TELL me, on what holy ground
May Domestic Peace be found?
Halcyon daughter of the skies,
Far on fearful wings she flies,
From the pomp of scepter'd state,
From the rebel's noisy hate.
In a cottaged vale she dwells,
List'ning to the Sabbath bells!
Still around her steps are seen
Spotless Honour's meeker mien;
Love, the sire of pleasing fears,
Sorrow, smiling through her tears;
And, conscious of the past employ,
Memory, bosom-spring of joy.
WRITTEN AT THE KING'S ARMS, ROSS,
RICHER than misers o'er their countless hoards,
Nobler than kings, or king-polluted lords,
Here dwelt the Man of Ross. O trav'ller, hear!
Departed merit claims a reverent tear.
If 'neath this roof thy wine-cheer'd moments
Fill to the good man's name one grateful glass :
To higher zest shall mem'ry wake thy soul,
And virtue mingle in th' ennobled bowl.
But if, like mine, thro' life's distressful scene,
Lonely and sad thy pilgrimage hath been;
And if, thy breast with heart-sick anguish
fraught,
Thou journeyest onward, tempest-tossed in thought;
Here cheat thy cares! in gen'rous visions melt, And dream of goodness, thou hast never felt!
TOGETHER WITH AN UNFINISHED POEM.
THUS far my scanty brain hath built the rhyme
Elaborate and swelling: yet the heart
Not owns it. From thy spirit-breathing powers
I ask not now, my friend, the aiding verse,
Tedious to thee, and from thy anxious thought
Of dissonant mood. In fancy (well I know)
From business wand'ring far and local cares,
Thou creepest round a dear-lov'd sister's bed
With noiseless step, and watchest the faint look,
Soothing each pang with fond solicitude,
And tenderest tones medicinal of love.
I too a sister had, an only sister-
She loved me dearly, and I doted on her;
To her I pour'd forth all my puny sorrows,
(As a sick patient in his nurse's arms)
And of the heart those hidden maladies
That even from friendship's eye will shrink
asham'd.
O, I have woke at midnight, and have wept Because she was not !-Checrily, dear Charles!
Thou thy best friend shalt cherish many a
Such warm presagings feel I of high hope.
For not uninterested the dear maid
I've view'd her soul affectionate yet wise,
Her polish'd wit as mild as lambent glories,
That play around a sainted infant's head.
He knows (the Spirit that in secret sees,
Of whose omniscient and all-spreading love
Aught to implore* were impotence of mind)
That my mute thoughts are sad before his
throne,
Prepar'd, when he his healing ray vouchsafes,
To pour forth thanksgiving with lifted heart,
And praise him gracious with a brother's joy!
* I utterly recant the sentiment contained in the lines
Of whose omniscient and all-spreading love
Aught to implore were impotence of mind;
it being written in Scripture," Ask, and it shall be given you;" and my human reason being moreover convinced of the propriety of offering petitions as well as thanksgivings to the Deity.
WHEN faint and sad, o'er Sorrow's desert wild,
Slow journeys onward poor Misfortune's child;
When fades each lovely form by fancy drest,
And inly pines the self-consuming breast;
(No scourge of scorpions in thy right arm dread,
No helmed terrors nodding o'er thy head,)
Assume, O Death! the cherub wings of peace,
And bid the heart-sick wanderer's anguish cease.
Thee, Chatterton! yon unblest stones protect From want, and the bleak freezings of neglect! Escap'd the sore wounds of Affliction's rod, Meek at the throne of mercy, and of God Perchance, thou raisest high th' enraptur'd hymn Amid the blaze of seraphim.
Yet oft ('tis nature's call)
I weep, that heaven-born genius so should fall;
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