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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 seen, When the bare forest by the wintry blast Is swept, still lingering on the boughs the last.

TO A GOOSE.

1798.

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 find in farmer's yard a safe retreat
From gypsey thieves, and foxes sly and fleet;
If thy grey quills, by lawyer guided, trace
Deeds big with ruin to some wretched race,

Or love-sick poet's sounet, 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. But this I know, that thou wert very fine, Season'd with and onions, and port wine. sage,

1797.

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 window dear, I lean,
Listening, the while I watch the placid scene,
The martins twittering underneath the shed.
Farewell, my home! where many a day has past
In joys whose loved remembrance long shall last.

1799.

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 thee not,

Here by the unwelcome summer rain confined;
And often shall hereafter 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 alehouse fire,
Whilst Idleness and Solitude inspire
Dull 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 earth once more. The languid flowers
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.

1798.

FAIR be thy fortunes in the distant land,
Companion of carlier
my
and friend!
years
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 affluence to thy native shore
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 Heaven to each may send, It boots not now to bode! Oh early friend! Assured, no distance e'er can wear away Esteem long rooted, and no change remove The dear remembrance of the friend we love.

1798.

STATELY yon vessel sails adown the tide,
To some far distant land 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 husband there?
Who at the howling of the midnight wind

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

1799.

O GOD have mercy in this dreadful hour
mariner! in comfort here
On the poor
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 madden'd 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
Aud 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

SHE comes majestic with her swelling sails,
The gallant bark! along her watery way
Homeward she drives before the favouring gales;
Now flirting at their length the streamers play,
And now they ripple with the ruffling breeze.

Bark 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, aweary of his ocean way,
And watch'd, all anxious, every wind that blows.

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SHE held a Cup and Ball of Ivory white,

Less white the Ivory than her snowy hand!
Enrapt I watch'd her from my secret stand,

As now, intent, in innocent delight,

Iler 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 sigh'd, Methought the BALL she play'd with was my HEART! (Alas! that Sport like that should be her pride!) And the keen point which stedfast still she eyed Wherewith to pierce it, that was CUPID's dart; Shall I not then the cruel Fair condemn Who on that dart IMPALES my BOSOM'S GEM?

TO A PAINTER ATTEMPTING DELIA'S
PORTRAIT.

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

The DIAMOND, that athwart the taper'd hall
Flings the rich flashes of its dazzling light?
Even if thine art could boast such magic might,
Yet if it strove to paint my Angel's EYE,
Here it perforce must fail. Cease! lest I call

Heaven's vengeance on thy sin: Must thou be told The CRIME it is to paint DIVINITY?

Rash Painter! should the world her charms behold,
Dim and defiled, as there they needs must be,
They to their old idolatry would fall,

And bend before her form the pagan knee.
Fairer than VENUS, DAUGHTER OF THE SEA.

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, I view her every where;
Her ONLY in the FLOOD OF NOON I see.

My Goddess-Maid, 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 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 he unblamed may gaze upon MY FAIR,
And oft MY FAIR his favour'd form surveys.
O HAPPY PICTURE! still on HER to 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-headed cane.

THE POET RELATES HOW HE OBTAINED
DELIA'S POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF.
'Tis mine! what accents can my joy declare?
Blest be the pressure of the thronging rout!
Blest be the hand so hasty of my fair,
That left the tempting 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 kneels,

For Delia's POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF IS MINE.
When first with filching fingers I drew near,

Keen hope shot tremulous through every vein, And when the finish'd deed removed my fear, Scarce could my bounding heart its joy contain. What though the Eighth Commandment rose to mind, It only serv'd a moment's qualm to move; For thefts like this it could not be design'd,

The Eighth Commandment was NOT MADE FOR LOVE!

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Ye GNOMES, whose toil through many a dateless year
Its nurture to the infant gem supplies,
From central caverns bring your diamonds here,
To ripen in the SUN OF DELIA'S EYES.

And ye who bathe in Etna's lava springs,
Spirits of fire! to see my love advance;
Fly, SALAMANDERS, on ASBESTOs' wings,

To wanton in my Delia's fiery glance.

She weeps, she weeps! her eye with anguish swells,
Some tale of sorrow melts my FEELING GIRL!
NYMPHS! catch the tears, and in your lucid shells
Enclose them, EMBRYOS OF THE ORIENT PEARL.

She sings! the Nightingale with envy hears,

The CHERUBIM bends from his starry throne,
And motionless are stopt the attentive SPHERES,
To hear more heavenly music than their own.

