Turn thou thine eyes to where the hallowed light

Where never beams thy torch

To cheer the sullen scene.

I pour the song to thee, though haply doom'd Alone and unbeloved to pass my days; Though doom'd perchance to die Alone and unbewail'd.

Yet will the lark albeit in cage enthrall'd
Send out her voice to greet the morning sun,
As wide his cheerful beams
Light up the landscape round;

When high in heaven she hears the caroling,
The prisoner too begins her morning hymn,
And hails the beam of joy,
Of joy to her denied.

Friend to each better feeling of the soul, I sing to thee, for many a joy is thine, And many a Virtue comes

To join thy happy train.

Lured by the splendour of thy sacred torch,
The beacon-light of bliss, young Love draws near,
And leads his willing slaves

To wear thy flowery chain.

And chasten'd Friendship comes, whose mildest sway
Shall cheer the hour of age, when fainter burn
The fading flame of Love,

The fading flame of Life.

Parent of every bliss, the busy hand

Of Fancy oft will paint in brightest hues How calm, how clear, thy torch Illumes the wintry hour;

Will paint the wearied labourer at that hour, When friendly darkness yields a pause to toil, Returning blithely home

To each domestic joy;

Will paint the well-trimm'd fire, the frugal meal
Prepared with fond solicitude to please;
The ruddy children round
Climbing the father's knee.

And oft will Fancy rise above the lot
Of honest Poverty, and think how man
Nor rich, nor poor, enjoys
His best and happiest state;

Along her mystic paths

To drink the sacred spring.

Lead calmly on along the unvaried path

To solitary Age's drear abode; . . .
Is it not happiness

That gives the sting to Death?

Well then is he whose unembitter'd years
Are waning on in lonely listlessness :
If Life hath little joy,

Death hath for him no sting.

Oxford, 1794.

WRITTEN

ON THE FIRST OF DECEMBER.

THOUGH NOW no more the musing ear
Delights to listen to the breeze,
That lingers o'er the green-wood shade,
I love thee, Winter! well.

Sweet are the harmonies of Spring,
Sweet is the Summer's evening gale,
And sweet the Autumnal winds that shake
The many-colour'd grove.

And pleasant to the sober'd soul

The silence of the wintry scene,

When Nature shrouds herself, entranced In deep tranquillity.

Not undelightful now to roam

The wild heath sparkling on the sight; Not undelightful now to pace

The forest's ample rounds;

And see the spangled branches shine; And mark the moss of many a hue That varies the old tree's brown bark, Or o'er the grey stone spreads.

And see the cluster'd berries bright Amid the holly's gay green leaves; The ivy round the leafless oak

That clasps its foliage close.

WRITTEN

ON SUNDAY MORNING.

Go thou and seek the House of Prayer! I to the woodlands wend, and there, In lovely Nature see the God of Love. The swelling organ's peal Wakes not my soul to zeal, Like the sweet music of the vernal grove. The gorgeous altar and the mystic vest Excite not such devotion in my breast, As where the noon-tide beam Flash'd from some broken stream, Vibrates on the dazzled sight; Or where the cloud-suspended rain Sweeps in shadows o'er the plain;

Or when reclining on the cliff's huge height

I mark the billows burst in silver light.

Go thou and seek the House of Prayer!

I to the woodlands shall repair,
Feed with all Nature's charms mine eyes,
And hear all Nature's melodies.
The primrose bank will there dispense
Faint fragrance to the awaken'd sense;

The morning beams that life and joy impart,
Will with their influence warm my heart,
And the full tear that down my cheek will steal,
Will speak the prayer of praise I feel.

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;

At 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. Sweet are these scenes to her; and when the Night Pours in the North her silver streams of light, She woos reflection in the silent gloom, And ponders on the world to come.

WRITTEN IN ALENTEJO,

JANUARY 23. 1796.

1.

WHEN at morn, the Muleteer
With early call announces day,
Sorrowing that early call I hear,
Which scares the visions of delight away:
For dear to me the silent hour

When sleep exerts its wizard power,

And busy Fancy then let free,

Borne on the wings of Hope, my Edith, flies to thee.

