Dash'd upwards by the furious water-fall.
How solemnly the pendent ivy mass
Swings in its winnow! All the air is calm.
The smoke from cottage chimneys ting'd with light,
Rises in columns: from this house alone
Close by the water-fall, the column slants
And feels its ceaseless breeze.-But what is this?
That cottage, with its slanting chimney smoke,
And close beside its porch a sleeping child,
His dear head pillow'd on a sleeping dog,
One arm between its fore legs, and the hand
Holds loosely its small handful of wild flow'rs,
Unfilleted, and of unequal lengths-
A curious picture, with a master's haste,
Sketch'd on a strip of pinky-silver skin,
Peel'd from the birchen bark !-Divinest maid-
Yon bark her canvass, and these purple berries
Her pencil!-See-the juice is scarcely dried
On the fine skin! She has been newly here,
And lo! yon patch of heath has been her couch-
The pressure still remains! O blessed couch,
For this may'st thou flow'r early, and the sun
Slanting, at eve rest bright, and linger long
Upon thy purple bells! O Isabel,
Daughter of Genius, stateliest of our maids,
More beautiful than whom Alcæus woo'd,
The Lesbian woman of immortal song,
O child of Genius, stately, beautiful,
And full of love to all, save only one,
And not ungentle ev'n to me !-My heart,
Why beats it thus? Thro' yonder coppice wood
Needs must the path-way turn, that leads away
On to her father's house. She is alone! -
The night draws on-such ways are hard to hit
And fit it is, I should restore this sketch,
Dropp'd unawares, no doubt-Why should I
yearn
To keep the relique? "Twill but idly feed
The passion, that consumes me. Let me haste!
This picture in my hand, which she has left,
She cannot blame me, that I follow'd her,
And I may be her guide the long wood through!
Boy, who the rosy stream dost pass,
Fill up for me the largest glass,
The largest glass and oldest wine-
The laws of drinking give as mine.
Still must my ever-thirsty lip
From large and flowing bumpers sip:
Ye limpid streams, where'er ye flow,
Far hence to water-drinkers go;
Go to the dull and the sedate,
And fly the God whose bowers ye hate.
Placed on a venerable Oak at Rudhall*,
YE Britons, venerate this tree,
The guardian of our liberty
Through many a distant age.
Beneath its shade the Druid rose,
And wak'd the British youth from woes
To true heroic rage.
Forth from their woods they rush'd like flame;
What time Rome's hostile legions came,
They met them at the waves;—
And who shall call the conflict vain?
They perish'd on their native plain,
Nor liv'd a race of slaves.
And still this tree, to Britons dear,
Protects our rights from year to year;
Hence are our terrors hurl'd.
Ye Britons, venerate the Oak;
NELSON from this in thunder spoke,
And shook th' astonish'd world.
While this shall flourish in the glade,
What foe shall dare our rights invade?
O lovely tree! increase:
Still spread thy bending branches far,
Protect us from the woes of war,
And shelter us in peace.
* On occasion of the visit of Lord Nelson to that place.
YE wild winds of Heaven how dreadful you ravé,
As o'er the huge billows you sweep,
While thunder stalks forth from his echoing cave,
And lightnings illumine the deep.
The mariner starts at the heart-rending sound,
As the tempest howls loud through the sky,
While the broad-blazing welkin spreads horror around,
He breathes his despair in a sigh !
Alas! to his bosom is nature still dear?
For man does his heart dare to feel?
Can the rapture of friendship, the bliss of a tear,
To his soul with strong energy steal?
Yes! the heart-thrilling hopes of a far distant wife,
His offspring in childhood's soft bloom,
Makes the sailor still value the treasure of life,
And affrighted recoil from the tomb!
But welcome ye storms to the fetter-bound slave,
Ye thunderbolts burst on his head;
Oppression ne'er frowns on the realms of the grave,
Nor Cruelty tramples the dead!
Ye band of oppressors, yon vast mountain wave,
Now towering aloft to the sky,
Is big with destruction, no efforts can save,
Ye fiends how I smile when you die!
Dear shades of my parents I hasten to you,
Now rob'd in the glories of Heaven;
But know, to this breast, e'er I murmur'd adieu,
Revenge and dread triumph were given!
OLD HARPY jeers at castles in the air,
And thanks his stars, whenever EDMUND speaks,
That such a dupe, as that, is not his heir-
But know, old HARPY! that these fancy freaks,
Tho' vain and light, as floating gossamer,
Always amuse, and sometimes mend the heart:
A young man's idlest hopes are still his pleasures,
And fetch a higher price in Wisdom's mart
Than all the unenjoying Miser's treasures.
HERE lies the Devil-ask no other name.
Well-but you mean Lord? Hush! we mean the
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