Cease, Delia, cease! for all the ANGEL THRONG,
Listening to thee, let sleep their golden wires!
Cease, Delia, cease! that too surpassing song,
Lest, stung to envy, they should break their lyres.

Cease, ere my senses are to madness driven
By the strong joy! cease, Delia, lest my
soul
Enrapt, already THINK ITSELF IN HEAVEN,
And burst the feeble Body's frail controul.

The rose-pomatum that the FRISEUR spreads
Sometimes with honour'd fingers for my fair,
No added perfume on her tresses sheds,
But borrows sweetness from her sweeter hair.

Happy the FRISEUR who in Delia's hair
With licensed fingers uncontroul'd may rove!
And happy in his death the DANCING BEAR,
Who died to make pomatum for my LOVE.

Oh could I hope that e'er my favour'd lays
Might curl those lovely locks with conscious pride,
Nor Hammond, nor the Mantuan Shepherd's praise
I'd envy then, nor wish reward beside.

Cupid has strung from you, O tresses fine,

The bow that in my breast impell'd his dart ;
From you, sweet locks! he wove the subtile line
Wherewith the urchin angled for MY HEART.

Fine are my Delia's tresses as the threads
That from the silk-worm, self-interr'd, proceed;
Fine as the GLEAMY GOSSAMER that spreads
Its filmy web-work o'er the tangled mead.
Yet with these tresses Cupid's power elate

My captive heart has handcuff d in a chain,
Strong as the cables of some huge first-rate,

THAT BEARS BRITANNIA'S THUNDERS O'ER THE MAIN.
The SYLPHS that round her radiant locks repair,
In flowing lustre bathe their brightening wings:
And ELFIN MINSTRELS with assiduous care

The ringlets rob for FAERY FIDDLE-STRINGS.

THE POET RELATES HOW HE STOLE A LOCK
OF DELIA'S HAIR, AND HER ANGER.

On! be the day accurst that gave me birth!

Ye Seas, to swallow me in kindness rise!
Fall on me, Mountains! and thou merciful Earth,
Open, and hide me from my Delia's eyes!

Let universal Chaos now return,

Now let the central fires their prison burst,
And EARTH and HEAVEN and AIR and OCEAN burn-
For Delia FROWNS-SHE FROWNS, and I am curst!

Oh! I could dare the fury of the fight,

Where hostile MILLIONS Sought my single life;
Would storm VOLCANO BATTERIES with delight,
And grapple with GRIM DEATH in glorious strife.
Oh! I could brave the bolts of angry Jove,
When ceaseless lightnings fire the midnight skies;
What is his wrath to that of HER I love?
What is his LIGHTNING to my DELIA'S EYES?
Go, fatal lock! I cast thee to the wind;
Ye serpent CURLS, ye poison-tendrils, go—
from
my mind,
ACCURSED LOCK,-thou cause of all my woe!

THE POET EXPATIATES ON THE BEAUTY OF Would I could tear thy memory

DELIA'S HAIR.

THE Comb between whose ivory teeth she strains
The straitening curls of gold so beamy bright,
Not spotless merely from the touch remains,

But issues forth more pure, more milky white.

Seize the CURST CURLS, ye Furies, as they fly!
Demons of darkness, guard the infernal roll,
That thence your cruel vengeance when I die,
May knit the KNOTS OF TORTURE for my soul.

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When the Evil Spirits seized thee,
Brother, we were sad at heart:
We bade the Jongler come
And bring 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.

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

That traversed the forest track!

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And where is That which in thy voice The language of friendship spake? That gave the strength of thine arm? That fill'd thy limbs with life? It was not thou, for Thou art here, Thou art amongst us still, But the Life and the Feeling are gone. The Iroquois will learn

That thou hast ceased from war;

'T will be a joy like victory,

For thou wert the scourge of their nation.

Brother, we sing thee the song of death;
In thy coffin of bark we lay thee to rest;
The bow shall be placed by thy side,
And the shafts that are pointed and feather'd for flight.
To the country of the Dead
Long and painful is thy way!
Over rivers wide and deep
Lies the road that must be past,

By bridges narrow-wall'd,
When scarce the Soul can force its way,
While the loose fabric totters under it.

Safely may our Brother pass!

Safely may he reach the fields, Where the sound of the drum and the shell Shall be heard from the Country of Souls! The Spirits of thy Sires Shall come to welcome thee; The God of the Dead in his Bower Shall receive thee and bid thee join The dance of eternal joy.

Brother, we pay thee the rites of death, Rest in the Bower of Delight!

1799.

THE PERUVIAN'S DIRGE OVER THE BODY OF HIS FATHER.

