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And while the torrent thunders loud,
And as the echoing cliffs reply,
The huts

peep o'er the morning-cloud, Perch'd, like an eagle's nest, on high.

And holy men in cowl and hood
Are wandering up and down the wood.
But what avail they? Ruthless Lord,
Thou didst not sludder when the sword
Here on the young its fury spent,
The helpless and the innocent.
Sit now and answer groan for groan.
The child before thee is thy own.
And she who willly wanders there,
The mother in her long despair,
Shall oft remind thee, waking, sleeping,
Of those who by the Wharfe were weeping;
Of those who would not be consoled
When red with blood the river rollid.

IMITATION OF AN ITALIAN SONNET.
Love, under Friendship’s vesture white,
Laughs, his little limbs concealing;
And oft in sport, and oft in spite,
Like Pity meets the dazzled sight,
Smiles through his tears revealing.

But now as Rage the God appears!
He frowns, and tempests shake his frame!-
Frowning, or smiling, or in tears,
"T is Love; and Love is still the same.

TO A FRIEND ON HIS MARRIAGE. On thee, blest youth, a father's hand confers The maid thy earliest, fondest wishes knew. Each soft enchantment of the soul is liers; Thine be the joys to firm attachment due.

A CHARACTER. As through the hedge-row shade the violet steals, And the sweet air its modest leaf reveals; Her softer charms, but by their influence known, Surprise all hearts, and mould them to her own.

As on she moves with hesitating grace,
She wins assurance from his soothing voice;
And, with a look the pencil could not (race,
Smiles through her blushes, and confirms the choice.

TO TIIE

Spare the fine tremors of her feeling frame !
To thee she turns-forgive a virgin's fears!
To thee she turns with surest, tenderest claim:
Weakness that charms, reluctance that endears!

At cach response the sacred rite requires,
From her full bosom bursts the unbidden sigh.
A strange mysterious awe the scene inspires;
And on her lips the trembling accents die.

YOUNGEST DAUGHTER OF LADY".
An! why with tell-tale tongue reveal'
What most her blushes would conceal?
Why lift that modest veil to trace
The sera ph-sweetness of her face?
Some fairer, better sport prefer;
And feel for us, if not for her.

For this presumption, soon or late,
Know thine shall be a kindred fate.
Another shall in vengeance rise-
Sing Harriet's cheeks, and Harriet's eyes;
And, echoing back her wood-notes wild,
-Trace all the mother in the child !

O'er her fair face what wild emotions play!
What lights and shades in sweet confusion blend!
Soon shall they tly, glad harbingers of day,
And settled sunshine on her soul descend !

Ah soon, thine own confest, ecstatic thought!
That hand shall strew thy summer-path with flowers;
And those blue eyes, with mildest lustre fraught,
Gild the calm current of domestic hours !

THE ALPS AT DAY-BREAK. The sun-beams streak the azure skies, And line with light the mountain's brow: With hounds and horns the hunters rise, And chase the roebuck through the snow.

AN EPITAPH 2 ON A ROBIN-REDBREAST.
Tread lightly here; for here, 't is said,
When piping winds are hushed around,
A small note wakes from underground,
Where now his tiny bones are laid.
No more in lone and leatless groves,
With ruftled wing and faded breast,
His friendless, homeless spirit roves;
-Gone to the world where birds are blest!
Where never cat glides o'er the green,
Or school-boy's giant form is seen;
But Love, and Joy, and smiling Spring
Inspire their little souls to sing !

From rock to rock, with giant-bound, High on their iron poles they pass; Mute, Ic3t the air, convulsed by sound, Rend from above a frozen mass.

TO THE GNAT.

The goats wind slow their wonted way Up cragey steeps and ridges rude; Mark'd by the wild wolf for his

prey, From desert cave or hanging wood.

When by the greenwood side, at summer eve,
Poetic visions charm my closing eye;
And fairy scenes, that Fancy loves to weave,
Shift to wild notes of sweetest minstrelsy;

? There are passes in the Alps, where the guides tell you to move on with speed, and say nothing, lest the agitation of the air should loosed the snows above.

Allading to some verses which she bad written on an elder sister. a Inscribed on an urn in the flower garden at Hafod.

AN INSCRIPTION.

"T is thine to range in busy quest of prey,
Thy feathery antlers quivering with delight,
Brush from my lids the hues of heaven away,
And all is Solitude, and all is Night!
- Ah now thy barbed shaft, relentless fly,
Unsheathes its terrors in the sultry air !
No guardian sylph, in golden panoply,
Lifts the broad slueld, and points the glittering spear.
Now near and nearer rush thy whirring wings,
Thy dragon-scales still wel with human gore.
Hark, thy shrill horn its fearful larum flings!
-I wake in horror, and dare sleep no more!

