put forth thy beams again,

For damp and cheerless are the gloomy hours.

STATELY

yon

vessel sails adown the tide, To some far distant and adventurous bound; The sailors' busy cries from side to side

Pealing among the echoing rocks resound:
A patient, thoughtless, much-enduring band,

Joyful they enter on their ocean way,
With shouts exulting leave their native land,

And know no care beyond the present day.
But is there no poor mourner left behind,

Who sorrows for a child or husbaud there? Who at the howling of the midnight wind

Will wake and tremble in ber boding prayer! So may her voice be lieard, and Heaven be kind! Go, gallant ship, and be thy fortune fair!

1799

1798.

Fair be thy fortunes in the distant land,
Companion of

my
carlier
years

and friend! Go to the Eastern world, and may the hand

Of Heaven its blessing on thy labour send. And may I, if we ever more should meet,

See thee with aftluence to thiy native sliore Return'd;-I need not pray that I may greet

The same untainted goodness as before. Long years must intervene before that day;

And what the changes lleaven to each may send,

It boots not now to bode! Oh carly friend ! Assured, no distance e'cr can wcar away Esteem long rooted, and no change remove The dear remembrance of the friend we love.

1798.

O God have mercy in this dreadful hour

On the poor mariner! in comfort here

Safe shelter'd as I am, I almost fear 'The blast that rages with resistless power.

What were it now to toss upon the waves, The maddend waves, and know no succour near; The howling of the storm alone to hear,

And the wild sea that to the tempest raves, To gaze

amid the horrors of the night And only see the billow's gleaming light;

And in the dread of death to think of her
Who, as she listens sleepless to the gale,
Puts up a silent prayer and waxes pale?-
O God! have mercy on the mariner!

1799

Heaven's vengeance on thy sin: Must thou be told

The CRIME it is to paint DIVINITY?
Raslı Painter! should the world her charms behold,

Dim and defiled, as there they needs must be,
They to their old idolatry would fall,
Aud bend before her forin the

pagan

knee. Fairer than VENUS, DAUGHTER OF TUE SEA.

She comes majestic with her swelling sails,

The gallant bark! along her watery way Homeward she drives before the favouring gales;

Now tlirting at their length the streamers play, And now they ripple with the ruftling breeze,

Hark to the sailors' shouts! the rocks rebound,

Thundering in echoes to the joyful sound. Long have they voyaged o'er the distant seas,

And what a heart-delight they feel at last,

So many toils, so many dangers past, To view the port desired, he only knows

Who on the stormy deep for many a day

Hath tost, a weary of his ocean way, And watch'd, all anxious, every wind that blows.

1799

A WRINKLED, crabbed man they picture thee,

Old Winter, with a rugged beard as grey
As the long moss upon the apple-tree;
Blue lipe, an ice-drop at thy sharp blue nose;

Close muftled up, and on thy dreary way,
Plodding alone through sleet and drifting snows.
They should have drawn thee by the bigh-lieape heartlı,

Old Winter! seated in thy great-arm d chair, Watcliing the children at their Christmas mirth,

Or circled by them as thy lips declare Some merry jest or tale of murder dire,

Or troubled spirit that disturbs the night, Pausing at times to rouse the mouldering fire, Or taste the old October brown and bright.

1799.

HE PROVES THE EXISTENCE OF A SOUL FROM

HIS LOVE FOR DELIA. Some have denied a soul! THEY NEVER LOVED. Far from my Delia now by fate removed,

At home, abroad, 1 view her every wlicre;
Her ONLY in the FLOOD OF NOON I see.

My Godiless-Plaid, my OMNIPRESENT FAIR,
For Love annihilates the world to me!
And when the weary Sol around his bed

Closes the SABLE CURTAINS of the night,

SUN OF MY SLUMBERS, on my dazzled sight
She shines confest. When every sound is dead,
The SPIRIT OF HER VOICE comes then to roll

The surge of music o'er my wavy brain.

Far, far from her my Body drags its chain, But sure with Delia I exist A SOUL!

THE AMATORY POEMS OF ABEL

SHUFFLEBOTTOM.

