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And broken splendour. Dost thou ask his crime?
He had rebell d against the king, and sat
In judgment on him; for his ardent mind
Shaped goodliest plans of happiness on earth,
And peace and liberty. Wild dreams! but such
As Plato loved; such as, with holy zeal
Our Milton worshipp'd. Blessed hopes! awhile
From man withheld, even to the latter days,
When Christ shall come and all things be fulfill’d.

INSCRIPTION

FOR THE BANKS OF The HAMPSHIRE Avon.

A little while, O traveller, linger here,
And let thy leisure eye behold and feel
The beauties of the place; yon heathy hill
That rises sudden from the vale so green,
The vale far stretching as the view can reach
Under its long dark ridge; the river here,
That, like a serpent, through the grassy mead
Winds on, now hidden, glittering now in light.
Nor fraught with merchant wealth, nor famed in song,
This river rolls; an unobtrusive tide,
Its gentle charms may soothe and satisfy
Thy feelings. Look! how bright its pebbled bed
Gleams through the ruffled current; and that bank
With flag leaves border'd, as with two-edged swords!
See where the water wrinkles round the stem
Of yonder water-lily, whose broad leaf
Lies on the wave.—And art thou not refresh'd
By the fresh odour of the running streaml
Soon, traveller! does the river reach the end
Of all its windings: from the near ascent
Thou will behold the ocean where it pours
Its waters and is lost. Remember thou,
Traveller! that even so thy restless years
Flow to the ocean of eternity.

INSCRIPTION

UNDER AN oAk.

Here, Traveller! pause awhile. This ancient Oak
Will parasol thee if the sun ride high,
Or should the sudden shower be falling fast,
Here mayst thou rest umbrella'd. All around
Is good and lovely: hard by yonder wall
The kennel stands; the horse-flesh hanging near
Perchance with scent unsavoury may offend
Thy delicate nostrils, but remember thou
How sweet a perfume to the hound it yields.
And sure its useful odours will regale
More gratefully thy philosophic nose,
Than what the unprofitable violet
Wastes on the wandering wind. Nor wilt thou want
Such music as benevolence will love,
For from these fruitful boughs the acorns fall
Abundant, and the swine that grub around,
Shaking with restless pleasure their brief tails
That like the tendrils of the vine curl up,
Will grunt their greedy joy. Dost thou not love-
The sounds that speak enjoyment? Oh! if not,
If thou wouldst rather with inhuman ear

Hark to the warblings of some wretched bird
Bereft of freedom, sure thine heart is dead
To each good feeling, and thy spirit void
Of all that softens or ennobles man.

-

INSCRIPTION FOR A MONUMENT AT old SARUMr.

READER, if thou canst boast the noble name
Of Englishman, it is enough to know
Thou standest in Old Sarum. But if, chance,
"T was thy misfortune in some other land,
Inheritor of slavery, to be born,
Read and be envious! dost thou see yon hut,
Its old mud mossy walls with many a patch
Spotted Know, foreigner! so wisely well
In England it is order'd, that the laws
Which bind the people, from themselves should spring;
Know that the dweller in that little hut,
That wretched hovel, to the senate sends
Two delegates. Think, foreigner, where such
An individual's rights, how happy all !

EPITAPH.

Time and the world, whose magnitude and weight
Bear on us in this now, and hold us here
To earth inthrall'd, what are they in the past?
And in the prospect of the immortal soul
How poor a speck | Not here her resting-place;
Her portion is not here: and happiest they
Who, gathering early all that earth can give,
Shake off its mortal coil, and speed for Heaven.
Such fate had he whose relics here repose.
Few were his days; but yet enough to teach
Love, duty, generous feelings, high desires,
Faith, hope, devotion: and what more could length
Of days have brought him what but vanity?
Joys, frailer even than health or human life?
Temptation; sin and sorrow, both too sure;
Evils that wound, and cares that fret the heart!
Repine not, therefore, ye who love the dead.

TO LYCON.

. On yon wild waste of ruin thron'd, what form
Beats her swoln breast, and tears her unkempt hair?
Why seems the spectre thus to court the storm 2
Why glare her full-fix’d eyes in stern despair?
The deep dull groan I hear,
I see her rigid eye refuse the soothing tear.

Ah! fly her dreadful reign, For desolation rules o'er all the lifeless plain; For deadliest nightshade forms her secret bower; For oft the ill-omen'd owl Yells loud the dreadful howl, And the night spectres shriek amid the midnight hour.

Pale spectre, Grief: thy dull abodes I know,
I know the horrors of thy barren plain,

I know the dreadful force of woe,
I know the weight of thy soul binding chain;

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There never may the pensive pilgrim go, Nor future minstrel drop the tear of woe, For all would fail to wake the slumbering earth below.

Be mine, whilst journeying life's rough road along O'er hill and dale the wandering bard shall go, To hail the hour of pleasure with the song, Or soothe with sorrowing strains the hour of woe; The song each passing moment shall beguile; Perchance too, partial friendship deigns to smile: Let fame reject the lay, I sleep secure the while.

