SONNET.

As slow and solemn yonder deepening knell
Tolls through the sullen evening's shadowy gloom,
Alone and pensive, in my silent room,
On man and ou mortality I dwell.
And as the harbinger of death I hear

Frequent and full, much do I love to muse
On life's distemper'd scenes of hope and fear;
And passion varying her camelion hues,
And man pursuing pleasure's empty shade,

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,
Heeds how the faithless bauble melts away.

SONNET.

TO THE FIRE.

My friendly fire, thou blazest clear and bright,
Nor smoke nor ashes soil thy grateful flame;
Thy temperate splendour cheers the gloom of night,
Thy genial heat enlivens the chill'd frame.
I love to muse me o'er the evening hearth,
I love to pause in meditation's sway;
And whilst each object gives reflection birth,
Mark thy brisk rise, and see thy slow decay:
And I would wish, like thee, to shine serene,
Like thee, within mine influence, all to cheer;
And wish at last, in life's declining scene,

As I had beam'd as bright, to fade as clear:
So might my children ponder o'er my shrine,
And o'er my ashes muse, as I will muse over thine.

SONNET.

THE FADED FLOWER.

UNGRATEFUL he who pluckt thee from thy stalk,
Poor faded flow'ret! on his careless way,
Inbal'd awhile thine odours on his walk,

Then past along, and left thee to decay.
Thou melancholy emblem! had I seen

Thy modest beauties dew'd with evening's gem,
I had not rudely cropt thy parent stem,

But left thy blossom still to grace the green,
And now I bend me o'er thy wittier'd bloom,
And drop the tear, as Fancy, at my side
Deep-sighing, points the fair frail EMMA's tomb;

«<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
Thy soften'd warblings meet my pensive ear,
As by thy wonted haunts again I rove;
Why art thou silent? wherefore sleeps thy lay?
For faintly fades the sinking orb of day,

And yet thy music charms no more the grove.

The shrill bat flutters by; from yon dark tower The shrieking owlet hails the shadowy hour;

Hoarse hums the beetle as he drones along, The hour of love is flown! thy full-fledg'd brood No longer need thy care to cull their food,

And nothing now remains to prompt the song: But drear and sullen seems the silent grove, No more responsive to the lay of love.

SONNET.

TO REFLECTION.

HENCE, busy torturer, wherefore should mine eye
Revert again to many a sorrow past?
Hence, busy torturer, to the happy fly,

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
To mourn its absence; let them contemplate
The thorny windings of our mortal state,

Ere unexpected bursts the cloud of woe;
Stream not on me thy torch's baneful glow,
Like the sepulchral lamp's funereal gloom,
In darkness glimmering to disclose a tomb.

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,
To her the Traveller cried,

Who will let thee, this cold winter time,
Sit by his fire-side?

I have fire in my head, she answered him,
I have fire in my heart also;

And there will be no winter time
In the place where I must go!

A curse upon thee, man,

For mocking me! she said;

And he saw the woman's eyes, like one
In a fever-fit, were red.
And when he to the inn-door came,
And the host his greeting gave,
He ask'd who that mad woman was
Who sate upon the grave.

We follow'd her, and to the room

Besought her to return;

She groan'd and said, that in the fire,
She saw her Baby burn.

And in her dreadful madness then
To light her murder came,
How secretly from every eye

Nine months she hid her shame;

And how she slew the wretched babe
Just as he sprung to light,

And in the midnight fire consum'd
His little body quite.

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-
Now God forgive her sin!

For heavy is her crime, and strange
Her punishment hath been.

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

When first with man he covenants to live; 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:
Oh, happy Swine! the impartial sway of man
Alike protects the weak Pig and the strong.

And you resist! you struggle now because
Your master has thought fit to bore your nose!
You grunt in flat rebellion to the laws
Society finds needful to impose!

Go to the forest, Piggy, and deplore
The miserable lot of savage Swine!
See how the young Pigs fly from the great Boar,
And see how coarse and scantily they dine!

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,
Fainter and fainter grows the expiring cry,
Is there no grateful joy, no loyal pride,
To think that for your master's good you die?

TO A COLLEGE CAT.

WRITTEN SOON AFTER THE INSTALLATION AT OXFORD,

TOLL on,

1793.

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.

toll on,

old Bell! I'll neither pray

Nor sleep away the hour. The fire burns bright,
And, bless the maker of this great-arm'd chair,
This is the throne of comfort! I will sit
And study most devoutly not my Euclid,
For God forbid that I should discompose
That spider's excellent geometry!