SHEPERD, or Huntsman, or worn Mariner,
Whate'er thou art, who wouldst allay thy thirst,
Drink and be glad. This cistern of white stone,
Archd, and o'erwrought with many a sacred verse,
This iron cup chain'd for the general use,
And these rude seats of earth within the grove,
Were given by FATIMA. Borne hence a bride,
'T was here she turn'd from her beloved sire,
To see his face no more.' Oh, if thou canst,
('T is not far off) visit bis tomb with flowers;
And with a drop of this sweet water fill
The two small cells scoop'd in the marble there,
That birds may come and drink upon

his

grave, Making it holy!

A WISH. Mine be a cot beside the hill, A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my car; A willowy brook, that turns a mill, With

many a fall, shall linger near.

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivy'd porch shall spring
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;
And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing
In russet gown and apron blue.

The village church, among the trees, Where first our marriage-vows were given, With merry peals shall swell the breeze, And point with taper spire to heaven.

WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT. 1786. While through the broken pane the tempest sighs, And my step falters on the faithless floor, Shades of departed joys around me rise, With many a face that smiles on me no more; With many a voice that thrills of transport gave, Now silent as the grass that tufis their grave!

WRITTEN IN THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND,

SEPTEMBER 2, 1812.
Blue was the loch, the clouds were gone,
Ben Lomond in his glory shone,
When, Luss, I left thee; when the breeze
Bore me from thy silver sands,
Thy kirk-yard wall among the trees,
Where, grey

with
age,

the dial stands;
That dial so well-known to me!
– Though many a shadow it had shed,
Beloved Sister, since with thee
The legend on the stone was read.

The fairy-isles fled far away;
That with its woods and uplands green,
Where shepherd-huts are dimly seen,
And songs are heard at close of day;
That too, the deer's wild covert, fled,
And that, the asylumn of the dead :
While, as the boat went merrily,
Much of Rob Roy 3 the boatman told;
His arm, that feil below his knee,
His cattle-ford and mountain-hold.

Tarbat, thy shore I climb'd at last;
And, thy shady region pass'd,
Upon another shore I stood,
And look'd upon another flood; 5
Great Ocean's self! ('T is le who fills
That vast and awful depth of hills);
Where many an elf was playing round
Who treads unshod his classic ground;
And spiaks, his native rocks among,
As Fingal spoke, and Ossian sung.

Night fell; and dark and darker grew
That narrow sea, that narrow sky,
As o'er the glimmering waves we flew;
The sea-bird rustling, wailing by.
And now the grampus, half-descried,
Black and huge above the tide;
The cliffs and promontories there,
Front to front, and broad and bare;
Each beyond each, with giant-fect
Advancing as in haste to meet;

AN ITALIAN SONG.

DEAR is my little native vale,
The ring-dove buills and murmurs there;
Close by niy cot she tells her tale
To every passing villager.
The squirrel leaps from tree to tree,
And shells his nuts at liberty.

In orange-groves and myrtle-bowers,
That breathe a gale of fragrance round,
I charm the fairy-footed hours
With

my

loved lule's romantic sound; Or crowns of living laurel weave, For those that win the race at eve.

The shepherd's horn at break of day,
The ballet danced in twilight glade,
The canzonet avd roundelay
Sung in the silent greenwood shade,
These simple joys, that never fail,
Shall bind me to my native vale.

" See an anecdote related by Pausanias. iii, 20. ? \Turkisb superstition. 3 A famous out-law.

Signifying in the Ersid anguage an Isthmus. Loch-Long

TO THE BUTTERFLY.

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The shatter'd fortress, whence the Danc
Blew his shrill blast, nor rush'd in vain,
Tyrant of the drear domain:
All into midnight-shadow sweep,
When day springs upward from the deep!
Kindling the waters in its flight,
The prow wakes splendour; and the oar,
That rose and fell unseen before,
Flashes in a sea of light!
Glad sign, and sure! for now we hail
Thy flowers, Glenfinnart, in the gale;
And bright indeed the path should be
That leads to Friendship and to thee!

Oh blest retreat, and sacred too!
Sacred as when the bell of prayer
Tolld duly on the desert air,
And crosses deck'd thy summits blue.
Oft, like some loved romantic tale,
Oft shall my weary mind recall,
Amid the hum and stir of men,
Thy beechen grove and waterfall,
Thy ferry with its gliding sail,
And her-the Lady of the Glen!

