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Close follow'd age, infirm old age,

The maidens that gather the fruits of the moor,' The winter of my year;

While weary and fainting they roam, When shall I fall before his rage,

Through the blue dazzling distance of noon-light To rise beyond the sphere?

explore

The trees that remind them of home :
I long to cast the chains away,

The children that range in the valley suspend
That hold my soul a slave,

Their sports, and in ecstacy gaze,
To burst these dungeon walls of clay,

When they see the broad moon from its summit asEnfranchised from the grave.

cend, Life lies in embryo,-never free

And their school-house and grove in a blaze. Till Nature yields her breath ;

O! sweet to my soul is that beautiful grove,
Till Time becomes Eternity,

Awakening remembrance most dear;-
And Man is born in Death.

When lonely in anguish and exile I rove,

Wherever its glories appear,

It gladdens my spirit, it soothes from afar
THE GLOW-WORM.

With tranquil and tender delight,
It shines through my heart, like a hope-beaming star

Alone in the desert of night.
The male of this insect is said to be a fly, which the female
caterpillar attracts in the night by the lustre of her train. It tells me of moments of innocent bliss,

For ever and ever gone o'er; WHEN Evening closes Nature's eye,

Like the light of a smile, like the balm of a kiss, The Glow-worm lights her little spark,

They were,—but they will be no more. To captivate her favorite fly,

Yet wherefore of pleasures departed complain, And tempt the rover through the dark.

That leave such endearment behind ? Conducted by a sweeter star

Though the sun of their sweetness be sunk in the main, Than all that deck the fields above,

Their twilight still rests on the mind. He fondly hastens from afar,

Then peace to his ashes who planted these trees! To soothe her solitude with love.

Supreme o'er the landscape they rise,

With simple and lovely magnificence please
Thus in this wilderness of tears,

All bosoms, and ravish all eyes;
Amidst the world's perplexing gloom,

Nor marble, nor brass, could emblazon his fame The transient torch of Hymen cheers

Like his own sylvan trophies, that wave
The pilgrim journeying to the tomb.

In graceful memorial, and whisper his name,
Unhappy he whose hopeless eye

And scatter their leaves on his grave.
Turns to the light of love in vain ;

Ah! thus, when I sleep in the desolate tomb,
Whose cynosure is in the sky,

May the laurels I planted endure,
He on the dark and lonely main.

On the mountain of high immortality bloom,

'Midst lightning and tempest secure!

Then ages unborn shall their verdure admire,
BOLEHILL TREES.

And nations sit under their shade,
While my spirit, in secret, shall move o'er my lyre,

Aloft in their branches display'd. A conspicuous plantation, encompassing a school-house and play-ground, on a bleak eminenco, at Barlow, in Derbyshire; Hence, dream of vain-glory the light drop of dew on the one hand facing the high moors, on the other, over

That glows in the violet's eye, looking a richly-cultivated, well-wooded, and mountainous country, near the seat of a gentleman where the writer has In the splendor of morn, to a fugitive view, spent many happy bours.

May rival a star of the sky.

But the violet is pluck'd, and the dew-drop is flown, Now peace to his ashes who planted yon trees The star unextinguish'd shall shine: That welcome my wandering eye!

Then mine be the laurels of virtue alone,
In lofty luxuriance they wave with the breeze, And the glories of Paradise mine.

And resemble a grove in the sky;
On the brow of the mountain, uncultured and bleak,
They flourish in grandeur sublime,

THE MOLE-HILL.
Adorning its bald and majestical peak,

Tell me, thou dust beneath my feet, Like the lock on the forehead of Time.

Thou dust that once hadst breath! A land-mark they rise to the stranger forlorn,

Tell me how many mortals meet All night on the wild heath delay'd,

In this small hill of death? Tis rapture to spy the young beauties of morn

The mole that scoops with curious toil Unveiling behind their dark shade :

Her subterranean bed, The homeward-bound husbandman joys to behold,

Thinks not she plows a human soil,
On the line of the grey evening scene,

And mines among the dead.
Their branches yet gleaming with purple and gold,
And the sun-set expiring between.

