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 wocs,

When novelty hath lost its charms, Condem'd to suffer through the day liestraints which no rewards repay, And cares where love has no concern: llope lengthens as she counts the hours

Before his wishid 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

I pour the song to thce, 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 suu,

As wide his cheerful beams
Light up the landscape round;

THE CHAPEL BELL.
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 linkles 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.

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.

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?

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 millest sway
Shall cheer the hour of age, where fainter burn

The fading flame of Love,
The fading flame of Life.

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 cloom I wend my way,

The minster curfew's sullen voice I know, And pausc, and love its solemn toll to hear, As made by distance soft it dies upon the car.

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;

Parent of the sceptred race, Boldly tread the circled space ; Boldly Fleance venture nearSire of monarchs-spurn at fear.

Sisters, with prophetic breath, Pour we now the dirge of Death!

1793.

TO RECOVERY.

RECOVERY, where art thou? Daughter of Heaven, where shall we seek thy belp? Upon what hallow'd fountain hast thoa laid,

O Nymph adored, thy spell ?

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.