There in each breast each active power dilates!
Which broils whole nations, and convulses states:
There reigns, by turns alternate, love and hate,
Ambition burns, and factious rebels prate;
And in a smaller range, a smaller sphere,
The dark deformities of man appear.
Yet there the gentler virtues kindred claim,
There Friendship lights her pure untainted flame,
There mild Benevolence delights to dwell,
And sweet Contentment rests without her cell;
And there, 'mid many a stormy soul, we find
The good of heart, the intelligent of mind.

So when forlorn, and lonesome at her gate,
The Royal Mary solitary sate,

And view'd the moonbeam trembling on the wave,
And heard the hollow surge her prison lave,
Towards France's distant coast she bent her sight,
For there her soul had wing'd its longing flight;
There did she form full many a scheme of joy,
Visions of bliss unclouded with alloy,
Which bright through Hope's deceitful optics beam'd,
And all became the surety which it seem'd;
She wept, yet felt, while all within was calm,
In every tear a melancholy charm.

"T was there, Oh, George! with thee I learn'd to join To yonder hill, whose sides, deform'd and steep, In Friendship's bands-in amity divine.

Oh, mournful thought!-Where is thy spirit now?
As here I sit on fav'rite Logar's brow,
And trace below each well-remember'd glade,
Where, arm in arm, erewhile with thee I stray'd.
Where art thou laid-on what untrodden shore,
Where nought is heard save Ocean's sullen roar?
Dost thou in lowly, unlamented state,
At last repose from all the storms of fate?
Methinks I see thee struggling with the wave,
Without one aiding hand stretch'd out to save;
See thee, convulsed, thy looks to heaven bend,
And send thy parting sigh unto thy friend;
Or where immeasurable wilds dismay,
Forlorn and sad thou bend'st thy weary way,
While sorrow and disease, with anguish rife,
Consume apace the ebbing springs of life.
Again I see his door against thee shut,
The unfeeling native turn thee from his hut:
I see thee spent with toil and worn with grief,
Sit on the grass, and wish the long'd relief;
Then lie thee down, the stormy struggle o'er,
Think on thy native land-and rise no more!

Oh! that thou couldst, from thine august abode,
Survey thy friend in life's dismaying road!
That thou couldst see him at this moment here,
Embalm thy memory with a pious tear,
And hover o'er him as he gazes round,
Where all the scenes of infant joys surround!

Yes! yes! his spirit's near!-The whispering breeze,
Conveys his voice sad sighing on the trees;
And lo! his form transparent I perceive,
Borne on the grey mist of the sullen eve:
He hovers near, clad in the night's dim robe,
While deathly silence reigns upon the globe.

Yet, ah! whence comes this visionary scene?
"Tis Fancy's wild aërial dream, I ween;
By her inspired, when reason takes its flight,
What fond illusions beam upon the sight!
She waves her hand, and lo! what forms appear!
What magic sounds salute the wandering ear!
Once more o'er distant regions do we tread,
And the cold grave yields up its cherish'd dead;
While present sorrow's banish'd far away,
Unclouded azure gilds the placid day,
Or in the future's cloud-encircled face,
Fair scenes of bliss to come we fondly trace,
And draw minutely every little wile,

Which shall the feathery hours of time beguile.

Just yield a scanty sust'nance to the sheep,
With thee, my friend, I oftentimes have sped,
To see the sun rise from his healthy bed;
To watch the aspect of the summer morn,
Smiling upon the golden fields of corn,
And taste delighted of superior joys,
Beheld through Sympathy's enchanted eyes:
With silent admiration oft we view'd
The myriad hues o'er heaven's blue concave strew'd;
The fleecy clouds, of every tint and shade,
Round which the silvery sunbeam glancing play'd,
And the round orb itself, in azure throne,
Just peeping o'er the blue hill's ridgy zone;
We mark'd delighted, how with aspect gay,
Reviving Nature hail'd returning day;
Mark'd how the flowerets rear'd their drooping heads,
And the wild lambkins bounded o'er the meads,
While from each tree, in tones of sweet delight,
The birds sung paans to the source of light:
Oft have we watch'd the speckled lark arise,
Leave his grass bed, and soar to kindred skies,
And rise, and rise, till the pain'd sight no more
Could trace him in his high aërial tour;
Though on the ear, at intervals, his song
Came wafted slow the wavy breeze along;
And we have thought how happy were our lot,
Bless'd with some sweet, some solitary cot,
Where, from the peep of day, till russet eve
Began in every dell her forms to weave,
We might pursue our sports from day to day,
And in each other's arms wear life away.