I'll study thee, Puss: not to make a picture-
I hate your canvas cats and dogs and fools,
Themes that pollute the pencil! let me see
The Patriot's actions start again to life,
And I will bless the artist who awakes
The throb of emulation. Thou shalt give,
A better lesson Puss! come look at me.
Lift up thine emerald eyes! aye, purr away,
For I am praising thee, I tell thee, Puss,

And Cats as well as Kings love flattery.

For three whole days I heard an old Fur Gown
Beprais'd, that made a Duke a Chancellor:
Trust me, though I can sing most pleasantly
Upon thy well-streak'd coat, to that said Fur
I was not guilty of a single rhyme!

T was an old turncoat Fur, that would sit easy
And wrap round any man, so it were tied
With a blue riband.

What a magic lies

In beauty! thou on this forbidden ground
Mayest range, and when the Fellow looks at thee
Straight he forgets the statute. Swell thy tail
And stretch thy claws, most Democratic beast,
I like thine independence! Treat thee well,
Thou art as playful as young Innocence;
But if we play the Governor, and break
The social compact, God has given thee claws,
And thou hast sense to use them. Oh! that Man
Would copy this thy wisdom! spaniel fool,
He crouches down and licks his tyrant's hand,
And courts oppression. Wiser animal,
I gaze on thee, familiar not enslaved,
And thinking how affection's gentle hand
Leads by a hair the large limb'd Elephant,2
With mingled pity and contempt behold
His drivers goad the patient biped beast.

ROMANCE.

WHAT wildly-beauteous form,

High on the summit of you bicrown'd hill, Lovely in horror, takes her dauntless stand?

Though speeds the thunder there its deep'ning way, Though round her head the lightnings play, Undaunted she abides the storm;

She waves her magic wand,

The clouds retire, the storm is still;

Bright beams the sun unwonted light around, And many a rising flower bedecks the enchanted ground.

ROMANCE! I know thee now,

I know the terrors of thy brow;

I know thine aweful mien, thy beaming eye;
And lo! whilst mists arise around

Yon car that cleaves the pregnant ground,
Two fiery dragons whirl her through the sky.
Her milder sister loves to rove
Amid Parnassus' laurell'd grove,
On Helicon's harmonious side,

To mark the gurgling streamlet glide; Meantime, through wilder scenes and sterner skies, From clime to clime the ardent genius flies.

She speeds to yonder shore, 3

Where ruthless tempests roar,

Where sturdy winter holds his northern reign, Nor vernal suns relax the ice-pil'd plain :

The statute that excludes cats, dogs, and all other singing-birds, from the college precincts.

Always encounter petulance with gentleness, and perverseness with kindness: a gent hand will lead the elephant itself by a hair. From the Persian Rosary, by Eddin Sadi. Enfield's History of Philosophy.

3 Fictions of Romance, popular in Scandinavia at an early pedrio.

Foremost mid the peers of France 4
ORLANDO hurls the death-fraught lance;
Where DURLINDANA aims the blow,
To darkness sinks the faithless foe;
The horn with magic sound
Spreads deep dismay around;
Unborn to bleed, the chieftain goes,
And scatters wide his Paynim foes;
The genius hovers o'er the purple plain
Where OLIVERO tramples on the slain;
BAYARDO speeds his furious course,
High towers ROGERO in his matchless force.

Romance the heighten'd tale has caught,

Forth from the sad monastic cell,

Heliodorus chose rather to be deprived of his see than barn bis Ethiopics. The bishop's name would have slept with his fathers, the romancer is remembered.

2 First exploit of the celebrated Regner Lodbrog. Knights of the round table.

4 The Paladines of France.

And hark! resound, in mingled sound,

The clang of arms, the shriek of death;
Each streaming gash bedews the ground,

And deep and hollow groans load the last struggling breath:

Wide through the air the arrows fly,

Darts, shields, and swords, commix'd appear;
Deep is the cry, when thousands die,

When COEUR DE LION's arm constrains to fear :
Aloft the battle-axe in air

Whirls around confus'd despair;

Nor Acre's walls can check his course;
Nor Sarzin millions stay his force.

