LINES TO W. L., ESQ., WHILE HE SANG A SONG TO PURCELL'S MUSIC. WHILE my young cheek retains its healthful hues, Would make me pass the cup of anguish by, Mix with the blest, nor know that I had died! ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG MAN OF FORTUNE, WHO ABANDONED HIMSELF TO AN INDOLENT AND CAUSELESS MELANCHOLY. HENCE that fantastic wantonness of wo Pace round some widow's grave, whose dearer part Groans, and thine eye a fiercer sorrow dims, Know (and the truth shall kindle thy young mind) What nature makes thee mourn, she bids thee heal! O abject if, to sickly dreams resign'd, All effortless thou leave life's commonweal A prey to tyrants, murderers of mankind. SONNET. COMPOSED ON A JOURNEY HOMEWARD; THE AUTHOR HAVING RECEIVED INTELLIGENCE OF THE BIRTH OF A SON, SEPTEMBER 20, 1796. OFT o'er my brain does that strange fancy roll Which makes the present (while the flash doth last) Seem a mere semblance of some unknown past, Mix'd with such feelings, as perplex the soul Self-question'd in her sleep; and some have said We lived ere yet this robe of flesh we wore. O my sweet baby! when I reach my door, If heavy looks shall tell me thou art dead, (As sometimes, through excess of hope, I fear,) I think that I should struggle to believe Thou wert a spirit, to this nether sphere Sentenced for some more venial crime to grieve; Didst scream, then spring to meet Heaven's quick reprieve, While we wept idly o'er thy little bier! SONNET. TO A FRIEND WHO ASKED, HOW I FELT WHEN THE NURSE FIRST PRESENTED MY INFANT TO ME. CHARLES! my slow heart was only sad, when first I scann'd that face of feeble infancy: For dimly on my thoughtful spirit burst All I had been, and all my child might be ! And hanging at her bosom (she the while So for the mother's sake the child was dear, SONNET TO THE RIVER OTTER. DEAR native brook! wild streamlet of the west! But straight with all their tints thy waters rise, Thy crossing plank, thy marge with willows gray, And bedded sand that vein'd with various dyes Gleam'd through thy bright transparence! On my way, Visions of childhood! oft have ye beguiled Lone manhood's cares, yet waking fondest sighs: Ah! that once more I were a careless child! THE VIRGIN'S CRADLE HYMN. COPIED FROM A PRINT OF THE VIRGIN IN A DORMI, Jesu! Mater ridet, Si non dormis, Mater plorat, Blande, veni, somnule. ENGLISH. Sleep, sweet babe! my cares beguiling, Sleep, my darling, tenderly! * Ην που ημών η ψυχη πριν εν τωδε τω ανθρωπινω είδει γενέσθαι. PLAT in Phadon. MELANCHOLY. A FRAGMENT. STRETCH'D on a moulder'd abbey's broadest wall, That pallid cheek was flush'd: her eager look And her bent forehead work'd with troubled thought. Strange was the dream A CHRISTMAS CAROL. THE shepherds went their hasty way, And now they check'd their eager tread, They told her how a glorious light, While, sweeter than a mother's song, And closer still the babe she press'd; Thou mother of the Prince of peace, O why should this thy soul elate? Sweet music's loudest note, the poet's story,- And is not war a youthful king, Him earth's majestic monarchs hail Their friend, their playmate! and his bold bright eye "Tell this in some more courtly scene, And therefore is my soul elate. War is a ruffian, all with guilt defiled, * A botanical mistake. The plant which the poet here describes is called the hart's tongue. LINES TO W. L., ESQ., WHILE HE SANG A SONG TO PURCELL'S MUSIC. WHILE my young cheek retains its healthful hues, Would make me pass the cup of anguish by, Mix with the blest, nor know that I had died! SONNET. COMPOSED ON A JOURNEY HOMEWARD; THE AUTHOR HAVING RECEIVED INTELLIGENCE OF THE BIRTH OF A SON, SEPTEMBER 20, 1796. OFT o'er my brain does that strange fancy roll Which makes the present (while the flash doth last) Seem a mere semblance of some unknown past, Mix'd with such feelings, as perplex the soul Self-question'd in her sleep; and some have said* We lived ere yet this robe of flesh we wore. O my sweet baby! when I reach my door, If heavy looks shall tell me thou art dead, (As sometimes, through excess of hope, I fear,) I think that I should struggle to believe Thou wert a spirit, to this nether sphere Sentenced for some more venial crime to grieve; Didst scream, then spring to meet Heaven's quick reprieve, While we wept idly o'er thy little bier! SONNET. TO A FRIEND WHO ASKED, HOW I FELT WHEN THE NURSE FIRST PRESENTED MY INFANT TO ME. CHARLES! my slow heart was only sad, when first I scann'd that face of feeble infancy: For dimly on my thoughtful spirit burst All I had been, and all my child might be! But when I saw it on its mother's arm, And hanging at her bosom (she the while Bent o'er its features with a tearful