While he remembers with a sigh The comforts of his home. Youth comes; the toils and cares of life Torment the restless mind; Where shall the tired and harass'd heart Its consolation find? Then is not Youth, as Fancy tells, Life's summer prime of joy? Maturer Manhood now arrives, And other thoughts come on, But with the baseless hopes of Youth Its generous warmth is gone; Cold calculating cares succeed, The timid thought, the wary deed, The dull realities of Truth; Back on the past he turns his eye, Remembering with an envious sigh The happy dreams of Youth. So reaches he the latter stage Of this our mortal pilgrimage, With feeble step and slow; New ills that latter stage await, And old Experience learns too late That all is vanity below. Life's vain delusions are gone by, Its idle hopes are o'er, Yet age remembers with a sigh The days that are no more. 1798. 1793. REMEMBRANCE. The remembrance of Youth is a sigb.—ALI. MAN hath a weary pilgrimage Upon the road before, When novelty hath lost its charms, Condem'd to suffer through the day Restraints which no rewards repay, And cares where love has no concern: Hope lengthens as she counts the hours Before his wish'd return. From hard controul and tyrant rules, The unfeeling discipline of schools, In thought he loves to roam, And tears will struggle in his eye THE SOLDIER'S WIFE. DACTYLICS. WEARY way-wanderer, languid and sick at heart, Travelling painfully over the rugged road, Wild-visaged Wanderer! ah for thy heavy chance! Sorely thy little one drags by thee bare-footed, Cold is the baby that hangs at thy bending back, Meagre and livid and screaming its wretchedness. Woe-begone mother, half anger, half agony, As over thy shoulder thou lookest to hush the babe, Bleakly the blinding snow heats in thy hagged face. Thy husband will never return from the war again, Cold is thy hopeless heart even as Charity!Cold are thy famish'd babes.-God help thee, widowed One! THE WIDOW. SAPPHICS. 1795. COLD was the night wind, drifting fast the snow fell, Wide were the downs and shelterless and naked, When a poor Wanderer struggled on her journey, Weary and way-sore. This stanza was supplied by S. T. COLERIDGE. Lo I, the man who erst the Muse did ask For cap and gown to leave my minstrel weeds; Oh how I hate the sound! it is the knell That still a requiem tolls to Comfort's hour; And loth am I at Superstition's bell, To quit or Morpheus' or the Muse's bower: Better to lie and doze, than gape amain, Hearing still mumbled o'er the same eternal strain. Thou tedious herald of more tedious prayers, Say, hast thou ever summoned from his rest One being wakening to religious cares? Or roused one pious transport in the breast? Or rather, do not all reluctant creep To liuger out the hour in listlessness or sleep? I love the bell, that calls the poor to pray, And all the rustic train are gather'd round, And when, dim shadowing o'er the face of day, the car. But thou, memorial of monastic gall! What fancy sad or lightsome hast thou given? Thy vision-scaring sounds alone recall The prayer that trembles on a yawn to heaven! And this Dean's gape, and that Dean's nasal tone, And Roman rites retain'd, though Roman faith be flown. TO HYMEN. 1793. GOD of the torch, whose soul-illuming flame Beams brightest radiance o'er the human heart, Of many a woe the cure, Of many a joy the source; To thee I sing, if haply may the Muse Pour forth the song uublamed from these dull haunts, Where never beams thy torch To cheer the sullen scene. pour the song to thee, though haply doom'd Alone and unbeloved to waste my days, Though doom'd perchance to die Alone and unbewail'd. Yet will the lark albeit in cage enthrall'd When high in heaven she hears the caroling, Friend to each better feeling of the soul, To join thy happy train. Lured by the splendour of thy sacred torch, To wear thy flowery chain. And chasten'd Friendship comes, whose mildest sway Parent of every bliss, the busy hand Will paint the wearied labourer at that hour, When friendly darkness yields a pause to toil, Returning blithely home To each domestic joy; Sayst thou that Fancy paints the future scene And wouldst thou bid me court her fairy form, Ah! vainly does the Pilgrim, whose long road The quiet vale, far off. Oh there are those who love the pensive song, For hopeless Sorrow hails the lapse of Time, That one day more is gone. And he who bears Affliction's heavy load WRITTEN ON SUNDAY MORNING. Go thou and seek the House of Prayer! Wakes not my soul to zeal, Like the wild music of the wind-swept grove. Or where the cloud-suspended rain Or when reclining on the cliff's huge height The primrose bank shall there dispense Go thou and seek the House of Prayer! I to the Woodlands bend my way, And meet RELIGION there! She needs not haunt the high-arch'd dome to pray, Where storied windows dim the doubtful day: With LIBERTY she loves to rove, Wide o'er the heathy hill or cowslipt dale; Or seek the shelter of the embowering grove, Or with the streamlet wind along the vale. Fly, son of Banquo! Fleance! fly! On every blast was heard the moan, Forms of magic! spare my life! Him Famine hath not tamed, The tamer of the brave; Him Winter hath not quell'd; When man by man his veteran troops sunk down, He held undaunted on; Borne on a litter to the fight he goes. Go, iron-hearted King! Full of thy former fame. Think how the humbled Dane Crouch'd to thy victor sword; Think how the wretched Pole Resign'd his conquer'd crown; Go, iron-hearted King! Let Narva's glory swell thy haughty breast,— The death-day of thy glory, Charles, hath dawn'd |