He laid him by the brawling brook

At eventide to ruminate,

He watch'd the swallow skimming round,

And mused, in reverie profound,

On wayward man's unhappy state,

And pondered much, and paused on deeds of ancient

date.

II. 1.

"Oh, 't was not always thus," he cried,

"There was a time, when genius claimed

Respect from even towering pride,

Nor hung her head ashamed:

But now to wealth alone we bow,

The titled and the rich alone

Are honour'd, while meek Merit pines,

On penury's wretched couch reclines,

Unheeded in his dying moan,

[known.

As, overwhelmed with want and woe, he sinks un

III. 1.

"Yet was the muse not always seen

In poverty's dejected mien,

Not always did repining rue,

And misery her steps pursue.

Time was, when nobles thought their titles graced

By the sweet honours of poetic bays,

When Sidney sung his melting song,

When Sheffield joined the harmonious throng,

And Lyttelton attuned to love his lays.

Those days are gone alas, for ever gone!

No more our nobles love to grace

Their brows with anadems, by genius won,
But arrogantly deem the muse as base;

How differently thought the sires of this degenerate race!"

I. 2.

Thus sang the minstrel :- still at eve
The upland's woody shades among
In broken measures did he grieve,

With solitary song.

And still his shame was aye the same,
Neglect had stung him to the core;
And he with pensive joy did love
To seek the still congenial grove,

And muse on all his sorrows o'er,

And vow that he would join the abjured world no

more.

II. 2.

But human vows, how frail they be!
Fame brought Carlisle unto his view,
And all amazed, he thought to see

The Augustan age anew.
Fill'd with wild rapture, up he

rose,

No more he ponders on the woes

Which erst he felt that forward goes,

Regrets he'd sunk in impotence,

And hails the ideal day of virtuous eminence.

III. 2.

Ah! silly man, yet smarting sore
With ills which in the world he bore,

Again on futile hope to rest,

An unsubstantial prop at best,

And not to know one swallow makes no summer!
Ah! soon he'll find the brilliant gleam,
Which flashed across the hemisphere,
Illumining the darkness there,

Was but a single solitary beam,

While all around remained in custom'd night.

Still leaden ignorance reigns serene,

In the false court's delusive height,

And only one Carlisle is seen

To illume the heavy gloom with pure and steady light.

TO CONTEMPLATION.

COME, pensive sage, who lovest to dwell

In some retired Lapponian cell,

Where, far from noise and riot rude,

Resides sequestered solitude.

Come, and o'er my longing soul
Throw thy dark and russet stole,
And open to my duteous eyes
The volume of thy mysteries.

I will meet thee on the hill,
Where, with printless footsteps still,
The morning in her buskin gray
Springs upon her eastern way;
While the frolic zephyrs stir,
Playing with the gossamer,
And, on ruder pinions borne,
Shake the dewdrops from the thorn.
There, as o'er the fields we pass,
Brushing with hasty feet the grass,
We will startle from her nest
The lively lark with speckled breast,
And hear, the floating clouds among
Her gale-transported matin song,
Or on the upland stile, embowered
With fragrant hawthorn snowy flowered,
Will sauntering sit, and listen still
To the herdsman's oaten quill,
Wafted from the plain below;
Or the heifer's frequent low;
Or the milkmaid in the grove,
Singing of one that died for love.
Or when the noontide heats oppress,
We will seek the dark recess,

Where, in the embowered translucent stream,

The cattle shun the sultry beam,

And o'er us on the marge reclined,

The drowsy fly her horn shall wind,
While echo, from her ancient oak,
Shall answer to the woodman's stroke;

Or the little peasant's song,
Wandering lone the glens among,
His artless lip with berries dyed,
And feet through ragged shoes descried.
But oh! when evening's virgin queen
Sits on her fringed throne serene,
And mingling whispers rising near
Steal on the still reposing ear;
While distant brooks decaying round,
Augment the mixed dissolving sound,
And the zephyr flitting by
Whispers mystic harmony,
We will seek the woody lane,
By the hamlet, on the plain,
Where the weary rustic nigh
Shall whistle his wild melody,
And the croaking wicket oft

Shall echo from the neighbouring croft;
And as we trace the green path lone,
With moss and rank weeds overgrown,
We will muse on pensive lore,

Till the full soul, brimming o'er,
Shall in our upturned eyes appear,
Embodied in a quivering tear.
Or else, serenely silent, sit
By the brawling rivulet,

Which on its calm unruffled breast

Rears the old mossy arch impressed,
That clasps its secret stream of glass,
Half hid in shrubs and waving grass,