ROMANTIC Cliff, in Superstition's day,
Whose chamber'd rock was scoop'd by holy hand! Where lost to earth (as Cloyster legends say)
His church and cell some woe-wornAnchoret plann'd! Yet chose he not a drear ungenial site;
See o'er that smooth expanse of pastures green, What giant mountains heave their distant height; While glitters, as he winds, bright Trent between! Those lone and lifted towers that awe the West, See frowning still o'er Mary's regal woes! And mark that graceful spire + above the crest Of you fair hill, where Mercia's kings repose! Religious cliffs! forgive, with other view, With vow less holy, if our pilgrim train Short sojourn sweet in thy recess renew, Nor deem gay Pleasure's festal rites profane, Where Beauty's smile divine illumes thy rural reign!
RETURN, lov'd bark, for lo, the falling day,
Throws shadowy light athwart Trent's osier'd edge,
While hastening from the dashing oar away,
The timid cygnets seek the sheltering sedge,
With misty veil o'erhung!-Ah, now return!—
Thy simple tent protects a dearer charge,
Than Cydnus own'd, when erst his trophied urn
Pour'd wavy splendour round that gorgeous barge,
Whose silver oars to lutes Idalian play'd,
Whose silken streamers Cupid' self unfurl'd,
As down his tide the floating pomp convey'd
The boast of love and rival of the world.
The oracle had demanded a virgin victim of the blood-royal, as the price of Messenia's safety. The lot had fallen on the daughter of Lycurgus, who fled with her. Stimulated by ambition, Ariftodemus voluntarily offered his child: her betrothed husband, to save her life, asserted that she was pregnant; Ariftodemus immediately stabbed her, and bade the priest convince himself of the falsehood of this evasion. He obtained the crown; but the reflection, how he had obtained it, never could be obliterated; and, at length, he slew himself upon his daughter's tomb."
A Sepulchre. Time-Night.
YET
ET once again-again at this dread hour,
When nature slumbers in serene repose,
And only murderers wake:-I come to pause
O'er thy cold grave, my child! Again I come,
Worn out with anguish, and the keenest pangs
That frenzying Memory knows.
Ye sullen monumental groves of Death!
To you I come; escap'd the wearying cares
Of empire, and its loathsome pageantry—
Sunk to the father, comes the wretched king.
O thou cold clay-once moulded by the hand
Of lavish Nature to perfection's form-
Once animate with life, and youth, and love;
Once my Earine! Again I come
To pour my sorrows forth and call to view
What this cursed hand destroyed; when, wild with rage, With savage superstition, and the lust
Of empire, I destroy'd the fairest work
Of bounteous heaven-blasted the opening bud
Of beauty-cast away the ties of man-
And murdered my dear child!
I loved her-how I loved her witness heaven!
Witness the eternal grief that gnaws my heart;
Witness the days in fruitless efforts worn,
To check the bitter thoughts that still will rise;
Witness the nights, when Memory-sleepless fiend—
Fevers my throbbing brain. Oh, she was dear!
For she was all a father's heart could wish:
Health blossom'd in her cheek, and in her voice
The soul of music breath'd; her sparkling eye
Spoke each emotion of her gentle soul,
Most eloquent. Messenia never saw
A maid more lovely than Earine—
A happier father, than her barbarous sire.
Now I can praise thy falshood, when too late,
Androcles! I had sanction'd all his hopes.
He saw her eye beam love; he heard her voice
Breathe tenderness; and Nature bade him urge
The fond, false plea. Some fury, at that hour
Possess'd me- -in her breast I plung'd the sword,
Gor'd her white bosom, though her fearful eyes
Look'd up to me for aid, though her clasped hands
Clung round my knees for safety. I beheld
Her livid cheek convulse-I felt her grasp
My knees, in life's last struggle-I beheld
Her starting eye-balls;-calm, when thousands round
Rais'd one instinctive cry; when even the priest
Started, and shriek'd with horror-I was calm—
I only-I-her father!
Of Heaven lies heavy on the murderer now!
Earine! Androcles! look on me!
Behold me in the autumn of my days,
When, had I known to feel a father's love,
My daughter's care had smooth'd the path of age,
Behold me, withering like the blasted oak,
Struck by the wrath of Heaven. Nor ever night
Descends, but round my couch the furies throng,
Dreadful they smile, and in their red eyes glares
Horrible expectation!
Light'nings come-
Rush round my head-annihilate my woes!
Thou fearful spectre, wherefore dost thou come ?
Where dost thou beckon? Spirit of my child,
Why bare that bleeding breast? Earine,
Spare me! Earine! my murder'd child,
Spare thy poor father-tho' he spar'd not thee!
Thou pointest to the sword-this impious sword-
There is no hope-no mercy: I obey
The dreadful cali-accurst, abandon'd wretch,
Down to perdition!(He stabs himself.)
Addressed to a beautiful young Lady, who had been a long time absent on the Continent.
HE morn was bright-the tempest o'er,
The breeze blew lightly off the shore,
When CAROLINE, her lily hand
Wav'd as the left her native land.-
Still, with a tearful gaze, I mark,
Far off, the beauty-freighted bark,
Where melting from my aching view,
She proudly rides the billows blue.
Now dead appears each well-known scene,
The glassy brook, the meadow green,
The daisy'd lawn, the upland swell,
The shelt'ring cave, the mossy well;
The rofe hath lost her blushing bloom,
The lily shed her soft perfume;
And ev'ry shrub that decks the
But tells me of my absent love.
Unheeded now the woodman's song,
Echoes the russet wilds among;
Yon shepherd, tenant of the plain,
Now fills for me his flute in vain;
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