2.

When the slant sunbeams crest

The mountain's shadowy breast;
When on the upland slope

Shines the green myrtle wet with morning dew,
And lovely as the youthful dreams of Hope,
The dim-seen landscape opens on the view.
I gaze around with raptured eyes
On Nature's charms, where no illusion lies,
And drop the joy and memory mingled tear,
And sigh to think that Edith is not here.

3.

At the cool hour of even,
When all is calm and still,
And o'er the western hill

A richer radiance robes the mellow'd heaven,
Absorb'd in darkness thence,
When slowly fades in night
The dim decaying light,

Like the fair day-dreams of Benevolence;
Fatigued, and sad, and slow
Along my lonely way I go,

And muse upon the distant day,

And sigh, remembering Edith far away.

The Oak has received its incurable wound, They have loosen'd the roots, though the heart may be sound;

What the travellers at distance green-flourishing see, Are the leaves of the ivy that poison'd the tree.

Alas for the Oak of our Fathers, that stood
In its beauty, the glory and pride of the wood!
Westbury, 1798.

THE BATTLE OF PULTOWA.
ON Vorska's glittering waves
The morning sunbeams play;
Pultowa's walls are throng'd
With eager multitudes;
Athwart the dusty vale
They strain their aching eyes,

Where to the fight moves on

The Conqueror Charles, the iron-hearted Swede.

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,
Frozen to their endless sleep,

He held undaunted on.
Him Pain hath not subdued;
What though he mounts not now
The fiery steed of war,

Borne on a litter to the field he goes.

Go, iron-hearted King!
Full of thy former fame.
Think how the humbled Dane
Crouch'd underneath thy 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!
Proud Swede, the Sun hath risen
That on thy shame shall set!

Now, Patkul, may thine injured spirit rest!
For over that relentless Swede
Ruin hath raised his unrelenting arm;

For ere the night descends,
His veteran host destroyed,

His laurels blasted to revive no more,
He flies before the Moscovite.

Impatiently that haughty heart must bear
Long years of hope deceived;
Long years of idleness

That sleepless soul must brook.
Now, Patkul, may thine injured spirit rest!
To him who suffers in an honest cause
No death is ignominious; not on thee,
But upon Charles, the cruel, the unjust,
Not upon thee,.. on him
The ineffaceable reproach is fix'd,
The infamy abides.

Now, Patkul, may thine injured spirit rest Westbury, 1798.

THE TRAVELLER'S RETURN.

SWEET to the morning traveller
The song amid the sky,
Where twinkling in the dewy light
The skylark soars on high.

And cheering to the traveller

The gales that round him play, When faint and heavily he drags Along his noon-tide way.

And when beneath the unclouded sun
Full wearily toils he,

The flowing water makes to him
A soothing melody.

And when the evening light decays,
And all is calm around,
There is sweet music to his ear

In the distant sheep-bell's sound.

But oh! of all delightful sounds Of evening or of morn,

The sweetest is the voice of Love, That welcomes his return.

Westbury, 1798,

THE OLD MAN'S COMFORTS,

AND HOW HE GAINED THEM.

You are old, Father William, the young man cried,
The few locks which are left you are grey;
You are hale, Father William, a hearty old man,
Now tell me the reason, I pray.

In the days of my youth, Father William replied,
I remember'd that youth would fly fast,
And abused not my health and my vigour at first,
That I never might need them at last.

You are old, Father William, the young man cried,
And pleasures with youth pass away;

And yet you lament not the days that are gone,
Now tell me the reason, I pray.

In the days of my youth, Father William replied,
I remember'd that youth could not last;
I thought of the future, whatever I did,
That I never might grieve for the past.

You are old, Father William, the young man cried, And life must be hastening away;

You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death, Now tell me the reason, pray.

I am cheerful, young man, Father William replied, Let the cause thy attention engage;

In the days of my youth I remember'd my God! And He hath not forgotten my age.

Westbury, 1799.