Be mine to taste the humbler joys of life, Lull'd in oblivion's lap to wear away, And flee from grandeur's scenes of vice and strife, And flee from fickle fashion's empty sway: Be mine, in age's drooping hour, to see The lisping children climb their grandsire's knee, And train the future race to live and act like me.

Then, when the inexorable hour shall come To tell my death, let no deep requiem toll, No hireling sexton dig the venal tomb, Nor priest be paid to hymn my parted soul; But let my children, near their little cot, Lay my old bones beneath the turfy spot: So let me live unknown, so let me die forgot,

ROSAMUND TO HENRY. WRITTEN AFTER she had TAKEN THE Weil.

HENRY, "t is past! each painful effort o'er, Thy love, thy Rosa MUND, exists no more: She lives, but lives no longer now for you; Slue writes, but writes to bid the last adieu.

Why bursts the big tear from my guilty eye? Why heaves my love-lorn breast the impious sigh: Down, bosom down, and learn to heave in prayer; Flow, flow, my tears, and wash away despair: Ah, no' still, still the lurking sin I see, My heart will heave, my tears will fall for thee. Yes, HENRY through the vestal's guilty veins, With burning sway the furious passion reigns; For thee, seducer, still the tear will fall, And Love torment in Godstow's hallow’d wall.

Yet virtue from her deathlike sleep awakes, Remorse comes on, and rears her whip of snakes. Ah, HENRY' fled are all those fatal charms That led their victim to the monarch's arms; No more responsive to the evening air In wanton ringlets waves my golden hair; No more amid the dance my footsteps move, No more the languid eye dissolves with love; Fades on the cheek of Rosa Mund the rose, And penitence awakes from sin's repose.

Harlot! adultress! HENRY can I bear Such aggravated guilt, such full despair! By me the marriage-bed defil'd, by me The laws of heaven forsook, defied for thee! Dishonour fix'd on Clifford's ancient name, A father sinking to the grave with shame;

These are the crimes that harrow up my heart,
These are the crimes that poison memory's dart;
For these each pang of penitence I prove,
Yet these, and more than these, are lost in love.

Yes, even here amid the sacred pile, The echoing cloister, and the long-drawn aisle; Even here, when pausing on the silent air, The midnight bell awakes and calls to prayer; As on the stone I bend my clay-cold knee, Love heaves the sigh, and drops the tear for thee: All day the penitent but wakes to weep, Till nature and the woman sink in sleep; Nightly to thee the guilty dreams repair, And morning wakes to sorrow and despair! Lov'd of my heart, the conflict soon must cease, Soon must this harrow'd bosom rest in peace; Soon must it heave the last soul-rending breath, And sink to slumber in the arms of death.

To slumber! oh, that I might slumber there! Oh, that that dreadful thought might lull despair! That death's chill dews might quench this vital flame, And life lie mouldering with this lifeless frame! Then would I strike with joy the friendly blow, Then rush to mingle with the dead below. Oh, agonizing hour ! when round my head Dark-browd despair his shadowing wings shall spread; When conscience from herself shall seek to fly, And, loathing life, still more shall loath to die! Already vengeance lifts his iron rod, Already conscience sees an angry God! No virtue now to shield my soul I boast, No hope protects, for innocence is lost!

Oh, I was cheerful as the lark, whose lay Trills through the ether, and awakes the day! Mine was the heartfelt smile, when earliest light Shot through the fading curtain of the night; Mine was the peaceful heart, the modest eye That met the glance, or turn'd it knew not why. At evening hour I struck the melting lyre, Whilst partial wonder sill'd my doating sire, Till he would press me to his aged breast, And cry, “My child, in thee my age is blest! Oh! may kind heaven protract my span of life To see my lovely Rosamund a wife; To view her children climb their grandsire's knee, To see her husband love, and love like me! Then, gracious heaven, decree old Clifford's end, Let his grey hairs in peace to death descend.”

The dreams of bliss are vanish'd from his view, The buds of hope are blasted all by you; Thy child, O Cliffoad bears a mother's name, A mother's anguish, and a harlot's shame; Even when her darling children climb her knee, Feels the full force of guilt and infamy! Wretch, most unhappy! thus condemn'd to know, Even in her dearest bliss, her keenest woe— Curst be this form, accurst these fatal charms That buried virtue in seduction's arms; Or rather curst that sad, that fatal hour, When HENRY first beheld and felt their power; When my too partial brother's doating tongue On each perfection of a sister hung;

Told of the graceful form, the rose-red cheek,
The ruby lip, the eye that knew to speak,
The golden locks, that shadowing half the face
Display'd their charms, and gave and hid a grace:
'T was at that hour when night's englooming sway
Steals on the fiercer glories of the day;
Sad all around, as silence stills the whole,
And pensive fancy melts the softening soul;
These hands upon the picturd arras wove
The mournful tale of Edwy's hapless love;
When the fierce priest, inflam'd with savage pride,
From the young monarch lore his blushing bride:
Loud rung the horn, I heard the coursers feet,
My brothers came, o'erjoy'd I ran to meet;
But when my sovereign met my wandering eye,
I blush'd, and gaz'd, and feard, yet knew not why;
O'er all his form with wistful glance I ran,
Nor knew the monarch, till I lov'd the man:
Pleas'd with attention, overjoy'd I saw
Each look obey'd, and every word a law;
Too soon I felt the secret flame advance,
Drank deep the poison of the mutual glance;
And still I plied my pleasing task, nor knew
In shadowing Edwy I had portray'd you.

