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For some great man, I could not tell
Then all around in just degree,
range of portraits you may see, Of mighty men, and eke of women Who are no whit inferior to men.
With these fair dames, and heroes round,
TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE.
MILD offspring of a dark and sullen sire!
Was nurs'd in whirling storms
Thee, when young spring first question'd winter's sway,
Thee on this bank he threw
In this low vale, the promise of the year,
Unnoticed, and alone,
So Virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms
Of life, she rears her head
While every bleaching breeze that on her blows,
And hardens her to bear
To the River Trent. Written on Recovery from Sickness.
ONCE more, O TRENT! along thy pebbly marge
A pensive invalid, reduced, and pale,
Wooes to his wan-worn cheek the pleasant gale.
Which fills with joy the throstle's little throat! And all the sounds which on the fresh breeze sail,
How wildly novel on his senses float!
As, lone, he watched the taper's sickly gleam,
The owl's dull wing, and melancholy scream, On this he thought, this, this, his sole desire, Thus once again to hear the warbling woodland choir.
GIVE me a cottage on some Cambrian wild,
Where far from cities, I may spend my days:
While on the rock I mark the browsing goat,
List to the mountain torrent's distant noise, Or the hoarse bittern's solitary note,
I shall not want the world's delusive joys; But, with my little scrip, my book, my lyre, Shall think
my lot complete, por covet more; And when, with time, shall wane the vital fire,
I'll raise my pillow on the desart shore,
Supposed to have been addressed by a Female Lunatic to a Lady.
st LADY, thou weepest for the Maniac's woe,
And thou art fair, and thou, like me, art young,
wrung. I bad a mother once-a brother too
(Beneath yon yew my father rests his head:) I had a lover once, and kind, and true,
But mother, brother, lover, all are fled!
Oh! gentle lady-not for me thus weep,
This Quatorzain had its rise from an elegant Sonnet, sioned by seeing a young Female Lunatic," written by Mrs. Lofft, and published in the Monthly Mirror.
The green sod soon upon my breast will lie,
And soft, and sound, will be my peaceful sleep. Go thou, and pluck the roses while they bloom-
My hopes lie buried in the silent tomb.
Supposed to be written by the unhappy Poet Dermody, in a Storm,
while on board a Ship in his Majesty's service.
LO! o'er the welkin the tempestuous clouds
Successive fly, and the loud-piping wind
While the pale pilot o'er the helm reclin'd,
His wakeful task, he oft bethinks him, sad,
Of wife, and little home and chubby lad, And the half-strangled tear bedews his eyes; I, on the deck, musing on themes forlorn,
View the drear tempest, and the yawning deep,
Nought dreading in the green sea's caves to sleep,