1 Bilberries, cluster-berries, and crane-berries.

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Among the undistinguish'd hosts

My wondering eyes explore Awful, sublime, terrific ghosts,

Heroes and kings of yore: Tyrants, the comets of their kind,

Whose withering influence ran Through all the promise of the mind,

And smote and mildew'd man Sages, the Pleiades of earth,

Whose genial aspects smiled, And flowers and fruitage sprang to birth

O'er all the human wild.
Yon gloomy ruffian, gash'd and gored,

Was he, whose fatal skill
First beat the plowshare to a sword,

And taught the art to kill.
Behind him skulks a shade, bereft

Of fondly-worshipp'd fame; He built the Pyramids, but left

No stone to tell his name.

But, Ob! where'er she turns the ground,

My kindred earth I see ;
Once, every atom of this mound

Lived, breathed, and felt, like me.
Like me, these elder-born of clay

Enjoy'd the cheerful light, Bore the brief burthen of a day,

And went to rest at night. Far in the regions of the morn

The rising sun surveys Palmyra's palaces forlorn

Empurpled with his rays. The spirits of the desert dwell

Where eastern grandeur shone, And vultures scream, hyenas yell

Round Beauty's mouldering throne.
There the pale pilgrim, as he stands,

Sees, from the broken wall,
The shadow tottering on the sands,

Ere the loose fragment fall.
Destruction joys, amid those scenes,

To watch the sport of Fate,
While Time between the pillars leans,

And bows them with his weight.
But towers and temples crush'd by Time,

Stupendous wrecks! appear To me less mournfully sublime

Than the poor Mole-hill here. Through all this hillock's crumbling mould

Once the warm life-blood ran; -Here thine original behold,

And here thy ruins, Man!
Methinks this dust yet heaves with breath;

Ten thousand pulses beat :
Tell me, in this small hill of death,

How many mortals meet?
By wafting winds and flooding rains,

From ocean, earth, and sky,
Collected here, the frail remains

of slumbering millions lie. What scene of terror and amaze

Breaks through the twilight gloom? What hand invisible displays

The secrets of the tomb?

Who is the chief, with visage dark

As tempests when they roar? -The first who push'd his daring bark

Beyond the timid shore. Through storms of death and seas of graves

He steer'd with stedfast eye; His path was on the desert waves,

His compass in the sky.

The youth who lifts his graceful hand,

Struck the unshapen block,
And beauty leap'd, at his command,

A Venus from the rock.
Trembling with ecstacy of thought,

Behold the Grecian maid,
Whom love's enchanting impulse taught

To trace a slumberer's shade
Sweet are the thefts of love ;-she stole

His image while he lay,
Kindled the shadow to a soul,

And breathed that soul through clay.
Yon listening nymph, who looks behind

With countenance of fire,
Heard midnight music in the wind,

And framed the Æolian lyre.
All hail !—The Sire of Song appears,

The Muse's eldest-born ;
The sky-lark in the dawn of years,

The poet of the morn.
He from the depth of cavern'd woods,

That echoed to his voice,
Bade mountains, valleys, winds, and floods,

And earth and heaven rejoice. Though charm’d to meekness while he sung,

The wild beasts round him ran; This was the triumph of his tongue, It tamed the heart of man.

All ages and all nations rise,

And every grain of earth Beneath my feet, before mine eyes,

Is startled into birth.

Like gliding mists the shadowy forms

Through the deep valley spread, And like descending clouds in storms

Lower round the mountain's head. O'er the wide champaign while they pass,

Their footsteps yield no sound, Nor shake from the light trembling grass

A dew-drop to the ground.

The vision of the tomb is past ;

Beyond it who can tell In what mysterious region cast

Immortal spirits dwell ?

