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While he remembers with a sigh The comforts of his home.

Youth comes; the toils and cares of life Torment the restless mind;

Where shall the tired and harass'd heart Its consolation find?

Then is not Youth, as Fancy tells,

Life's summer prime of joy?
Al no! for hopes too long delay'd,
And feelings blasted or betray'd,
The fabled bliss destroy;
And Youth remembers with a sigh
The careless days of Infancy.

Maturer Manhood now arrives, And other thoughts come on, But with the baseless hopes of Youth Its generous warmth is gone; Cold calculating cares succeed, The timid thought, the wary deed, The dull realities of Truth; Back on the past he turns his eye, Remembering with an envious sigh The happy dreams of Youth.

So reaches he the latter stage Of this our mortal pilgrimage, With feeble step and slow; New ills that latter stage await, And old Experience learns too late That all is vanity below. Life's vain delusions are gone by, Its idle hopes are o'er, Yet age remembers with a sigh The days that are no more.

1798.

1793.

REMEMBRANCE.

The remembrance of Youth is a sigb.—ALI.

MAN hath a weary pilgrimage
As through the world he wends,
On every stage from youth to age
Still discontent attends;
With heaviness he casts his eye

Upon the road before,
And still remembers with a sigh
The days that are no more.
To school the little exile goes,
Torn from his mother's arms,—
What then shall soothe his earliest woes,

When novelty hath lost its charms, Condem'd to suffer through the day Restraints which no rewards repay, And cares where love has no concern: Hope lengthens as she counts the hours Before his wish'd return. From hard controul and tyrant rules, The unfeeling discipline of schools, In thought he loves to roam, And tears will struggle in his eye

THE SOLDIER'S WIFE.

DACTYLICS.

WEARY way-wanderer, languid and sick at heart, Travelling painfully over the rugged road, Wild-visaged Wanderer! ah for thy heavy chance!

Sorely thy little one drags by thee bare-footed, Cold is the baby that hangs at thy bending back, Meagre and livid and screaming its wretchedness.

Woe-begone mother, half anger, half agony, As over thy shoulder thou lookest to hush the babe, Bleakly the blinding snow heats in thy hagged face.

Thy husband will never return from the war again, Cold is thy hopeless heart even as Charity!Cold are thy famish'd babes.-God help thee, widowed One!

THE WIDOW.

SAPPHICS.

1795.

COLD was the night wind, drifting fast the snow fell, Wide were the downs and shelterless and naked, When a poor Wanderer struggled on her journey, Weary and way-sore.

This stanza was supplied by S. T. COLERIDGE.

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Lo I, the man who erst the Muse did ask
Her deepest notes to swell the Patriot's meeds,
Am now enforced, a far unfitter task,

For cap and gown to leave my minstrel weeds;
For yon dull tone that tinkles on the air
Bids me lay by the lyre and go to morning prayer.

Oh how I hate the sound! it is the knell

That still a requiem tolls to Comfort's hour; And loth am I at Superstition's bell,

To quit or Morpheus' or the Muse's bower: Better to lie and doze, than gape amain, Hearing still mumbled o'er the same eternal strain.

Thou tedious herald of more tedious prayers,

Say, hast thou ever summoned from his rest One being wakening to religious cares?

Or roused one pious transport in the breast? Or rather, do not all reluctant creep To liuger out the hour in listlessness or sleep?

I love the bell, that calls the poor to pray,
Chiming from village church its cheerful sound,
When the sun smiles on Labour's holy-day,

And all the rustic train are gather'd round,
Each deftly dizen'd in his Sunday's best,
And pleased to hail the day of piety and rest.

And when, dim shadowing o'er the face of day,
The mantling mists of even-tide rise slow,
As through the forest gloom I wend my way,
The minster curfew's sullen voice I know,
And pause, and love its solemn toll to hear,
As made by distance soft it dies upon

the car.

But thou, memorial of monastic gall!

What fancy sad or lightsome hast thou given? Thy vision-scaring sounds alone recall

The prayer that trembles on a yawn to heaven! And this Dean's gape, and that Dean's nasal tone, And Roman rites retain'd, though Roman faith be flown.

TO HYMEN.

1793.

GOD of the torch, whose soul-illuming flame Beams brightest radiance o'er the human heart, Of many a woe the cure,

Of many a joy the source;

To thee I sing, if haply may the Muse

Pour forth the song uublamed from these dull haunts, Where never beams thy torch

To cheer the sullen scene.

pour the song to thee, though haply doom'd Alone and unbeloved to waste my days, Though doom'd perchance to die Alone and unbewail'd.

