SONNET. As slow and solemn yonder deepening knell Frequent and full, much do I love to muse Till death dissolves the vision. So the child In youth's gay morn with wondering pleasure smil'd, As with the shining ice well-pleas'd he play'd; Nor, as he grasps the crystal in his play, Ileeds how the faithless bauble melts away. SONNET. TO THE FIRE. My friendly fire, thou blazest clear and bright, As I had beam'd as bright, to fade as clear: SONNET. THE FADED FLOWER. UNGRATEFUL he who pluckt thee from thy stalk, Then past along, and left thee to decay. Thy modest beauties dew'd with evening's gem, « Like thine, sad flower! was that poor wanderer's pride! O, lost to love and truth! whose selfish joy Tasted her vernal sweets, but tasted to destroy.» SONNET. TO THE NIGHTINGALE. SAD songstress of the night, no more I hear And yet thy music charms no more the grove. IIENCE, busy torturer, wherefore should mine eye Those who have never seen the sun o'ercast By one dark cloud, thy retrospective beam, Serene and soft, may on their bosoms gleam, As the last splendour of the summer sky. Let them look back on pleasure, ere they know Ere unexpected bursts the cloud of woe; THE MAD WOMAN. The circumstance on which the following Ballad is founded, happened not many years ago in Bristol. THE Traveller's hands were white with cold, The Traveller's lips were blue, Oh! glad was he when the village church So near was seen in view! He hasten'd to the village Inn, That stood the church-door nigh,— There sat a woman on a grave, And he could not pass her by. Her feet were bare, and on her breast Through rags did the winter blow, She sate with her face towards the wind, And the grave was cover'd with snow. Is there never a Christian in the place, Who will let thee, this cold winter time, I have fire in my head, she answered him, And there will be no winter time A curse upon thee, man, For mocking me! she said; And he saw the woman's eyes, like one And when he to the inn-door came, And she shook like a dying wretch In a convulsive fit; And up she rose, and in the snows, Went out on a grave to sit. We follow'd her, and to the room Besought her to return; She groan'd and said, that in the fire, And in her dreadful madness then Nine months she hid her shame; And how she slew the wretched babe Would I could feel the winter wind, Would I could feel the snow! I have fire in my head, poor Martha cried, I have fire in my heart also. So there from morn till night she sits- For heavy is her crime, and strange ODE TO A PIG WHILE HIS NOSE WAS BEING BORED. HARK! hark! that Pig-that Pig! the hideous note, More loud, more dissonant, each moment growsWould one not think the knife was in his throat? And yet they are only boring through his nose. You foolish beast, so rudely to withstand Your master's will, to feel such idle fears! Why, Pig, there's not a Lady in the land Who has not also bor'd and ring'd her ears. Pig! 't is your master's pleasure-then be still, And hold your nose to let the iron through! Dare you resist your lawful Sovereign's will? Rebellious Swine! you know not what you do! To man o'er beast the power was given; Pig, hear the truth, and never murmur more! Would you rebel against the will of Heaven? You impious beast, be still, and let them bore! The social Pig resigns his natural rights He barters them for safer stye delights, For grains and wash, which man alone can give. Sure is provision on the social plan, Secure the comforts that to each belong: And you resist! you struggle now because Go to the forest, Piggy, and deplore See how the young Pigs fly from the great Boar, Behold their hourly danger, when who will May hunt or snare or seize them for his food! Oh, happy Pig! whom none presumes to kill Till your protecting master thinks it good! And when, at last, the closing hour of life Arrives (for Pigs must die as well as Man), When in your throat you feel the long sharp knife, And the blood trickles to the pudding-pan; And when, at last, the death wound yawning wide, Is there no grateful joy, no loyal pride, TO A COLLEGE CAT. WRITTEN SOON AFTER THE INSTALLATION AT OXFORD, 1793. TOLL on, toll on, old Bell! I'll neither pray This is the throne of comfort! I will sit : And study most devoutly not my Euclid, I'll study thee, Puss: not to make a picture- And Cats as well as Kings love flattery. For three whole days I heard an old Fur Gown 'T was an old turncoat Fur, that would sit easy What a magic lies In beauty! thou on this forbidden ground The blameless warrior comes; he first to wield And many a flock o'erspreads the plain, The kindred warriors live to fame : As high the unheeding chieftain lifts the spear, And gives the deadly blow, and sees PARTHENIA die! Where, where such virtues can we see, Or where such valour, SIDNEY, but in thee? O, cold of heart, shall pride assail thy shade, Whom all Romance could fancy nature made? Sound, Fame, thy loudest blast, For SPENSER pours the tender strain, And shapes to glowing forms the motley train; ' The elfin tribes around Await his potent sound, And o'er his head Romance her brightest splendours cast. For Genius cannot save! Virtue bedews the blameless poet's dust; But fame, exulting, clasps her favourite's laurel'd bust. Fain would the grateful Muse, to thee, ROUSSEAU, Fain would the raptur'd lyre ecstatic glow, To whom Romance and Nature form'd all good: To pour the unutterable praise; Still as my guardian sprite attend; Unmov'd by Fashion's flaunting throng, Let my calm stream of life smooth its meek course along; Her vapours o'er my better sense; TO URBAN. Lo! where the livid lightning flies A moment's splendour streaks the skies, So boisterous riot, on his course And lightning, like its fatal force, And, like the sun's enlivening tlame, Fictions of Romance, allegorized by Spenser. Let noise and folly seek the reign So when stern time their frames shall seize, And conscience shrink within; Shall health's best blessings all be ours, The soul serene at ease, Whilst science gilds the passing hours, Even now from solitude they fly, To drown each thought in noise; Friendship is ours: best friend, who knows And Science too shall lend her aid, Each joy domestic bliss can know The cup has lost its power. Thus may we live, till death's keen spear, THE MISER'S MANSION. Fall'n fabric! pondering o'er thy time-trac'd walls, Thy tall towers tremble to the touch of time, Deep from her dismal dwelling yells the owl, The shrill bat flits around her dark retreat; And the hoarse daw, when loud the tempests howl, Screams as the wild winds shake her secret seat. T was here AVARO dwelt, who daily told And hid those stores he dreaded to employ. In vain to him benignant Heaven bestow'd And heal the sorrows of affliction's breast. For, like the serpent of romance, he lay Sleepless and stern to guard the golden sight; With ceaseless care he watch'd his heaps by day, With causeless fears he agoniz'd by night. Ye honest rustics, whose diurnal toil Rose he, like you, at morn devoid of fear, Chill'd at thy presence grew the stately halls, Nor blaz'd with hospitable fires the hearth. On well-worn hinges turns the gate no more, Sullen and stern AVARO sat alone In anxious wealth amid the joyless hall, Nor heeds the chilly hearth with moss o'ergrown, Nor sees the green slime mark the mouldering wall. For desolation o'er the fabric dwells, And time, on restless pinion, hurried by ; Thou melancholy mansion! much mine eye And muse how man himself creates his doom. For here had Justice reign'd, had Pity known And Charity had oped her golden store To work the gracious will of Heaven intent, Fed from her superflux the craving poor, And paid adversity what heaven had lent. Then had thy turrets stood in all their state, Then had the hand of art adorn'd thy wall, Swift on its well-worn hinges turn'd the gate, And friendly converse cheer'd the echoing hall. |