Dim through the mist of twilight times

The ghost of Cyrus walks ; Behind him, red with glorious crimes,

The son of Ammon stalks. Relentless Hannibal, in pride

Of sworn, fix'd hatred, lowers; Cæsar,-'t is Brutus at his side,

In peerless grandeur towers.

I know not, but I soon shall know,

When life's sore conflicts cease, When this desponding heart lies low,

And I shall rest in peace.

For see, on Death's bewildering wave,

The rainbow Hope arise,
A bridge of glory o'er the grave,

That bends beyond the skies.
From earth to heaven it swells and shines,

The pledge of bliss to Man; Time with Eternity combines,

And grasps them in a span.

With moonlight softness Helen's charms

Dissolve the spectred gloom,
The leading star of Greece in arms,

Portending Ilion's doom.
But Homer; see the bard arise !

And hark! he strikes the lyre ;
The Dardan warriors lift their eyes,

The Argive Chiefs respire, And while his music rolls along,

The towers of Troy sublime,
Raised by the magic breath of song,

Mock the destroyer, Time.
For still around the eternal walls

The storms of battle rage ;
And Hector conquers, Hector falls,

Bewept in every age.

THE CAST-AWAY SHIP.

The subjects of the two following poems were suggested by the

loss of the Blenheim, commanded by Sir Thomas Trowbridge, which was separated from the vessels under its convoy, during a storm in the Indian Ocean.-The Admiral's son afterwards made a voyage, without success, in search of his father.-Trowbridge was one of Nelson's captains at the Battle of the Nile, but his ship unfortunately ran aground as he was bearing down on the enemy.

Genius of Homer! were it mine

To track thy fiery car, And in thy sun-set course to shine

A radiant evening star,

What theme, what laurel might the Muse

Reclaim from ages fled ? What realm-restoring hero choose

To summon from the dead?

Yonder his shadow flits away :

-Thou shalt not thus depart; Stay, thou transcendent spirit, stay,

And tell me who thou art!

Tis Alfred - In the rolls of Fame,

And on a midnight page, Blazes his broad refulgent name,

The watch-light of his age.

A Danish winter, from the north,

Howl'd o'er the British wild, But Alfred, like the spring, brake forth,

And all the desert smiled.

A VESSEL sail'd from Albion's shore,

To utmost India bound,
Its crest a hero's pendant bore,

With broad sea-laurels crown'd
In many a fierce and noble fight,
Though foild on that Egyptian night

When Gallia's host was drown'd,
And Nelson, o'er his country's foes,
Like the destroying angel rose.
A gay and gallant company,

With shouts that rend the air,
For warrior-wreaths upon the sea,

Their joyful brows prepare :
But many a maiden's sigh was sent,
And many a mother's blessing went,

And many a father's prayer,
With that exulting ship to sea,
With that undaunted company.
The deep that, like a cradled child,

In breathing slumber lay,
More warmly blush'd, more sweetly smiled,

As rose the kindling day:
Through ocean's mirror, dark and clear,
Reflected clouds and skies appear

In morning's rich array:
The land is lost, the waters glow,
'Tis heaven above, around, below.
Majestic o'er the sparkling tide,

See the tall vessel sail,
With swelling wings and shadowy pride,

A swan before the gale;
Deep-laden merchants rode behind :
-But, fearful of the fickle wind,
Britannia's cheek grew pale,

Back to the deep he roll'd the waves,

By mad invasion hurlid;
His voice was liberty to slaves,

Defiance to the world.

And still that voice o'er land and sea

Shall Albion's foes appal ;
The race of Alfred will be free ;-

Hear it, and tremble, Gaul !

But lo! the phantoms fade in flight,

Like fears that cross the mind, Like meteors gleaming through the night,

Like thunders on the wind.

When, lessening through the flood of light, Their leader vanish'd from her sight.