REST in peace, my Father, rest!

With danger and toil 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 see my toil,
And put on the darkness to aid,
O Wife of the visible God?

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 wert 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,

As all in the labour had shared, So justly they shared in the fruits.

Thou visible Lord of the Earth, Thou God of my Fathers, thou God of my heart, O Giver of light and of life!

When the Strangers came to our shores, Why didst thou not put forth thy power? Thy thunders should then have been hurl'd, Thy fires should in lightnings have flash'd!— Visible God of the Earth,

The Strangers mock at thy might!

To idols and beams of wood
They force us to bow the knee!
They plunge us in caverns and dens,
Where never thy blessed light
Shines on our poisonous toil!
But not in the caverns and dens,
O Sun, are we mindless of thee!
We pine for the want of thy beams,
We adore thee with anguish and groans.

My Father, rest in peace! Rest with the dust of thy Sires! They placed their Cross in thy dying grasp;— They bore thee to their burial-place, And over thy breathless frame Their bloody and merciless Priest

Mumbled his mystery words. Oh! could thy bones be at peace In the fields where the Strangers are laid?-Alone, in danger and in pain, My Father, I bring thee here: So may our God, in reward,

Allow me one faithful friend

To lay me beside thee when I am released!
So may he release me soon,

That my Spirit may join thee there,
Where the Strangers never shall come!

1799.

Hark! hark! in the howl of the wind The shout of the battle, the clang of their drums, The horsemen are met, and the shock of the fight Is the blast that disbranches the wood.

Behold from the clouds of their power The lightning, the lightning is lanced at our sires! And the thunder that shakes the broad pavement of Heaven!

And the darkness that quenches the day!

Ye Souls of our Fathers, be brave! Ye shrunk not before the invaders on earth, Ye trembled not then at their weapons of fire, Brave Spirits, ye tremble not now!

We gaze on your warfare in hope,

We send up our shouts to encourage your arms!
Lift the lance of your vengeance, O Fathers! with force,
For the wrongs of your country strike home!

Remember the land was your own When the Sons of Destruction came over the seas; That the old fell asleep in the fullness of days, And their children wept over their graves,

Till the Strangers came into the land With tongues of deceit and with weapons of fire: Then the strength of the people in youth was cut off, And the father wept over his son.

It thickens-the tumult of fight!

Louder and louder the blast of the battle is heard!— Remember the wrongs that your country endures! Remember the fields of your fame!

Joy! joy! for the Strangers recoil,They give way, they retreat to the land of their life! Pursue them! pursue them! remember your wrongs! Let your lances be drunk with their wounds. The Souls of your wives shall rejoice As they welcome you back to your Islands of Bliss; And the breeze that refreshes the toil-throbbing brow Waft thither the song of your praise.

SONG OF THE ARAUCANS

DURING A THUNDER STORM.'

THE storm-cloud grows deeper above; Araucans! the tempest is ripe in the sky; Our forefathers come from their Islands of Bliss, They come to the war of the winds.

The Souls of the Strangers are there,

In their garments of darkness they ride through the heaven;

Yon cloud that rolls luridly over the hill

Is red with their weapons of fire.

Respecting storms, the people of Chili are of opinion that, the departed souls are returning from their abode beyond the sea to assist their relations and friends. Accordingly, when it thunders over the mountains, they think that the souls of their forefathers are taken in an engagement with those of the Spaniards. The roaring of the winds they take to be the noise of horsemen attacking one another, the bowling of the tempest for the beating of drums, and the claps of thunder for the discharge of muskets and cannons.— When the wind drives the clouds towards the possessions of the Spaniards, they rejoice that the souls of their forefathers have repuised those of their enemies, and call out aloud to them to give them no quarter. When the contrary happens, they are troubled and dejected, and encourage the yielding souls to rally their forces, and summon up the last remains of their strength.--MEISER.

1799.

SONG OF THE CHIKKASAH WIDOW.

"T WAS the voice of my husband that came on the gale. The unappeased Spirit in anger complains!

Rest, rest Ollanahta, be still!

The day of revenge is at hand.

The stake is made ready, the captives shall die;
To-morrow the song of their death shalt thou hear,
To-morrow thy widow shall wield

The knife and the fire;-be at rest!

The vengeance of anguish shall soon have its course,-
The fountains of grief and of fury shall flow.—
I will think, Ollanalta! of thee,
Will remember the days of our love.
Ollanahta, all day by thy war-pole I sat,
Where idly thy hatchet of battle is hung;

I gazed on the bow of thy strength
As it waved on the stream of the wind.

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