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 worldly 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 seem bursting on the
soul,

With joy I'd yield each sensual wish to live
For ever 'neath your undefiled control.

Oh! surely melody from heaven was sent,

To cheer the soul when tired with human strife, To soothe the wayward heart by sorrow rent, And soften down the rugged road of life.

ODE

TO THE HARVEST MOON.

Cum ruit imbriferum ver:

Spicea jam campis cum messis inhorruit, et cum Frumenta in viridi stipula lactentia turgent:

Cuncta tibi Cererem pubes agrestis adoret.

Virgil.

MOON of Harvest, herald mild
Of plenty, rustic labor's child,
Hail! oh hail! I greet thy beam,
As soft it trembles o'er the stream,
And gilds the straw-thatch'd hamlet wide,
Where Innocence and Peace reside;

"T is thou that glad'st with joy the rustic throng, Promptest the tripping dance, th' exhilarating song.

Moon of Harvest, I do love
O'er the uplands now to rove,
While thy modest ray serene
Gilds the wide surrounding scene;
And to watch thee riding high

In the blue vault of the sky,

Where no thin vapor intercepts thy ray,

But in unclouded majesty thou walkest on thy way.

Pleasing 'tis, oh! modest Moon!
Now the Night is at her noon,
'Neath thy sway to musing lie,
While around the zephyrs sigh,
Fanning soft the sun-tann'd wheat,
Ripen'd by the summer's heat;
Picturing all the rustic's joy

When boundless plenty greets his eye,

Still he sleeps; he will not waken;
Fastly closed is his eye;

Paler is his cheek, and chiller
Than the icy moon on high.

Alas! he is dead,

He has chose his death-bed

All along where the salt waves sigh.

Is it, is it so, my Edwy?

Will thy slumbers never fly? Could'st thou think I would survive thee? No, my love, thou bid'st me die. Thou bid'st me seek Thy death-bed bleak

All along where the salt waves sigh.

I will gently kiss thy cold lips,

On thy breast I'll lay my head,

And the winds shall sing our death-dirge,
And our shroud the waters spread;
The moon will smile sweet,
And the wild wave will beat,
Oh! so softly, o'er our lonely bed.

And when the blust'ring winter winds Howl in the woods that clothe my cave, I lay me on my lonely mat,

And pleasant are my dreams.

And Fancy gives me back my wife; And Fancy gives me back my child; She gives me back my little home, And all its placid joys.

Then hateful is the morning hour, That calls me from the dream of bliss To find myself still lone, and hear The same dull sounds again.

The deep-toned winds, the moaning sea,
The whisp'ring of the boding trees,
The brook's eternal flow, and oft
The condor's hollow scream.

THE SHIPWRECKED SOLITARY'S SONG
TO THE NIGHT.

THOU, spirit of the spangled night!
I woo thee from the watch-tower high,
Where thou dost sit to guide the bark
Of lonely mariner.

The winds are whistling o'er the wolds,
The distant main is moaning low;
Come, let us sit and weave a song!
A melancholy song!

Sweet is the scented gale of morn,
And sweet the noontide's fervid beam,
But sweeter far the solemn calm

That marks thy mournful reign.
I've pass'd here many a lonely year,
And never human voice have heard;
I've pass'd here many a lonely year,
A solitary man.

And I have linger'd in the shade,
From sultry noon's hot beam; and I
Have knelt before my wicker door,

To sing my evening song.

And I have hail'd the grey morn high
On the blue mountain's misty brow,
And tried to tune my little reed
To hymns of harmony.

But never could I tune my reed,
At morn, or noon, or eve, so sweet,
As when upon the ocean shore

I hail'd thy star-beam mild.

The day-spring brings not joy to me,
The moon it whispers not of peace!
But oh! when darkness robes the heav'ns,
My woes are mix'd with joy.

And then I talk, and often think
Aerial voices answer me;
And oh! I am not then alone-
A solitary man.

ELEGY

Occasioned by the Death of Mr. Gill, who was drowned in the river Trent, while bathing, 9th August, 1802.

| He sunk-the impetuous river roll'd along,
The sullen wave betray'd his dying breath;1
And rising sad the rustling sedge among,
The gale of evening touch'd the chords of death.