Of had she hail'd its trophied prow,

Victorious from the war, And banner'd masts, that would not bow,

Though riven with many a scar; Oft had her oaks their tribute brought, To rib its flanks, with thunder fraught;

But late her evil star Had cursed it on its homeward way, _"The spoiler shall become the prey."

Like shooting stars, athwart the gloom

The merchant-sails were sped; Yet oft, before its midnight doom,

They mark'd the high mast-head of that devoted vessel, tost By winds and floods, now seen, now lost;

While every gun-fire spread
A dimmer flash, a fainter roar:
-At length they saw, they heard no more
There are to whom that ship was dear,

For love and kindred's sake;
When these the voice of Rumor hear,

Their inmost heart shall quake,
Shall doubt, and fear, and wish, and grieve,
Believe, and long to unbelieve,

But never cease to ache;
Still doom'd, in sad suspense, to bear
The Hope that keeps alive Despair.

Thus warn'd, Britannia's anxious heart

Throbb’d with prophetic woe, When she beheld that ship depart,

A fair ill-omen'd show! So views the mother, through her tears, The daughter of her hopes and fears,

When hectic beauties glow On the frail cheek, where sweetly bloom The roses of an early tomb.

No fears the brave adventurers knew,

Peril and death they spurn'd:
Like full-fledged eagles forth they flew;

Jove's birds, that proudly burn'd,
In battle-hurricanes to wield
His lightnings on the billowy field;

And many a look they turn'd
O'er the blue waste of waves, to spy
A Gallic ensign in the sky.

THE SEQUEL He sought his sire from shore to share,

He sought him day by day;
The prow he track'd was seen no more,

Breasting the ocean-spray:
Yet, as the winds his voyage sped,
He sail'd above his father's head,

Unconscious where it lay, Deep, deep beneath the rolling main; -He sought his sire; he sought in vain.

But not to crush the vaunting foe,

In combat on the main,
Nor perish by a glorious blow,

In mortal triumph slain, Was their unutterable fate : -That story would the Muse relate,

The song might rise in vain; In ocean's deepest, darkest bed, The secret slumbers with the dead.

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On India's long-expecting strand

Their sails were never furl'dNever on known or friendly land

By storms their keel was hurl'd; Their native soil no more they trod, They rest beneath no hallow'd sod;

Throughout the living world This sole memorial of their lot Remains,—they were, and they are not.

To the Memory of "A Female whom Sickness had reconciled

to the Notes of Sorrow," who corresponded with the Author under this signature, on the first publication of his poems, 1806, but died soon after; when her real name and merits were disclosed to him by one of her surviving friends.

My Song of Sorrow reach'd her ear; She raised her languid head to hear, And, smiling in the arms of Death, Consoled me with her latest breath.

The spirit of the Cape' pursued

Their long and toilsome way; At length, in ocean-solitude,

He sprang upon his prey : * Havoc !' the shipwreck-demon cried, Loosed all his tempests on the tide,

Gave all his lightnings play; The abyss recoil'd before the blast, Firm stood the seamen to the last.

What is the Poet's highest aim, His richest heritage of fame?

-To track the warrior's fiery road, With havoc, spoil, destruction strow'd, While nations bleed along the plains, Dragg'd at his chariot-wheels in chains ! - With fawning hand to woo the lyre, Profanely steal celestial fire, And bid an idol's altar blaze With incense of unhallow'd praise ?

1 The Cape of Good Hope, formerly called the Cape of Storms.-See Camoens' Lusiad, Book V.

-With syren strains, Circean art, To win the ear, beguile the heart, Wake the wild passions into rage, And please and prostitute the age ?

