A lady proud she was, of ancient blood,
Yet oft her fear her pride made crouchen low:
She felt, or fancy'd in her fluttering mood,
All the diseases which the spittles know,
And sought all physic which the shops bestow,
And still new leaches and new drugs would try,
Her humour ever wavering to and fro:
For sometimes she would laugh, and sometimes cry, Then sudden waxed wroth; and all she knew not why.
Fast by her side a listless maiden pin'd,
With aching head, and squeamish heart-burnings;
Pale, bloated, cold, she seem'd to hate mankind,
Yet lov'd in secret all forbidden things.
And here the Tertian shakes his chilling wings, The sleepless Gout here counts the crowing cocks, A wolf now gnaws him, now a serpent stings; Whilst Apoplexy cramm'd Intemp'rance knocks Down to the ground at once, as butcher felleth 'ox.
HYMN ON SOLITUDE.
HAIL, mildly pleasing Solitude,
Companion of the wise and good;
But from whose holy piercing eye,
The herd of fools and villains fly.
Oh how I love with thee to walk,
And listen to thy whisper'd talk,
Which innocence and truth imparts,
And melts the most obdurate hearts.
A thousand shapes you wear with ease,
And still in every shape you please.
Now wrapt in some mysterious dream,
A lone philosopher you seem;
Now quick from hill to vale you fly,
And now you sweep the vaulted sky.
A shepherd next you haunt the plain,
And warble forth your oaten strain.
A lover now, with all the grace
Of that sweet passion in your face:
Then, calm'd to friendship, you assume
The gentle-looking Hartford's bloom,
As, with her Musidora, she
(Her Musidora fond of thee)
Amid the long withdrawing vale,
Awakes the rival'd nightingale.
Thine is the balmy breath of morn,
Just as the dew-bent rose is born;
And while meridian fervors beat,
Thine is the woodland dumb retreat;
But chief, when evening scenes decay,
And the faint landscape swims away,
Thine is the doubtful soft decline,
And that best hour of musing thine.
Descending angels bless thy train,
The virtues of the sage and swain;
Plain innocence in white array'd,
Before thee lifts her fearless head :
Religion's beams around thee shine,
And cheer thy glooms with light divine:
About thee sports sweet liberty;
And rapt Urania sings to thee.
Oh, let me pierce thy secret cell,
And in thy deep recesses dwell.
Perhaps from Norwood's oak-clad hill,
When meditation has her fill,
I just may cast my careless eyes
Where London's spiry turrets rise;
Think of its crimes, its cares, its pain,
Then shield me in the woods again.
ON THE DEATH OF HIS MOTHER.
E fabled muses, I your aid disclaim,
Your airy raptures, and your fancied flame: True genuine woe my throbbing breast inspires, Love prompts my lays, and filial duty fires;
The soul springs instant at the warm design,
And the heart dictates every flowing line.
See! where the kindest, best of mothers lies,
And death has shut her ever-weeping eyes;
Has lodg'd at last peace in her weary breast,
And lull'd her many piercing cares to rest.
No more the orphan train around her stands,
While her full heart upbraids her needy hands!
No more the widow's lonely fate she feels,
The shock severe that modest want conceals,
The' oppressor's scourge, the scorn of wealthy pride,
And poverty's unnumber'd ills beside.
For see! attended by the' angelic throng,
Through yonder worlds of light she glides along,
And claims the well-earn'd raptures of the sky:-
Yet fond concern recalls the mother's eye;
She seeks the helpless orphans left behind;
So hardly left! so bitterly resign'd!
. Still, still! is she my soul's divinest theme,
The waking vision, and the wailing dream:
Amid the ruddy sun's enlivening blaze
O'er my dark eyes her dewy image plays,
And in the dread dominion of the night
Shines out again the sadly pleasing sight.
Triumphant virtue all around her darts,
And more than volumes every look imparts-
Looks, soft, yet awful, melting, yet serene,
Where both the mother and the saint are seen.
But ah! that night-that torturing night remains;
May darkness dye it with the deepest stains,
May joy on it forsake her rosy bow'rs,
And screaming sorrow blast its baleful hours,
When on the margin of the briny flood
Chill'd with a sad presaging damp I stood,
Took the last look, ne'er to behold her more,
And mix'd our murmurs with the wavy roar,
Heard the last words fall from her pious tongue,
Then, wild into the bulging vessel flung,
Which soon, too soon convey'd me from her sight
Dearer than life, and liberty and light!
Why was I then, ye powers, reserv'd for this?
Nor sunk that moment in the vast abyss?
Devour'd at once by the relentless wave,
And whelm'd for ever in a wat'ry grave ?-
Down, ye wild wishes of unruly woe !-
I see her with immortal beauty glow,
The early wrinkle, care-contracted, gone,
Her tears all wipe'd, and all her sorrows flown;
The' exalted voice of Heav'n I hear her breathe,
To soothe her soul in agonies of death.
I see her through the mansions blest above,
And now she meets her dear expecting Love.
Heart-cheering sight! but yet, alas! o'erspread
By the damp gloom of Grief's uncheerful shade.
Come then of reason the reflecting hour,
And let me trust the kind o'ér-ruling Power,
Who from the night commands the shining day,
The poor man's portion, and the orphan's stay!
MY time, O ye Muses! was happily spent,
When Phoebe went with me wherever I went: Ten thousand soft pleasures I felt in my breast: Sure never fond shepherd like Colin was blest. But now she is gone, and has left me behind, What a marvellous change on a sudden I find! When things were as fine as could possible be, I thought it was Spring; but, alas! it was she.
The fountain that wont to run sweetly along, And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles among, Thou know'st, little Cupid, if Phoebe was there, It was pleasant to look at, 'twas music to hear. But, now she is absent, I walk by its side, And, still as it murmurs, do nothing but chide : Must you be so cheerful, whilst I go in pain? Peace there with your bubbling, and hear me complain.
My dog I was ever well pleased to see Come wagging his tail to my fair one and me; And Phoebe was pleas'd too, and to my dog said, 'Come hither, poor fellow;' and patted his head. But now, when he's fawning, I with a sour look Cry, 'Sirrah,' and give him a blow with my crook: And I'll give him another; for why should not Tray Be dull as his master, when Phoebe's away?
Sweet music went with us both all the wood thro', The lark, linnet, throstle, and nightingale too; Winds over us whisper'd, flocks by us did bleat, And chirp went the grasshopper under our feet. But now she is absent, though still they sing on, The woods are but lonely, the melody's gone : Her voice in the concert, as now I have found," Gives every thing else its agreeable sound,
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