Yet will the lark albeit in cage enthrall'd
Send out her voice to greet the morning sun,
As wide his cheerful beams
Light up the landscape round;

When high in heaven she hears the caroling,
The prisoner too begins her morning hymn,
And hails the beam of joy,
Of joy to her denied.

Friend to each better feeling of the soul,
I sing to thee, for many a joy is thine,
And many a Virtue comes

To join thy happy train.

Lured by the splendour of thy sacred torch,
The beacon-light of bliss, young Love draws near,
And leads his willing slaves

To wear thy flowery chain.

And chasten'd Friendship comes, whose mildest sway
Shall cheer the hour of age, where fainter burn
The fading flame of Love,
The fading flame of Life.

Parent of every bliss, the busy hand
Of Fancy oft will paint in brightest hues
How calm, how clear, thy torch
Illumes the wintry hour:

Will paint the wearied labourer at that hour, When friendly darkness yields a pause to toil, Returning blithely home

To each domestic joy;

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Sayst thou that Fancy paints the future scene
In bues too sombrous? that the dark-stoled Maid
With stern and frowning front
Appals the shuddering soul?

And wouldst thou bid me court her fairy form,
When, as she sports her in some happier mood,
Her many-coloured robes
Float varying in the sun?

Ah! vainly does the Pilgrim, whose long road
Leads o'er the barren mountain's storm-vext height,
With anxious gaze survey

The quiet vale, far off.

Oh there are those who love the pensive song,
To whom all sounds of Mirth are dissonant!
They at this solemn hour
Will love to contemplate!

For hopeless Sorrow hails the lapse of Time,
Rejoicing when the fading orb of day
Is sunk again in night,

That one day more is gone.

And he who bears Affliction's heavy load
With patient piety, well pleased he knows
The World a pilgrimage,
The grave the inn of rest.

WRITTEN ON SUNDAY MORNING.

Go thou and seek the House of Prayer!
I to the Woodlands wend, and there
In lovely Nature see the GOD OF LOVE.
The swelling organ's peal

Wakes not my soul to zeal,

Like the wild music of the wind-swept grove.
The gorgeous altar and the mystic vest
Rouse not such ardour in my breast,
As where the noon-tide beam
Flash'd from the broken stream,
Quick vibrates on the dazzled sight;

Or where the cloud-suspended rain
Sweeps in shadows o'er the plain;

Or when reclining on the cliff's huge height
I mark the billows burst in silver light.
Go thou and seek the House of Prayer!
I to the woodlands shall repair,
Feed with all Nature's charms mine eyes,
And hear all Nature's melodies.

The primrose bank shall there dispense
Faint fragrance to the awaken'd sense;
The morning beams that life and joy impart,
Shall with their influence warm my heart,
And the full tear that down my cheek will steal,
Shall speak the prayer of praise I feel!

Go thou and seek the House of Prayer!

I to the Woodlands bend my way,

And meet RELIGION there!

She needs not haunt the high-arch'd dome to pray, Where storied windows dim the doubtful day: With LIBERTY she loves to rove,

Wide o'er the heathy hill or cowslipt dale; Or seek the shelter of the embowering grove, Or with the streamlet wind along the vale.

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Fly, son of Banquo! Fleance! fly!
Leave thy guilty sire to die!

On every blast was heard the moan,
The anguish'd shriek, the death-fraught groan;
Loathly night-hags join the yell,
And see-the midnight rites of Hell!

Forms of magic! spare my life!
Shield me from the murderer's knife!
Before me dim in lurid light
Float the phantoms of the night-
Behind I hear my Father cry,
Fly, son of Banquo-Fleance, fly!
Parent of the sceptred race,
Boldly tread the circled space;
Boldly Fleance venture near-
Sire of monarchs-spurn at fear.

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Him Famine hath not tamed,

The tamer of the brave;

Him Winter hath not quell'd;

When man by man his veteran troops sunk down,
Frozen to their endless sleep,

He held undaunted on;
Ulim Pain hath not subdued.
What though he mounts not now
The fiery steed of war?

Borne on a litter to the fight he goes.

Go, iron-hearted King! Full of thy former fame. Think how the humbled Dane Crouch'd to thy victor sword; Think how the wretched Pole Resign'd his conquer'd crown; Go, iron-hearted King! Let Narva's glory swell thy haughty breast,— The death-day of thy glory, Charles, hath dawn'd

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