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Dear to my breast, beyond conception dear,
Would the long solitude of night appear:
Sweet would it be to hear the winds complain-
To mark the heavings of the moonlight main;
Sweet to behold the silent hamlet lie,
With

* * * *
But sweeter far
Rose not unshared, nor fell unmark'd by thee.

Man, at whose birth the Almighty hand stood still,
Pleased with the last great effort of his will,
Man, man alone, no tenant of the wood,
Preys on his kind, and laps his brother's blood:
His fellow leads where hidden pit-falls lie,
And drinks with ecstacy his dying sigh.

ODE TO LIBERTY.

THE harp is still! Weak though the spirit were HENCE to thy darkest shades, dire Slavery, hence ! That whisper'd in its rising harmonies;

Thine icy touch can freeze, Yet Mem'ry, with her sister, fond Regret,

Swift as the Polar breeze, Loves to recall the wild and wandering airs

The proud defying port of human sense. That cheer'd the long-fled hours, when o'er the strings Hence to thine Indian cave, That spirit hover'd. Weak and though it were To where the tall canes whisper o'er thy rest, To pour the torrent of impetuous song,

Like the murmuring wave It was not weak to touch the sacred chords Swept by the dank wing of the rapid west: Of pity, or to summon with dark spell

And at the night's still noon, Of witching rhymes, the spirits of the deep

The lash'd Angolan, in his grated cell,
Form'd to do Fancy's bidding; and to fetch

Mix'd with the tiger's yell,
Her perfumes from the morning star, or dye Howls to the dull ear of the silent moon.
Her volant robes with the bright rainbow's hues.

But come, thou goddess, blithe and free,
Thou mountain-maid, sweet Liberty!
With buskin'd knee, and bosom bare,

Thy tresses floating in the air;
Or should the day be overcast,

Come,--and treading on thy feet, We'll linger till the shower be past;

Independence let me meet, Where the hawthorn's branches spread

Thy giant mate, whose awful form A fragrant covert o'er the head.

Has often braved the bellowing storm, And list the rain-drops beat the leaves,

And heard its angry spirit shriek, Or smoke upon the cottage eaves ;

Rear'd on some promontory's peak, Or, silent dimpling on the stream,

Seen by the lonely fisher far,
Convert to lead its silver gleam;

By the glimpse of fitting star.
And we will muse on human life,
And think, from all the storms of strife,

His awful bulk, in dusky shroud,
How sweet to find a snug retreat

Commixing with the pitchy cloud; Where we may hear the tempests beat,

While at his feet the lightnings play, Secure and fearless,--and provide

And the deep thunders die away.
Repose for life's calm eventide.

Goddess! come, and let us sail
On the fresh reviving gale ;

O'er dewy lawns, and forests lone,
MILD Vesper! favorite of the Paphian Queen,

Till lighting on some mountain stone, Whose lucid lamp on evening's twilight zone,

That scales the circumambient sky, Sheds a soft lustre o'er the gloom serene,

We see a thousand nations lie, Only by Cynthia's silver beam outshone :

From Zembla's snows to Afric's heat,
Thee I invoke to point my lonely way

Prostrate beneath our frolic feet.
O'er these wild wastes, to where my lover bides,
For thou alone canst lend thy friendly ray,

From Italy's luxurious plains,
Now the bright moon toward the ocean glides-

Where everlasting summer reigns, No midnight murderer asks thy guilty aid,

Why, goddess, dost thou turn away! No nightly robber*

Didst thou never sojourn there? I am alone, by silly love betray'd.

Oh, yes, thou didst—but fallen is Rome : To woo the star of Venus ***

The pilgrim weeps her silent doom,
As at midnight, murmuring low,
Along the mouldering portico,

He hears the desolate wind career,
In every clime, from Lapland to Japan,

While the rank ivy whispers near.
This truth's confess'd, that man's worst foe is man.
The rav'ning tribes, that crowd the sultry zone,

III-fated Gaul! ambitious grasp
Prey on all kinds and colors but their own.

Bids thee again in slavery gasp Lion with lion herds, and pard with pard,

Again the dungeon-walls resound Instinct's first law, their covenant and guard.

The hopeless shriek, the groan profound: But man alone, the lord of ev'ry clime,

But, lo, in yonder happy skies, Whose post is godlike, and whose pow'rs sublime, Helvetia's airy mountains rise,

And, oh! on her tall cliffs reclined,

How beautiful upon the element Gay Fancy, whispering to the mind :

The Egyptian moonlight sleeps! As the wild herdsman's call is heard,

The Arab on the bank hath pitch'd his tent; Tells me, that she, o'er all preferr’d,

The light wave dances, sparkling, o'er the deeps; In every clime, in every zone,

The tall reeds whisper in the gale, Is Liberty's divinest throne.