Thine, HENRY, is the crime!’t is mine to bear The aggravated weight of full despair; To wear the day in woe, the night in tears, And pass in penitence the joyless years: Guiltless in ignorance, my love-led eyes Knew not the monarch in the knight's disguise; Fraught with deceit th' insidious monarch came To blast his faithful subject's spotless name; To pay each service of old Clifford's race With all the keenest anguish of disgrace! of love he talk'd; abash'd my down-cast eye Nor seem'd to seek, nor yet had power to sly; Still, as he urg'd his suit, his wily art Told not his rank till victor o'er my heart: Ah, known too late! in vain my reason strove, Fame, honour, reason, all were lost in love.

How heav'd thine artful breast the deep-drawn sight How spoke thy looks? how glow'd thine ardent eye? When skill'd in guile, that soft seductive tongue Talk'd of its truth, and Cliffond was undone. Oh, cursed hour of passion's maddening sway, Guilt which a life of tears must wash away! Gay as the morning lark no more I rose, No more each evening sunk to calm repose; No more in fearless innocence mine eye Or met the giance, or turn'd it knew not why; No more my fingers struck the trembling lyre, No more I ran with joy to meet my sire; But guilt's deep poison ran through every vein, But stern reflection claim'd his ruthless reign; Still vainly seeking from myself to sly, In anxious guilt I shunn'd each friendly eye; A thousand torments still my steps pursue, And guilt, still lovely, haunts my soul with you. Harlot, adultress, each detested name, Stamps everlasting blots on Cliffond's fame! How can this wretch prefer the prayer to heaven? How, self-condemn'd, expect to be forgiven?

And yet, fond Hope, with self-deluding art, Still sheds her opiate poison o'er my heart; Paints thee most wretched in domestic strife, Curst with a kingdom, and a royal wife; And vainly whispers comfort to my breast— « I curst myself that Ilenny might be blest.” Too fond deluder! impotent thy power To whisper comfort in the mournful hour; Weak, vain seducer, Hope! thy balmy breath To soothe Reflection on the bed of death; To calm stern Conscience self-afflicting care, Or ease the raging pangs of wild Despair.

Why, nature, didst thou give this fatal face? Why heap with charms to load me with disgrace? Why bid mine eyes two stars of beauty move? why form the melting soul too apt for love? Thy last best blessing meant, the feeling breast, Gave way to guilt, and poison'd all the rest: Now bound in sin's indissoluble chains, Fled are the charms, the guilt alone remains!

Oh! had fate plac'd amidst Earl Clifford's hall Of menial vassals, me most mean of all; Low in my hopes, and homely rude my face, Nor form, nor wishes, rais d above my place; How happy, Rosamund, had been thy lot, In peace to live unknown, and die forgot! Guilt had not then infix'd her piercing sting, Nor scorn revil'd the harlot of a king; Contempt had not revil'd my fallen fame, Nor infamy debas'd a Cliffond's name.

Oh, Clifford! oh! my sire! thy honours now Thy child has blasted on thine ancient brow; Fallen is that darling child from virtue's name, And thy grey hairs sink to the grave with shame? Still busy fancy bids the scene arise, Still paints the father to these wretched eyes. Methinks I see him now, with folded arms, Think of his child, and curse her fatal charms; Those charms, her ruin! that in happier days, With all a father's love, he lov'd to praise: Unkempt his hoary locks, his head hung low In all the silent energy of woe; Yet still the same kind parent, still all mild, He prays forgiveness for his sinful child. And yet I live! if this be life, to know The agonizing weight of hopeless woe: Thus far, remote from every friendly eye, To drop the tear, and heave the ceaseless sigh, Each dreadful pang remorse inflicts to prove, To weep and pray, yet still to weep and love: Scorn'd by the virgins of this holy dome, A living victim in the cloister'd tomb, To pray, though hopeless, justice should forgive, Scorn'd by inyself-if this be life—I live!

Oft will remembrance, in her painful hour, Cast the keen glance to Woodstock's lovely bower; Recal each sinful scene of bliss to view, And give the soul again to guilt and you. Oh! I have seen thee trace the bower around, And heard the forest echo Rosa Mux D ; Have seen thy frantic looks, thy wildering eye, Heard the deep groan and bosom-rending sigh'

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