At sultry noon too, when our toils were done,
We to the gloomy glen were wont to run:
There on the turf we lay, while at our feet
The cooling rivulet rippled softly sweet:
And mused on holy theme, and ancient lore,
Of deeds, and days, and heroes now no more;
Heard, as his solemn harp Isaiah swept,
Sung woe unto the wicked land-and wept:
Or, fancy-led-saw Jeremiah mourn
In solemn sorrow o'er Judea's urn.
Then to another shore perhaps would rove,
With Plato talk in his Illyssian grove;
Or, wandering where the Thespian palace rose,
Weep once again o'er fair Jocasta's woes.

Sweet then to us was that romantic band,
The ancient legends of our native land-
Chivalric Britomart and Una fair,

And courteous Constance, doom'd to dark despair,
By turns our thoughts engaged; and oft we talk'd
Of times when monarch superstition stalk'd,

And when the blood-fraught galliots of Rome
Brought the grand Druid fabric to its doom:
While, where the wood-hung Meinai's waters flow,
The hoary harpers pour'd the strain of woe.

While thus employ'd, to us how sad the bell
Which summon'd us to school! "T was Fancy's knell,
And, sadly sounding on the sullen ear,

It spoke of study pale, and chilling fear.
Yet even then, (for Oh! what chains can bind,
What powers control, the energies of mind?)
E'en then we soar'd to many a height sublime,
And many a day-dream charm'd the lazy time.

At evening too, how pleasing was our walk,
Endear'd by Friendship's unrestrained talk!
When to the upland heights we bent our way,
To view the last beam of departing day;
How calm was all around! no playful breeze
Sigh'd 'mid the wavy foliage of the trees,
But all was still, save when, with drowsy song,
The grey-fly wound his sullen horn along;
And save when, heard in soft, yet merry glee,
The distant church-bells' mellow harmony;
The silver mirror of the lucid brook,

That 'mid the tufted broom its still course took;
The rugged arch that clasp'd its silent tides,
With moss and rank weeds hanging down its sides:
The craggy rock, that jutted on the sight;
The shrieking bat, that took its heavy flight;
All, all was pregnant with divine delight.
We loved to watch the swallow swimming high,
In the bright azure of the vaulted sky;
Or gaze upon the clouds, whose color'd pride
Was scatter'd thinly o'er the welkin wide,
And, tinged with such variety of shade,
To the charm'd soul sublimest thoughts convey'd.
In these what forms romantic did we trace,
While Fancy led us o'er the realms of space!

Now we espied the Thunderer in his car,
Leading the embattled seraphim to war,
Then stately towers descried, sublimely high,
In Gothic grandeur frowning on the sky—
Or saw, wide-stretching o'er the azure height,
A ridge of glaciers in mural white,
Hugely terrific.-But those times are o'er,

And the fond scene can charm mine eyes no more;
For thou art gone, and I am left below,
Alone to struggle through this world of woe.

The scene is o'er-still seasons onward roll,
And each revolve conducts me towards the goal;
Yet all is blank, without one soft relief,
One endless continuity of grief;

And the tired soul, now led to thoughts sublime,
Looks but for rest beyond the bounds of time.

Toil on, toil on, ye busy crowds! that pant
For hoards of wealth which ye will never want:
And, lost to all but gain, with ease resign
The calms of peace and happiness divine!
Far other cares be mine,-Men little crave
In this short journey to the silent grave;
And the poor peasant, bless'd with peace and health,
I envy more than Croesus with his wealth.

Yet grieve not I, that Fate did not decree
Paternal acres to await on me:

She gave me more; she placed within my breas
A heart with little pleased-with little blest!
I look around me, where, on every side,
Extensive manors spread in wealthy pride;
And could my sight be borne to either zone,
I should not find one foot of land my own.

But whither do I wander? shall the Muse,
For golden baits, her simple theme refuse!
Oh, no! but while the weary spirit greets
The fading scenes of childhood's far-gone sweet
It catches all the infant's wandering tongue,
And prattles on in desultory song.

That song must close--the gloomy mists of night
Obscure the pale stars' visionary light,
And ebon darkness, clad in vapory wet,
Steals on the welkin in primeval jet.

The song must close.-Once more my adverse let
Leads me reluctant from this cherish'd spot;
Again compels to plunge in busy life,
And brave the hateful turbulence of strife.
Scenes of my youth! ere my unwilling feet
Are turn'd for ever from this loved retreat,
Ere on these fields, with plenty cover'd o'er,
My eyes are closed to ope on them no more,
Let me ejaculate, to feeling due,
One long, one last affectionate adieu.
Grant that, if ever Providence should please
To give me an old age of peace and ease,
Grant that, in these sequester'd shades, my days
May wear away in gradual decays;
And oh ye spirits, who unbodied play,
Unseen, upon the pinions of the day,
Kind genii of my native fields benign,
Who were

THE FAIR MAID OF CLIFTON.

