There pity's lute arrests his ear,
And draws the half reluctant tear;
And now at noon of night he roves
Along the embowering moonlight groves,
And as from many a cavern'd dell
The hollow wind is heard to swell,
He thinks some troubled spirit sighs,
And as upon the turf he lies,

Where sleeps the silent beam of night,
He sees below the gliding sprite,
And hears in Fancy's organs sound
Aërial music warbling round.

Taste lastly comes and smooths the whole,
And breathes her polish o'er his soul;
Glowing with wild, yet chasten'd heat,
The wonderous work is now complete.

The Poet dreams:

-The shadow flies,

And fainting fast its image dies.
But lo! the Painter's magic force
Arrests the phantoms fleeting course;
It lives-It lives-the canvas glows,
And tenfold vigour o'er it flows.
The Bard beholds the work atchiev'd,

And as he sees the shadow rise,

Sublime before his wandering eyes,

Starts at the image his own mind conceiv'd.

ODE,

ADDRESSED TO THE EARL OF CARLISLE, K.G.

RETIRED, remote from human noise,

A humble Poet dwelt serene,

His lot was lowly, yet his joys

Were manifold I ween.

He laid him by the brawling brook

At eventide to ruminate,

He watched the swallow swimming round,

And mused, in reverie profound,

On wayward man's unhappy state,

And pondered much, and paused on deeds of antient date.

II. 1.

"Oh, 'twas 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 honoured, while meek merit pines,
On penury's wretched couch reclines,

Unheeded in his dying moan,

As overwhelmed with want and woe, he sinks unknown.

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 Lyttleton 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 amaz'd, he thought to see

The Augustan age anew.

Filled 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 simple solitary beam,
While all around remained in customed night.

Still leaden ignorance reigns serene,

In the false court's delusive height,

And only our Carlisle is seen,

To illume the heavy gloom with pure and steady light.

DESCRIPTION OF A SUMMER'S EVE.

DOWN the sultry arc of day,

The burning wheels have urged their way,

And Eve along the western skies

Sheds her intermingling dyes.

Down the deep, the miry lane,
Creaking comes the empty wain,
And Driver on the shaft-horse sits,
Whistling now and then by fits;
And oft, with his accustom'd call,
Urging on the sluggish Ball.

The barn is still, the master's gone,
And Thresher puts his jacket on,
While Dick, upon the ladder tall,
Nails the dead kite to the wall,
Here comes shepherd Jack at last,
He has penned the sheep-cote fast,
For 'twas but two nights before,
A lamb was eaten on the moor:
His empty wallet Rover carries,
Nor for Jack, when near home, tarries.
With lolling tongue he runs to try,
If the horse-trough be not dry.
The milk is settled in the pans,
And

supper messes in the cans;

In the hovel carts are wheeled,

And both the colts are drove a-field;
The horses are all bedded up,

And the ewe is with the tup.
The snare for Mister Fox is set,
The leaven laid, the thatching wet,
And Bess has slink'd away to talk
With Roger in the holly-walk.

Now on the settle all, but Bess,
Are set to eat their supper mess;