And o'er the distant tide moves slow the silent sail. Yet, whence that sigh? O goddess ! say,

Thou mighty Nile! and thou receding main, Has the tyrant's thirsty sway

How peacefully ye rest upon your shores, Dared profane the sacred seat,

Tainted no more, as when from Cairo's towers, Thy long high-favor'd, best retreat ?

Rollid the swoln corse, by plague! the monster! slain. It has! it has ! away, away

Far as the eye can see around, To where the green isles woo the day!

Upon the solitude of waters wide, Where thou art still supreme, and where

There is no sight, save of the restless tideThy Pæans fill the floating air.

Save of the winds, and waves, there is no sound.
Egyptia sleeps, her sons in silence sleep!

Il-fated land, upon thy rest they come
Th' invader, and his host. Behold the deep

Bears on her farthest verge a dusky gloomWho is it leads the planets on their dance

And now they rise, the masted forests rise, The mighty sisterhood? who is it strikes

And gallants, through the foam, their way they make. The harp of universal harmony?

Stern Genius of the Memphian shores, awake

The foeman in thy inmost harbor lies, Iark! 't is the voice of planets on their dance,

And ruin o'er thy land with brooding pennon flies. Led by the arch-contriver. Beautiful Che harmony of order! How they sing, The regulated orbs, upon their path Chrough the wide trackless ether! sing as though

Ghosts of the dead, in grim array, syren sat upon each glitt'ring gem,

Surround the tyrant's nightly bed! And made fair music-such as mortal hand

And in the still, distinctly say, Ne'er raised on the responding chords; more like

I by thy treachery bled.

And I, and I, ten thousands cry; The mystic melody that oft the bard

From Jaffa's plains, from Egypt's sands, lears in the strings of the suspended harp, l'ouch'd by some unknown beings that reside

They come, they raise the chorus high, n evening breezes, or, at dead of night,

And whirl around in shrieking bands. Wake in the long, shrill pauses of the wind.

Loud, and more loud, the clamors rise,

“Lo! there the traitor! murderer! lies." This is the music which, in ages hushid,

He murder'd me, he murder'd thee, Cre the Assyrian quaff'd his cups of blood,

And now his bed his rack shall be. Sept the lone Chald awake, when through the night le watch'd his herds. The solitary man,

As when a thousand torrents roar,

Around his head their yells they pour. By frequent meditation, learnt to spell

The sweat-drops start, convulsion's hand l'on sacred volume of high mystery.

Binds every nerve in iron band. le could arrange the wandering passengers,

'Tis done! they fly, the clamors die, From the pale star, first on the silent brow

The moon is up, the night is calm. f the meek-tressed Eve, to him who shines,

Man's busy broods in slumbers lie; Son of the morning, orient Lucifer ;

But horrors still the tyrant's soul alarm, Sweet were to him, in that unletter'd age,

And ever and anon, serenely clear, The openings of wonder-He could gaze

Have mercy, mercy, heaven! strikes on dull midBill his whole soul was fill'd with mystery,

night's ear. And every night-wind was a spirit's voice, And every far-off mist, a spirit's form: bo with fables, and wild romantic dreams, le mix'd his truth, and couch'd in symbols dark.

ODE lence, blind idolatry arose, and men

ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE D'ENGHIEN. (nelt to the sun, or at the dead of night Pour'd their orisons to the cloud-wrapt moon.

What means yon trampling! what that light lence, also, after ages into stars

That glimmers in the inmost wood; Transform'd their heroes; and the warlike chief, As though beneath the felon night, Vith fond eye fix'd on some resplendent gem,

It mark'd some deed of blood; leld converse with the spirits of his sires :

Behold yon figures, dim descried Vith other eyes than these did Plato view

In dark array; they speechless glide. The heavens, and, fillid with reasonings sublime, The forest moans; the raven's scream Lalf-pierced, at intervals, the mystery,

Swells slowly o'er the moated stream,
Which with the gospel vanishd, and made way As from the castle's topmost tower,
'or noon-day brightness.

It chants its boding song alone :
A song, that at this awful hour
Bears dismal tidings in its funeral tone;

Tidings, that in some grey domestic's ear Oh! 't is not long since, George, with thee I wed Will on his wakeful bed strike deep mysterious fear. The maid of musings by yon moaning ware,

And hail'd the moon's mild beam, which now reneu'd And, hark, that loud report ! 't is done ;

| Seems sweetly sleeping on thy silent grave! There's murder couch'd in yonder gloom;

The busy world pursues its boisterous way, "T is done, 't is done! the prize is won,

The noise of revelry still echoes round, Another rival meets his doom.