The blameless warrior comes; he first to wield
His fateful weapon in the martial field;
By him created on the view,
ARCADIA'S valleys bloom anew,

And many a flock o'erspreads the plain,
And love, with innocence, assumes his reign:
Protected by a warrior's name,

The kindred warriors live to fame:
Sad is the scene, where oft from Pity's eye
Descends the sorrowing tear,

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.
Deep through the air let sorrow's banner wave!
For penury o'er SPENSER'S friendless head
Her chilling mantle spread;

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, Pour forth the energic thanks of gratitude;

Fain would the raptur'd lyre ecstatic glow,

To whom Romance and Nature form'd all good:
Guide of my life, too weak these lays,

To pour the unutterable praise;
Thine aid divine for ever lend,

Still as my guardian sprite attend;

Unmov'd by Fashion's flaunting throng,

Let my calm stream of life smooth its meek course along;
Let no weak vanity dispense

Her vapours o'er my better sense;
But let my bosom glow with fire,
Let me strike the soothing lyre,
Although by all unheard the melodies expire.

TO URBAN.

Lo! where the livid lightning flies
With transient furious force,

A moment's splendour streaks the skies,
Where ruin marks its course:
Then see how mild the font of day

Expands the stream of light,
Whilst living by the genial ray,

All nature smiles delight.

So boisterous riot, on his course
Uncurb'd by reason, flies;
And lightning, like its fatal force,
Soon lightning-like it dies:
Whilst sober Temperance, still the same,
Shall shun the scene of strife;

And, like the sun's enlivening flame,
Shall beam the lamp of life.

Fictions of Romance, allegorized by Spenser.

Let noise and folly seek the reign

Where senseless riot rules; Let them enjoy the pleasures vain Enjoy'd alone by fools.

URBAN! those better joys be ours, Which virtuous science knows, To pass in milder bliss the hours, Nor fear the future woes.

So when stern time their frames shall seize, When sorrow pays for sin;

When

every nerve shall feel disease,

And conscience shrink within;

Shall health's best blessings all be ours,
The soul serene at ease,

Whilst science gilds the passing hours,
And every hour shall please.

Even now from solitude they fly,

To drown each thought in noise;
Even now they shun Reflection's eye,
Depriv'd of man's best joys.
So, when Time's unrelenting doom
Shall bring the seasons' course,
The busy monitor shall come
With aggravated force.

Friendship is ours: best friend, who knows
Each varied hour to employ;
To share the lighted load of woes,
And double every joy :

And Science too shall lend her aid,
The friend that never flies,
But shines amid misfortune's shade
As stars in midnight skies.

Each joy domestic bliss can know
Shall deck the future hour;
Or if we taste the cup of woe,

The cup has lost its power.

Thus may we live, till death's keen spear,
Unwish'd, unfear'd, shall come;
Then sink, without one guilty fear,

To slumber in the tomb.

THE MISER'S MANSION.
THOU, mouldering mansion, whose embattled side
Shakes as about to fall at every blast;
Once the gay pile of splendour, wealth, and pride,
But now the monument of grandeur past.
Fall'n fabric! pondering o'er thy time-trac'd walls,
Thy mouldering, mighty, melancholy state,
Each object, to the musing mind, recalls
The sad vicissitudes of varying fate.

Thy tall towers tremble to the touch of time,
The rank weeds rustle in thy spacious courts;
Fill'd are thy wide canals with loathly slime,
Where battening, undisturb'd, the foul toad sports.

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
His useless heaps of wealth in selfish joy;
Who lov'd to ruminate o'er hoarded gold,

And hid those stores he dreaded to employ.

In vain to him benignant Heaven bestow'd
The golden heaps to render thousands blest ;
Smooth aged penury's laborious road,

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
Eurich'd the ample fields this churl possest;
Say, ye who paid to him the annual spoil,
With all his riches, was AVARO blest?

Rose he, like you, at morn devoid of fear,
His anxious vigils o'er his gold to keep?
Or sunk he, when the noiseless night was near,
As calmly on his couch of down to sleep?
Thou wretch! thus curst with poverty of soul,
What boot to thee the blessings fortune gave?
What boots thy wealth above the world's control,
If riches doom their churlish lord a slave?

Chill'd at thy presence grew the stately halls, Nor longer echo'd to the song of mirth ; The hand of art no more adorn'd thy walls,

Nor blaz'd with hospitable fires the hearth.

On well-worn hinges turns the gate no more,
Nor social friendship hastes the friend to meet;
Nor when the accustom`d guest draws near the door,
Run the glad dogs, and gambol round his feet.

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;
Loud from her chimney'd seat the night-bird yells,
And through the shatter'd roof descends the sky.

Thou melancholy mansion! much mine eye
Delights to wander o'er thy sullen gloom,
And mark the daw from yonder turret fly,

And muse how man himself creates his doom.

For here had Justice reign'd, had Pity known
With genial power to sway AVARO's breast,
These treasur'd heaps which Fortune made his own,
By aiding misery might himself have blest.

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.