Nymph of the Trent! why did'st not thou appear, To snatch the victim from thy felon wave?

| Alas! too late thou camest to embalm his bier, And deck with water-flags his early grave.

| Triumphant, riding o'er its thumid prey,
Rolls the red stream in sanguinary pride;
While anxious crowds, in vain, expectant stay,
And ask the swoln corse from the murdering tido.

| The stealing tear-drop stagnates in the eye,
The sudden sigh by friendship's bosom proved,
I mark them rise-I mark the gen'ral sigh;
Unhappy youth! and wert thou so beloved?

| On thee, as lone I trace the Trent's green brink, When the dim twilight slumbers on the glade, On thee my thoughts shall dwell, nor Fancy shrink To hold mysterious converse with thy shade.

Of thee, as early I, with vagrant feet,

Hail the grey-sandal'd morn in Colwick's vale, Of thee my sylvan reed shall warble sweet, And wild-wood echoes shall repeat the tale.

And oh ! ye nymphs of Peon ! who preside
O'er running rill and salutary stream,
Guard ye in future well the halcyon tide

From the rude death-shriek, and the dying scream.

1 This line may appear somewhat obscure. It alludes to the last bubbling of the water, after a person has sunk, caused by the final expiration of the air from the lungs inhalation, by

| introducing the water, produces suffocation.

the Odes, that "To an early Primrose" was written at thirteen-the others are of a later date-The Sonnets are chiefly irregular; they have, perhaps, Do other claim to that specific denomination, than that they consist only of fourteen lines.

Such are the Poems towards which I entrest the lenity of the Public. The Critic will doubtless find in them much to condemn; he may likewise possaly discover something to commend. Let him scan my faults with an indulgent eye, and in the work of that correction which I invite, let him remember he is holding the iron Mace of Criticism over the flimsy superstructure of a youth of seventeen; and, re

cipline, and who has been but sparingly blessed with opportunities for the prosecution of scholastic pursuits, must necessarily be defective in the accuracy and finished elegance which mark the works of the man who has passed his life in the retirement of his study, furnishing his mind with images, and at the same time attaining the power of disposing those images to the best advantage.

The unpremeditated effusions of a Boy, from his thirteenth year, employed, not in the acquisition of literary information, but in the more active business of life, must not be expected to exhibit any considerable portion of the correctness of a Virgil, or the vigorous compression of a Horace. Men are not, I believe, frequently known to bestow much labor on their amusements: and these Poems were, most of them, written merely to beguile a leisure hour, or to fill up the languid intervals of studies of a severer nature.

Πας το οικείος εργον αγαπαω, “Every one loves his own work," says the Stagyrite; but it was no overweening affection of this kind which induced this publication. Had the Author relied on his own judg ment only, these Poems would not, in all probability, ever have seen the light.

Perhaps it may be asked of him, what are his motives for this publication? He answers-simply these: The facilitation, through its means, of those studies which, from his earliest infancy, have been the principal objects of his ambition; and the increase of the capacity to pursue those inclinations which may one day place him in an honorable station in the scale of society.

The principal Poem in this little collection (Clifton Grove) is, he fears, deficient in numbers and harmonious coherency of parts. It is, however, merely to be regarded as a description of a nocturnal ramble in that charming retreat, accompanied with such reflections as the scene naturally suggested. It was written twelve months ago, when the Author was in his sixteenth year:-The Miscellanies are some of them the productions of a very early age.-Of

1 This, and the following Poems, are reprinted from the little Volume which the author published in 1803.

TO MY LYRE.

AN ODE.

THOU simple Lyre;-Thy music wild Has served to charm the weary hour. And many a lonely night has 'guiled, When even pain has own'd, and smiled, Its fascinating power.

Yet, oh my Lyre! the busy crowd

Will little heed thy simple tones: Them mightier minstrels harping loud Engross, and thou and I must shroud Where dark oblivion 'thrones

No hand, thy diapason o'er,

Well skill'd, I throw with sweep sublime; For me, no academic lore

Has taught the solemn strain to pour,

Or build the polish'd rhyme.

Yet thou to Sylvan themes can'st soar;

Thou know'st to charm the woodland train: The rustic swains believe thy power Can hush the wild winds when they roar, And still the billowy main.

These honors, Lyre, we yet may keep,

I, still unknown, may live with thee, And gentle Zephyr's wing will sweep Thy solemn string, where low I sleep, Beneath the alder-tree.

This little dirge will please me more

Than the full requiem's swelling peal; I'd rather than that crowds should sigh For me, that from some kindred eye

The trickling tear should steal.

Yet dear to me the wreath of bay,
Perhaps from me debarr'd:

And dear to me the classic zone.
Which, snatch'd from learning's labor'd throne.
Adorns the accepted bard.