smile,) Then I was thrill'd and melted, and most warm Impress'd a father's kiss: and all beguiled Of dark remembrance and presageful fear, I seem'd to see an angel form appear— 'Twas even thine, beloved woman mild! So for the mother's sake the child was dear, And dearer was the mother for the child. SONNET TO THE RIVER OTTER. DEAR native brook! wild streamlet of the west! But straight with all their tints thy waters rise, gray, And bedded sand that vein'd with various dyes Gleam'd through thy bright transparence! On my way, Visions of childhood! oft have ye beguiled Lone manhood's cares, yet waking fondest sighs: Ah! that once more I were a careless child! THE VIRGIN'S CRADLE HYMN. COPIED FROM A PRINT OF THE VIRGIN IN A CATHOLIC VILLAGE IN GERMANY. DORMI, Jesu! Mater ridet, Si non dormis, Mater plorat, Blande, veni, somnule. ENGLISH. Sleep, sweet babe! my cares beguiling, Sleep, my darling, tenderly! * Ην που ημών η ψυχη πριν εν τωδε τω ανθρωπινω είδει γενέσθαι. PLAT. in Phadon. : ON THE CHRISTENING OF A FRIEND'S And such my infant's latest sigh! O tell, rude stone! the passer by, That here the pretty babe doth lie, Death sang to sleep with lullaby. MELANCHOLY. A FRAGMENT. STRETCH'D on a moulder'd abbey's broadest wall, The dark green adder's tongue* was there; That pallid cheek was flush'd: her eager look And her bent forehead work'd with troubled thought. Strange was the dream A CHRISTMAS CAROL. THE shepherds went their hasty way, And now they check'd their eager tread, They told her how a glorious light, While, sweeter than a mother's song, She listen'd to the tale divine, And closer still the babe she press'd; Thou mother of the Prince of peace, O why should this thy soul elate? Sweet music's loudest note, the poet's story,- And is not war a youthful king, Him earth's majestic monarchs hail Their friend, their playmate! and his bold bright eye Coinpels the maiden's love-confessing sigh. "Tell this in some more courtly scene, To maids and youths in robes of state! I am a woman poor and mean, And therefore is my soul elate. War is a ruffian, all with guilt defiled, * A botanical mistake. The plant which the poet here describes is called the hart's tongue. "A murderous fiend, by fiends adored, He kills the sire and starves the son; The husband kills, and from her board Steals all his widow's toil had won ; Plunders God's world of beauty; rends away All safety from the night, all comfort from the day. "Then wisely is my soul elate, That strife should vanish, battle cease: The mother of the Prince of peace. TELL'S BIRTHPLACE. IMITATED FROM STOLBERG. MARK this holy chapel well! Here first, an infant to her breast, God gave him reverence of laws, The eye of the hawk, and the fire therein! To nature and to holy writ The straining oar and chamois chase HUMAN LIFE. ON THE DENIAL OF IMMORTALITY. Ir dead, we cease to be; if total gloom Swallow up life's brief flash for aye, we fare As summer gusts, of sudden birth and doom, Whose sound and motion not alone declare, But are their whole of being! If the breath Be life itself, and not its task and tent, If e'en a soul like Milton's can know death, O man! thou vessel, purposeless, unmeant, Yet drone-hive strange of phantom purposes ! Surplus of nature's dread activity, Which, as she gazed on some nigh-finish'd vase, Retreating slow, with meditative pause, She form'd with restless hands unconsciously! Blank accident! nothing's anomaly! If rootless thus, thus substanceless thy state, Go, weigh thy dreams, and be thy hopes, thy fears, The counter-weights!-Thy laughter and thy tears Mean but themselves, each fittest to create, And to repay the other! Why rejoices Thy heart with hollow joy for hollow good? Why cowl thy face beneath the mourner's hood, Why waste thy sighs, and thy lamenting voices, Image of image, ghost of ghostly elf, That such a thing as thou feel'st warm or cold! ELEGY, IMITATED FROM ONE OF AKENSIDE'S BLANK VERSE INSCRIPTIONS. NEAR the lone pile with ivy overspread, Fast by the rivulet's sleep-persuading sound, Where " sleeps the moonlight" on yon verdant bed O humbly press that consecrated ground! For there does Edmund rest, the learned swain! Like some tall tree that spreads its branches wide, But soon did righteous Heaven her guilt pursue! Where'er with wilder'd steps she wander'd pale, Still Edmund's image rose to blast her view, Still Edmund's voice accused her in each gale. With keen regret, and conscious guilt's alarms, Go, traveller! tell the tale with sorrow fraught: THE VISIT OF THE GODS. IMITATED FROM SCHILLER. NEVER, believe me, Appear the immortals, Never alone: Scarce had I welcomed the sorrow-beguiler, Iacchus but in came boy Cupid the smiler; |