No to the generous Bard belong
Diviner themes and purer song :

-To hail Religion from above,
Descending in the form of Love,
And pointing through a world of strife
The narrow way that leads to life:
-To pour the balm of heavenly rest
Through Sorrow's agonizing breast;
With Pity's tender arms embrace
The orphans of a kindred race;
And in one zone of concord bind
The lawless spoilers of mankind :
-To sing in numbers boldly free
The wars and woes of liberty;
The glory of her triumphs tell,
Her nobler suffering when she fell,'
Girt with the phalanx of the brave,
Or widow'd on the patriot's grave,
Which tyrants tremble to pass by,
Ev'n on the car of Victory.

These are the Bard's sublimest views,
The angel-visions of the Muse,
That o'er his morning slumbers shine;
These are his themes, and these were mine.
But pale Despondency, that stole
The light of gladness from my soul,
While youth and folly blindfold ran
The giddy circle up to Man.
Breathed a dark spirit through my lyre,
Dimm'd the noon radiance of my fire,
And cast a mournful evening hue
O'er every scene my fancy drew.
Then though the proud despised my strain,
It flow'd not from my heart in vain ;
The lay of freedom, fervor, truth,
Was dear to undissembling youth,
From manly breasts drew generous sighs,
And Virtue's tears from Beauty's eyes.

Adorn'd with meekest maiden grace,
With every charm of soul and face
That Virtue's awful eye approves,
And fond Affection dearly loves :
Heaven in her open aspect seen,
Her Maker's image in her mien.

Such was the picture fancy drew,
In lineaments divinely true;
The muse, by her mysterious art,
Had shown her likeness to my heart,
And every faithful feature brought
O'er the clear mirror of my thought.
-But she was waning to the tomb;
The worm of death was in her bloom;
Yet as the mortal frame declined,
Strong through the ruins rose the mind;
As the dim moon, when night ascends,
Slow in the east the darkness rends,
Through melting clouds, by gradual gleams,
Pours the mild splendor of her beams,
Then bursts in triumph o'er the pole,
Free as a disembodied soul!
Thus, while the veil of flesh decay'd,
Her beauties brighten'd through the shade;
Charms which her lowly heart conceal'd
In nature's weakness were reveal'd:
And still the unrobing spirit cast
Diviner glories to the last,
Dissolved its bonds, and clear'd its flight,
Emerging into perfect light.

Yet shall the friends who loved her weep, Though shrined in peace the sufferer sleep, Though rapt to heaven the saint aspire, With seraph guards, on wings of fire; Yet shall they weep;—for oft and well Remembrance shall her story tell, Affection of her virtues speak, With beaming eye and burning cheek, Each action, word, and look recall, The last, the loveliest of all, When on the lap of death she lay, Serenely smiled her soul away, And left surviving Friendship's breast Warm with the sun-set of her rest.

My Song of Sorrow reach'd Her ear; She raised her languid head to hear, And, smiling in the arms of Death, She bless'd me with her latest breath.

A secret hand to me convey'd The thoughts of that inspiring Maid ; They came like voices on the wind, Heard in the stillness of the mind, When round the Poet's twilight walk Aërial beings seem to talk. Not the twin-stars of Leda shine With vernal influence more benign, Nor sweeter, in the sylvan vale, Sings the lone-warbling nightingale, Than through my shades her lustre broke, Than to my griefs her spirit spoke.

My fancy form'd her young and fair, Pure as her sister-lilies were,

O thou, who wert on earth unknown, Companion of my thought alone, Unchanged in heaven to me thou art, Still hold communion with my heart; Cheer thou my hopes, exalt my views, Be the good angel of my Muse; -And if to thine approving ear My plaintive numbers once were dear; If, falling round thy dying hours Like evening dews on closing flowers, They soothed thy pains, and through thy soul With melancholy sweetness stole, HEAR ME :-When slumber from mine eyes, That roll in irksome darkness, flies; When the lorn spectre of unrest At conscious midnight haunts my breast; When former joys and present woes, And future fears, are all my foes; Spirit of my departed friend, Calm through the troubled gloom descend,

1 Piu val d'ogni vittoria un bel soffrire.

Gaetana Passerini.

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