THE POET EXPRESSES HIS FEELINGS RESPECT

ING A PORTRAIT IN DELIA'S PARLOUR.
I would I were that Reverend Gentleman
With gold-laced hat and golden-headed cane,

Who hangs in Delia's parlour! For whene'er
From book or needlework her looks arise,
On him converge the SUN-BEAMS of her eyes,

And lie unblamed may fize upon my FAIR,
And oft MY FAIR his favour'd form surveys.
O HAPPY PICTURE! still on HER 10 gaze!

I envy him! and jealous fear alarms,

Lest the strong glance of those divinest charms
WARM HIM TO LIFE, as in the ancient days,

When MARBLE MELTED in Pygmalion's arms.
I would I were that Reverend Gentleman
With gold-laced hat and golden-leaded cane.

DELIA AT PLAY. She held a Cup and Ball of Ivory white,

Less while the Ivory than her snowy hand !

Enrapi I watchid her from my secret stand, As now, inteni, in innocent delight,

Her taper fingers twirl'd the giddy ball, Now tost it, following still with Eagle sight,

Now on the pointed end infix'd its fall. Marking her sport I mused, and musing sighd, Meibought the ball she play'd with was my HEART! (Alas! that Sport like that should be her pride!) And clic keen point which stedfast still she eyed

Wherewith lo pierce il, that was Cupid's dart; Shall I not then the cruel Fair condeinn Who on that durt IMPALES my BusOM'S GEM?

my fuir,

TO A PAINTER ATTEMPTING DELIA'S

PORTRAIT.
RASH Painter! canst thou give the ORB OF DAY
Jo all its noontide glory? or portray

The DIAMOND, that athiwari the trper'd ball
Flings the rich flashes of its dazzliny light?
Even if thive art could boast suchu magic might,

Yet if it strove to paint my Angel's eye,
Here it perforce must fail. Cease! lest I call

THE POET RELATES HOW HE OBTAINED

DELIA'S POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF. 'T is mioc! what accents can my joy declare?

Blest be the pressure of the thronging rout! Blest be the land so lasty of

That left the templing corner hanging out! I envy not the joy the pilgrim feels,

After long travel to some distant shrine, When at the relic of his saint he kueels,

For Delia's POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF IS MINE. When first will filching finge

I drew near, keen lope slot (reinulous trougli every vein, And when the finishii deed removed my fear,

Scarce could my bounding lieart its joy contain. What though the Eilitli Cominandment rose to mind,

11 only served a moment's qualm to more; For thefis like this it could not be desigua, The Eigluh Commandment was NOT MADE FOR LOVE!

Brother, thou wert strong in youth!
Brother, thou wert brave in war!

Uohappy man was he
For whom thou hadst sharpend the tomabawk's edge!

Unhappy man was he
On whom thine angry cye was fix'd in fight!

And he wlio from thy hand

Received the calumet
Blest Heaven, and slept in peace.

When the Evil Spirits seized thee, Brother, we were sad at heart:

We bade the Jongler come

And briog his magic aid; We circled thee in mystic dance, With songs and shouts and cries, To free thee from their power.

Brother, but in vain we strove, The number of thy days was full.

THE PERUVIAN'S DIRGE OVER THE BODY

OF HIS FATHER.

Rest in peace, my Father, rest!
With danger and coil have I borne thy corpse

From the Stranger's field of death.

I bless thee, O Wife of the Sun,
For veiling thy beams with a cloud,

While at the pious task

Thy votary toil'd in fear.
Thou badest the clouds of night
Enwrap thee, and hide thee from Man;

But didst thou not sce my toil,
And put on the darkness to aid,

O Wife of the visible God?

Thou sittest amongst us on thy mat, The bear-skin from thy shoulder langs, Thy feet are sandal'd ready for the way.

Those are the unfatiguable feet
That traversed the forest (rack!

Those are the lips that late

Thunder'd the yell of war;
And that is the strong right arm
Which never was lifted in vain.

Those lips are silent now,
The limbs that were active are stiff,
Loose hangs the strong right arm!

Wretched, my Father, thy life!
Wretched the life of the Slave!

All day for another he toils;

Overwearied at night he lies down.
And dreams of the freedom that once he enjoy'd.
Thou wert blest in the days of thy youth,

My Father! for then thou werı free.
In the fields of the nation thy hand

Bore its part of the general task;
And when, with the song and the dance,

Ye brought the harvest home,