A NEW BALLAD IN THE OLD STYLE.

THE night it was dark, and the winds were high,
And mournfully waved the wood,
As Bateman met his Margaret
By Trent's majestic flood.

He press'd the maiden to his breast,

And his heart it was rack'd with fear,
For he knew, that again, 't was a deadly chance
If ever he press'd her there.

"Oh! Margaret, wilt thou bear me true,"
He said, "while I am far away,
For to-morrow I go to a foreign land,

And there I have long to stay.",

And the maid she vow'd she would bear him true,
And thereto she plighted her troth;
And she pray'd the fiend might fetch her away,
When she forgot her oath.

And the night-owl scream'd, as again she swore,
And Bateman's heart within him sunk,
And the grove it did mournfully moan,
He thought 't was his dying groan.

And shortly he went with Clifton, his Lord,
To abide in a foreign land;
And Margaret she forgot her oath,

And she gave to another her hand.

Her husband was rich, but old, and crabb'd,
And oft the false one sigh'd,
And wish'd that ere she broke her vow,
She had broken her heart, and died.

And now return'd, her Bateman came
To demand his betrothed bride;
But soon he learn'd that she had sought
A wealthier lover's side.

And when he heard the dreadful news,

No sound he utter'd more,

But his stiffen'd corse, ere the morn, was seen
Hung at his false one's door.

And Margaret, all night, in her bed,

She dreamed hideous dreams;

And oft upon the moaning wind

Were heard her frightful screams.

And when she knew of her lover's death,

On her brow stood the clammy dew,

She thought of her oath, and she thought of her fate,
And she saw that her days were few.

But the Lord he is just, and the guilty alone
Have to fear of his vengeance the lash,
The thunderbolt harms not the innocent head,
While the criminal dies 'neath the flash.

His justice, she knew, would spare her awhile
For the child that she bare in her womb;
But she felt, that when it was born therefrom
She must instantly go to her tomb.

The hour approach'd, and she view'd it with fear
As the date of her earthly time;

And she tried to pray to Almighty God,

To expiate her crime.

And she begg'd they would sing the penitent hymn,
And pray with all their might;

For sadly I fear, the fiend will be here,
And fetch me away this night.

And now without, a stormy rout,

With howls, the guests did hear;
And the parson he pray'd, for he was afraid,
And the singers they quaver'd with fear.

And Marg'ret pray'd the Almighty's aid,
For louder the tempest grew;

And every guest, his soul he bless'd,
As the tapers burned blue.

And the fair again, she pray'd of the men
To sing with all their might;

And they did sing, till the house did ring,
And louder they sung for affright.

But now their song, it died on their tongue,
For sleep it was seizing their sense;
And Marg'ret scream'd, and bid them not sleep,
Or the fiends would bear her thence.

SONG.

THE ROBIN RED-BREAST. A VERY EARLY COMPOSITION.

WHEN the winter wind whistles around my lone cot,
And my holiday friends have my mansion forgot,
Though a lonely poor being, still do not I pine,
While my poor Robin Red-breast forsakes not my
shrine.

He comes with the morning, he hops on my arm,
For he knows 't is too gentle to do him a harm:
And in gratitude ever beguiles with a lay
The soul-sick'ning thoughts of a bleak winter's day.

What, though he may leave me, when spring again
smiles,

To waste the sweet summer in love's little wiles,

And she begg'd her relations would come at the day, Yet will he remember his fosterer long,

And the parson would pray at her side;

And the clerk would sing a penitent hymn,

With all the singers beside.

And greet her each morning with one little song.

And when the rude blast shall again strip the trees,
And plenty no longer shall fly on the breeze,
Oh! then he 'll return to his Helena kind,

And she begg'd they would bar the windows so strong, And repose in her breast from the rude northern wind. And put a new lock to the door;

And sprinkle with holy water the house,

And over her chamber-floor.

And then she did pray, that they would stay,
And pass with her the night.

My sweet little Robin's no holiday guest,
He'll never forget his poor Helena's breast;
But will strive to repay, by his generous song,
Her love, and her cares, in the winter day long.

WINTER SONG.

ROUSE the blazing midnight fire,
Heap the crackling fagots higher;
Stern December reigns without,
With old Winter's blust'ring rout.

Let the jocund timbrels sound,
Push the jolly goblet round;
Care avaunt, with all thy crew,
Goblins dire, and devils blue.

The GODDESS OF MELANCHOLY advances out of a deep
Glen, in the rear, habited in black, and covered with In the blue welkin's vault!-Pale wanderer!