Yet I am sad while all beside is gay; The tyrant smiles,--with fell delight

Yet still I weep o'er thy deserted mound. He dwells upon the * * * *

Oh! that, like thee, I might bid sorrow cease, The tyrant smiles ; from terror freed,

And 'neath the green-sward sleep the sleep aí pes. Exulting in the foul misdeed, And sternly in his secret breast Marks out the victims next to fall. His purpose fix'd; their moments fly no more,

SONNET. He points,—the poniard knows its own;

SWEET to the gay of heart is summer's smile, Unseen it strikes,-unseen they die,

| Sweet the wild music of the laughing Spring: Foul midnight only hears, and shudders at the groan. But ah! my soul far other scenes beguile, But justice yet shall lift her arm on high,

Where gloomy storms their sullen shadows fing. And Bourbon's blood no more ask vengeance from

Is it for me to strike the Idalian string-
the sky.

Raise the soft music of the warbling wire,
While in my ears the howls of fairies ring,

And melancholy wastes the vital fire !
SONNET.

Away with thoughts like these! to some lone case.
TO CAPEL LOFFT, ESQ.

Where howls the shrill blast, and where sweeps

the wave, LOFFT, unto thee one tributary song

Direct my steps; there, in the lonely drear, The simple Muse, admiring, fain would bring ;

I'll sit remote from worldly noise, and muse She longs to lisp thee to the listening throng,

Till through my soul shall Peace her balm infuse,
And with thy name to bid the woodlands ring.
Fain would she blazon all thy virtues forth,

And whisper sounds of comfort in mine ear.
Thy warm philanthropy, thy justice mild;
Would say how thou didst foster kindred worth,
And to thy bosom snatch'd Misfortune's child:

SONNET.
Firm she would paint thee, with becoming zeal,

Upright, and learned, as the Pylian sire, Poor little one! most bitterly did pain, Would say how sweetly thou couldst sweep the lyre, And life's worst ills, assail thine early age; And show thy labors for the public weal.

And, quickly tired with this pugh pilgrimage,
Ten thousand virtues tell with joy supreme, Thy wearied spirit did its heaven regain.
But ah! she shrinks abash'd before the arduous Moaning, and sickly, on the lap of life
theme.

Thou laid'st thine aching head, and thou didst sigh
A little while, ere to its kindred sky

| Thy soul return'd, to taste no more of strife!
SONNET.

| Thy lot was happy, little sojourner! TO THE MOON-WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER.

Thou hadst no mother to direct thy ways;

And fortune frown'd most darkly on thy days, SUBLIME, emerging from the misty verge

Short as they were. Now, far from the low stir Of the horizon dim, thee, Moon, I hail,

of this dim spot, in heaven thou dost repose, As, sweeping o'er the leafless grove, the gale

And look'st and smilest on this world's transient woes. Seems to repeat the year's funereal dirge. Now Autumn sickens on the languid sight,

And leaves bestrew the wanderer's lonely way, Now unto thee, pale arbitress of night!

SONNET.
With double joy my homage do I pay.

TO DECEMBER
When clouds disguise the glories of the day,
And stern November sheds her boisterous blight, DARK-visaged visitor! who comest bere
How doubly sweet to mark the moony ray,

Clad in thy mournful tunic, to repeat
Shoot through the mist from the etherial height, (While glooms and chilling rains enwrap thy feet)

And, still unchanged, back to the memory bring The solemn requiem of the dying year;
The smiles Favonian of life's earliest spring.

Not undelightful to my list’ning ear

Sound thy dull showers, as o'er my woodland sest,

Dismal, and drear, the leafless trees they beat:
SONNET

Not undelightful, in their wild career,
WRITTEN AT THE GRAVE OF A FRIEND.

Is the wild music of thy howling blasts,

| Sweeping the groves' long aisle, while sallen Time Fast from the West the fading day-streaks fly, Thy stormy mantle o'er his shoulder casts, And ebon Night assumes her solemn sway,

And, rock'd upon his throne, with chant sublime. Yet here alone, unheeding time, I lie,

Joins the full-pealing dirge, and winter weaves And o'er my friend still pour the plaintive lay. Her dark sepulchral wreath of faded leaves.

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SONNET.

For he was wont to love your madrigals;

And often by the haunted stream, that laves
MISFORTUNE.