Child of the sun! pursue thy rapturous flight,
Mingling with her thou lovest in fields of light;
And, where the flowers of Paradise unfold,
Quaff fragrant nectar from their cups of gold.
There shall thy wings, rich as an evening-sky,
Expand and shut with silent ecstasy!
-Yet wert thou once a worm, a thing that crept
On the bare earth, then wrought a tomb and slept.
And such is man; soon from his cell of clay
To burst a seraph in the blaze of day!

WRITTEN IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

OCTOBER 10, 1806.'

A FAREWELL. Once more, enchanting maid, adieu ! I must be

gone

while yet I may; Oft shall I weep to think of you, But here I will not, cannot stay.

The sweet expression of that face,
For ever changing, yet the same,
Ah no, I dare not turn to trace-
It melts my soul, it fires my frame!

Yet give me, give me, ere I go,
One little lock of those so blest,
That lend

your

check a warmer glow, And on your white neck love to rest.

Whoe'er thou art, approach, and, with a sigh,
Mark where the small remains of Greatness lie.2
There sleeps the dust of Fox for ever gone:
How near the Place where late his Glory shone!
And, though no more ascends the voice of Prayer,
Though the last footsteps cease to linger there,
Still, like an awful dream that comes again,
Alas! at best as transient and as vain,
Still do I see (while through the vaults of night
The funeral-song once more proclaims the rite)
The moving Pomp along the shadowy Isle,
That, like a Darkness, fill'd the solemn Pile;
The illustrious line, that in long order led,
Of those that loved Him living, mourn'd lim dead;
Of those the Few, that for their Country stood
Round Him who dared be singularly good:
All, of all ranks, that claim'd Him for their own;
And nothing wanting-but Himself alone !3

Oh say, of Him now rests there but a name;
Woni, as He was, to breathe ethereal fame?
Friend of the Absent, Guardian of the Dead !4
Who but would here their sacred sorrows shed !
(Such as He shed on Nelson's closing grave;
How soon to claim the sympathy He gave !)
In Him, resentful of another's wrong,
The dumb were eloquent, the feeble strong.
Truth from his lips a charm celestial drew-
Ah, who so mighty and so gentle too 25

What though with War the madding Nations rung,
« Peace,. when He spoke, was ever on his tongue!
Amidst the frowns of Power, the tricks of State,
Fearless, resolved, and negligently great!
In vain malignant vapours gather'd round;
He walked, erect, on consecrated ground.
The clouds, that rise to quench the Orb of day,
Reflect its splendour, and dissolve away!

-Say, when to kindle soft delight,
That hand has chanced with mine to meet,
How could its thrilling touch excite
A sigh so short, and yet so sweet?

O say—but no, it must not be.
Adieu! A long, a long adieu!
-Yet still, methinks, you frown on me,
Or never could I fly from you.

INSCRIPTION FOR A TEMPLE

DEDICATED TO THE GRACES. ?

APPROACI with reverence. There are those within
Whose dwelling-place is Heaven. Daughters of Jove,
From them flow all the decencies of life;
Without them nothing pleases, Virtue's self
Admired not loved : and those on whom they smile,
Great though they be, and wise, and beautiful,
Shine forth with double lustre.

1 After the Funeral of the Right Hon. Charles James Fox.

* Venez voir le peu qui nous resto de tant de grandeur, ote. --BOSSUET. Oraison funèbre de Louis de Boturbon.

* Et rien enfin ne manque dans tous ces honneurs, que celui à qui on les rend.-Ibid.

• Alluding particularly to his speech on moving a now writ for the borough of Tavistock, March 16, 1802,

See bat admirable delineation of his character by Sir James Mackintosh, which first appeared in the Bombay Courier, January 17, 1807.

"A phenomenon described by many navigators. * At Woburn-Abbey.

When in retreat He laid his thunder by, For lettered ease and calm Philosophy, Blest were his hours within the silent grove, Where still his godlike Spirit deigns to rove; Blest by the orphan's smile, the widow's prayer, For many a deed, long done in secret there. There shone his lamp on Homer's hallow'd page; There, listening, sale the hero and the sage;

And they, by virtue and by blood allied,
Whom most He loved, and in whose arms He died.

l'riend of all tluman-kind! not here alone (The voice, that speaks, was not to thee unknown) Wilt Thou be missed. -O'er every land and sea Long, long shall England be revered in Thee ! And, when the Storm is husli’d-in distant yearsFoes on Thy grave shall meet, and mingle tears!

THE END.

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