TO TRANQUILLITY.

TRANQUILLITY! thou better name
Than all the family of Fame!
Thou ne'er wilt leave my riper age
To low intrigue or factious rage:
For oh! dear child of thoughtful Truth,

To thee I gave my early youth,

And left the bark, and bless'd the steadfast shore, Ere yet the tempest rose, and scared me with its

roar.

Who late and lingering seeks thy shrine,
On him but seldom, power divine,

Thy spirit rests, Satiety

And Sloth, poor counterfeits of thee,
Mock the tired worldling. Idle Hope
And dire Remembrance interlope

To vex the feverish slumbers of the mind:

The bubble floats before, the spectre stalks behind.

But me thy gentle hand will lead

At morning through the' accustom'd mead;
And in the sultry summer's heat
Will build me up a mossy seat!

And when the gust of Autumn crowds
And breaks the busy moonlight clouds,

Thou best the thought canst raise, the heart

attune,

[moon.

Light as the busy clouds, calm as the gliding

VOL. III.

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The feeling heart, the searching soul,
To thee I dedicate the whole!
And while within myself I trace
The greatness of some future race,
Aloof with hermit eye I scan

The present works of present man

A wild and dreamlike trade of blood and guile, Too foolish for a tear, too wicked for a smile!

COLERIDGE.

TO CONTEMPLATION.

FAINT gleams the evening radiance through the sky,

The sober twilight dimly darkens round; In short quick circles the shrill bat flits by,

And the slow vapour curls along the ground.

Now the pleased eye from yon lone cottage sees
On the green mead the smoke long-shadowing
The redbreast on the blossom'd spray [play;
Warbles wild her latest lay,

And sleeps along the dale the silent breeze.
Calm Contemplation, 'tis thy favourite hour!
Come, fill my bosom, tranquillizing power!
Meek Power! I view thee on the calmy shore
When Ocean stills his waves to rest;
Or when, slow moving on, the surges hoar
Meet with deep hollow roar,

And whiten o'er his breast;

For lo! the moon with softer radiance gleams, And lovelier heave the billows in her beams.

When the low gales of evening moan along,
I love with thee to feel the calm cool breeze,
And roam the pathless forest wilds among,

Listening the mellow murmur of the trees
Full foliaged, as they lift their arms on high,
And wave their shadowy heads in wildest melody.

Or lead me where, amid the tranquil vale,
The broken stream flows on in silver light,
And I will linger where the gale

O'er the bank of violets sighs,

Listening to hear its soften'd sounds arise;
And hearken the dull beetle's drowsy flight:
And watch the horn-eyed snail

Creep o'er his long moon-glittering trail,
And mark where, radiant through the night,
Moves in the grass-green hedge the glowworm's
living light.

Thee, meekest Power! I love to meet,
As oft with ever solitary pace

The scatter'd Abbey's hallow'd rounds I trace,

And listen to the echoings of my feet.

Or on the half demolish'd tomb,

Whose warning texts anticipate my doom,
Mark the clear orb of night

Cast through the storying glass a faintly varied light.

Nor will I not in some more gloomy hour
Invoke with fearless awe thine holier power,

Wandering beneath the sainted pile

When the blast moans along the darksome aisle, And clattering patters all around

The midnight shower with dreary sound.

But sweeter 'tis to wander wild
By melancholy's dream beguiled,
While the summer moon's pale ray
Faintly guides me on my way
To the lone romantic glen
Far from all the haunts of men,
Where no noise of uproar rude
Breaks the calm of solitude,
But soothing Silence sleeps in all,
Save the neighbouring waterfall,
Whose hoarse waters falling near
Load with hollow sounds the ear,
And with down-dash'd torrent white
Gleam hoary through the shades of night.
Thus wandering silent on and slow
I'll nurse Reflection's sacred woe,
And muse upon the perish'd day

When Hope would weave her visions gay,
Ere Fancy chill'd by adverse fate
Left sad Reality my mate.

O Contemplation! when to Memory's eyes
The visions of the long past days arise,
Thy holy power imparts the best relief,
And the calm'd spirit loves the joy of grief.

SOUTHEY.

TO

THE REV. JOHN IRELAND.

IMITATION OF HORACE, LIB. III. ODE XVI.

WHEN howling winds and louring skies
The light untimber'd bark surprise
Near Orkney's boisterous seas,
The trembling crew forget to swear,
And bend the knees, unused to prayer,
To ask a little ease.

For ease the Turk, ferocious, prays, For ease the barbarous Russ, for ease Which Palk could ne'er obtain ; Which Bedford lack'd amidst his store, And liberal Clive, with mines of ore, Oft bade for-but in vain.

For not the liveried troop that wait
Around the mansions of the great
Can keep, my friend, aloof
Fear, that attacks the mind by fits,
And Care, that like a raven flits
Around the lordly roof.

'O, well is he' to whom kind Heaven
A decent competence has given !
Rich in the blessing sent,

He grasps not anxiously at more,
Dreads not to use his little store,
And fattens on content.