The dark sequester'd woodland's inmost caves, . MISFORTUNE! I am young, my chin is bare;

Would sit and listen to the dying falls, And I have wonder'd much when men have told Till the full tear would quiver in his eye, How youth was free from sorrow and from care,

And his big heart would heave with mournful ecstacy. That thou shouldst dwell with me, and leave the old Sure dost not like me!-Shriveli'd hag of hate, My phiz, and thanks to thee, is sadly long;

SONNET. I am not either, Beldame, over strong ;

TO A TAPER. Nor do I wish at all to be thy mate,

"T is midnight.-On the globe dead slumber sits, For thou, sweet fury, art my utter hate!

And all is silence--in the hour of sleep; Nay, shake not thus thy miserable pate,

Save when the hollow gust, that swells by fits, I am yet young, and do not like thy face; And, lest thou shouldst resume the wild-goose chase, I wake alone to listen and to weep,

In the dark wood roars fearfully and deep, I'll tell thee something all thy heat to assuage,

To watch, my taper, thy pale beacon burn; -Thou wilt not hit my fancy in my age.

And, as still Memory does her vigils keep,

To think of days that never can return.

By thy pale ray I raise my languid head,
SONNET
SONNET.

| My eye surveys the solitary gloom;

And the sad meaning tear, unmixt with dread, As thus oppress'd with many a heavy care | Tells thou dost light me to the silent tomb.

(Though young yet sorrowful), I turn my feet Like thee I wane; like thine, my life's last ray

To the dark woodland, longing much to greet Will fade in loneliness, unwept away.
The form of Peace, if chance she sojourn there;
Deep thought and dismal, verging to despair,
Fills my sad breast; and, tired with this vain coil,

SONNETTE
I shrink dismay'd before life's upland toil.

TO MY MOTHER, And as amid the leaves the evening air

AND canst thou, Mother, for a moment think, Whispers still melody,– I think ere long,

That we, thy children, when old age shall shed When I no more can hear, these woods will speak;

Its blanching honors on thy weary head, And then a sad smile plays upon my cheek,

Could from our best of duties ever shrink? And mournful phantasies upon me throng,

Sooner the sun from his high sphere should sink And I do ponder with most strange delight

Than we, ungrateful, leave thee in that day,
On the calm slumbers of the dead man's night.

To pine in solitude thy life away,
Or shun thee, tottering on the grave's cold brink.

Banish the thought where'er our steps may roam,
SONNET.—TO APRIL

O'er smiling plains, or wastes without a tree,

Still will fond memory point our hearts to thee, EMBLEM of life! see changeful April sail

And paint the pleasures of thy peaceful home; In varying vest along the shadowy skies, While duty bids us all thy griefs assunge,

Now bidding summer's softest zephyrs rise, And smooth the pillow of thy sinking age,
Anon, recalling Winter's stormy gale,
And pouring from the cloud her sudden hail !

SONNET
Then smiling through the tear that dims her eyes,
While Iris with her braid the welkin dyes,

YES, 't will be over soon-This sickly dream
Promise of sunshine, not so prone to fail.

Of life will vanish from my feverish brain; So to us, sojourners in Life's low vale,

And death my wearied spirit will redeem
The smiles of Fortune flatter to deceive.

From this wild region of unvaried nain.
While still the Fates the web of Mystery weave: Yon brook will glide as softly as before,
So Hope exultant spreads her aëry sail,

Yon landscape smile,yon golden harvest grow,-
And from the present gloom the soul conveys Yon sprightly lark on mounting wing will soar,
To distant summers and far happier days.

When Henry's name is heard no more below. I sigh when all my youthful friends caress,

They laugh in health, and future evils brave;

Them shall a wife and smiling children bless,
SONNET.

While I am mouldering in my silent grave.
Ye unseen spirits, whose wild melodies,

God of the just Thou gavest the bitter cup;
At evening rising slow, yet sweetly clear,

I bow to thy behest, and drink it up,
Steal on the musing poet's pensive ear,
As by the wood-spring stretch'd supine he lies,

SONNET.
When he who now invokes you low is laid,
His tired frame resting on the earth's cold bed,

TO CONSUMPTION.
Hold ye your nightly vigils o'er his head,

GENTLY, most gently, on thy victim's head, And chant a dirge to his reposing shade! | Consumption, lay thine hand let me decay,

Like the expiring lamp, unseen, away,

Yes, thou didst wrong me, * * *; I fondly thought And softly go to slumber with the dead.

