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Through secret woes the world has never known, When on the weary night dawn'd wearier day,
And bitterer was the grief devour'd alone. That I o'erlive such woes, Enchantress! is thine own.
Hark! as my lingering footsteps slow retire,
Some Spirit of the Air has waked thy string! 'Tis now a Seraph bold, with touch of fire,
'Tis now the brush of Fairy's frolic wing. Receding now, the dying numbers ring
Fainter and fainter down the rugged dell, And now the mountain breezes scarcely bring
A wandering witch-note of the distant spellAnd now, 'tis silent all!—Enchantress, fare thee well!
H. K. White.
MUSIC, all powerful o'er the human mind,
Can still each mental storm, each tumult calm, Sooth anxious Care on sleepless couch reclin'd,
And e’en fierce Anger's furious rage disarm.
At her command the various passions lie;
She stirs to battle, or she lulls to peace, Melts the charm'd soul to thrilling ecstacy,
And bids the jarring world's harsh clamour ccase. Her martial sounds can fainting troops inspire
With strength unwonted, and enthusiasm raise, Infuse new ardour, and with youthful fire
Urge on the warrior grey with length of days.
Far better she when with her soothing lyre
She charms the falchion from the savage grasp, And melting into pity vengeful Ire,
Looses the bloody breast-plate’s iron clasp.
With her in pensive mood I long to roam,
At midnight's hour, or evening's calm decline, And thoughtful o'er the falling streamlet's foam,
In calm Seclusion's hermit walks recline.
Whilst mellow sounds from distant copse arise,
Of softest flute or reeds harmonic join'd, With rapture thrill'd each wordly passion dies,
And pleased Attention claims the passive Mind.
Soft through the dell the dying strains retire,
Then burst majestic in the varied swell; Now breathe melodious as the Grecian lyre,
Or on the ear in sinking cadence dwell.
Romantic sounds! such is the bliss ye give,
That heaven's bright scenes seems bursting on the soul; With joy I'd yield each sensual wish, to live
For ever 'neath your undefild controul.
Oh surely melody from heaven was sent,
To cheer the soul when tir'd with human strife, To sooth the wayward heart by sorrow rent,
And soften down the rugged path of life.
ON THE APPROACH OF WINTER.
WHAT time the once unnoticed tide,
The north-wind hollow murm’ring blows,
Full oft, but only when the day
SONNET, Supposed to be written by the unhappy Poet Dermody, in a Storm,
while on board a Ship in His Majesty's Service
H. K. White.
LO! o'er the welkin the tempestuous clouds
Successive fly, and the loud-piping wind Rocks the poor sea-boy on the dripping shrouds,
While the pale pilot, o'er the helm reclin'd, Lists to the changeful storm: and as he plies His wakeful task, he oft bethinks him sad,
Of wife, and little home, and chubby lad,
View the drear tempest, and the yawning deep,