In thee I'd found the friend my heart had sought! And if 't is true, what holy men have said, I fondly thought, that thou couldst pierce the guise, That strains angelic oft foretell the day

And read the truth that in my bosom lies; of death to those good men who fall ihy prey, I fondly thought, ere Time's last days were gole, O let the aërial music round my bed,

| Thy heart and mine had mingled into one! Dissolving sad in dying symphony,

Yes,—and they yet will mingle. Days and years Whisper the solemn warning in mine ear! Will fly, and leave us partners in our tears: That I may bid my weeping friends good bye We then shall feel that friendship has a porer Ere I depart upon my journey drear :

To soothe affliction in her darkest hour; And, smiling faintly on the painful past,

Time's trial o'er, shall clasp each other's hand, Compose my decent head, and breathe my last. And wait the passport to a better land.

Thine,

H. &. WANTE
SONNET

Half-past Eleven o'Clock at Night.
TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF M. DESBARREAUX.
The judgments, Lord, are just : thou lovest to wear

CHRISTMAS DAY, 1804.
The face of pity and of love divine;
But mine is guilt—thou must not, canst not, spare, YEt once more, and once more, awake, by Harp!
While heaven is true and equity is thine.

From silence and neglect-one lofty strain, Yes, oh my God such crimes as mine, so dread, Lofty, yet wilder than the winds of Heaven,

Leave but the choice of punishment to thee; And speaking mysteries more than words can tell, Thy interest calls for judgment on my head, I ask of thee; for I, with hymnings high,

And even thy mercy dares not plead for me! Would join the dirge of the departing year.
Thy will be done-since 't is thy glory's due,
Did from mine eyes the endless torrents flow;

Yet with no wintry garland from the woods,
Smite—it is time—though endless death ensue,

Wrought of the leafless branch of ivy sear, I bless the avenging hand that lays me low.

Wreathe I thy tresses, dark December! now; But on what spot shall fall thine anger's flood,

Me higher quarrel calls, with loudest song, That has not first been drench'd in Christ's atoning

And fearful joy, to celebrate the day
blood.

Of the Redeemer.- Near two thousand suns
Have set their seals upon the rolling lapse

Tof generations, since the day-spring first
TO A FRIEND IN DISTRESS, Beam'd from on high!—Now to the mighty mass
Who, when the Author reasoned with him calmly, asked

Of that increasing aggregate, we add

One unit more. Space, in comparison "if he did not feel for him ?

How small, yet mark'd with how much misery! : "Do I not feel ?The doubt is keen as steel. Wars, famines, and the fury, Pestilence, Yea, I do feel-most exquisitely feel ;

Over the nations hanging her dread scowge;
My heart can weep, when from my downcast eye The oppressed too, in silent billerness,
I chase the tear, and stem the rising sigh :

Weeping their sufferance; and the arm of wrong,
Deep-buried there I close the rankling dart, Forcing the scanty portion from the weak,
And smile the most when heaviest is my heart. And steeping the lone widow's conch with tears.
On this I act, whatever pangs surround,

So has the year been character'd with woe 'Tis magnanimity to hide the wound!

In Christian land, and mark'd with wrongs and crimes When all was new, and life was in its spring, Yet 't was not thus He taught—not thus He lived, I lived an unloved solitary thing;

Whose birth we this day celebrate with prayer Even then I learnt to bury deep from day,

And much thanksgiving-He, a man of woes, The piercing cares that wore my youth away: Went on the way appointed, -path, though rude, Even then I learnt for others' cares to feel :

Yet borne with patience still :-He came to cheer Even then I wept I had not power to heal :

The broken-hearted, to raise up the sick, Even then, deep-sounding through the nightly gloom, And on the wandering and benighted mind I heard the wretched's groan, and mourn'd the To pour the light of truth. O task divine ! wretched's doom.

O more than angel teacher! He had words Who were my friends in youth?—The midnight fire To soothe the barking waves, and hush the winds; The silent moonbeam, or the starry choir;

And when the soul was toss'd in troubled seas, To these I 'plain'd, or turn'd from outer sight, Wrapt in thick darkness and the howling storte, To bless my lonely taper's friendly light;

He, pointing to the star of peace on high. I never yet could ask, howe'er forlorn,

Arm'd it with holy fortitude, and bade it smile For vulgar pity mixt with vulgar scorn;

At the surrounding wreck The sacred source of woe I never ope,

When with deep agony his heart was rackd. My breast 's my coffer, and my God's my hope. Not for himself the tear-drop dew'd his cheek, But that I do feel, Time, my friend, will show, | For them He wept, for them to Heaven He pray'd, Though the cold crowd the secret never know; His persecutors—" Father, pardon them, With them I laugh-yet when no eye can see, They know not what they do." I weep for nature, and I weep for thee.

Angels of heaven.

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