Oft with the babes we wandered in the wood, Gazed on her sun-burnt face with silent awe, Or viewed the forest-feats of Robin Hood :

Her tattered mantle, and her hood of straw ; Oft, fancy-led, at midnight's fearful hour,

Her moving lips, her caldron brimming o’er ; With startling step we scaled the lonely tower; The drowsy brood that on her back she bore, O'er infant innocence to hang and weep,

Imps, in the barn with mousing owlet bred, Murdered by ruffian hands, when smiling in its sleep. From rifled roost at nightly revel fed ; [shade,

Ye Household Deities ! whose guardian eye Whose dark eyes flashed thro' locks of blackest Marked each pure thought, ere registered on high; When in the breeze the distant watch-dog bayed :Still, still ye walk the consecrated ground,

And heroes fled the Sibyl's muttered call, And breathe the soul of Inspiration round. Whose elfin prowess scaled the orchard-wall. As o'er the dusky furniture I bend,

As o'er my palm the silver piece she drew, Each chair awakes the feelings of a friend.

And traced the line of life with searching view, The storied arras, source of fond delight,

How throbbed my fluttering pulse with hopes and With old achievement charms the wildered sight; To learn the colour of my future years ! [fears, And still, with Heraldry's rich hues imprest, Ah, then, what honest triumph flushed my breast; On the dim window glows the pictured crest. This truth once known-To bless is to be blest ! The screen unfolds its many-coloured chart. We led the bending beggar on his way, The clock still points its moral to the heart. (Bare were his feet, his tresses silver-grey) That faithful monitor 'twas heaven to hear, Soothed the keen pangs his aged spirit felt, When soft it spoke a promised pleasure near ; And on his tale with mute attention dwelt. And has its sober hand, its simple chime,

As in his scrip we dropt our little store, Forgot to trace the feathered feet of Time ? And sighed to think that little was no more, That massive beam, with curious carvings wrought, He breathed his prayer, “ Long may such goodness Whence the caged linnet soothed my pensive 'Twas all he gave, 'twas all he had to give. [live !" thought ;

Angels, when Mercy's mandate winged their flight, Those muskets, cased with venerable rust; Had stopt to dwell with pleasure on the sight. Those once-loved forms, still breathing thro’ their But hark! thro' those old firs, with sullen swell, dust,

The church-clock strikes ! yetender scenes, farewell ! Still, from the frame in mould gigantic cast, It calls me hence, beneath their shade, to trace Starting to life-all whisper of the Past !

The few fond lines that Time may soon efface.
As thro' the garden's desert paths I rove, On yon grey stone, that fronts the chancel-door,
What fond illusions swarm in every grove ! Worn smooth by busy feet now seen no more,
How oft, when purple evening tinged the west, Each eve we shot the marble thro’ the ring,

We watched the emmet to her grainy nest; When the heart danced, and life was in its spring;
Welcomed the wild-bee home on weary wing, Alas! unconscious of the kindred earth,
Laden with sweets, the choicest of the spring ! That faintly echoed to the voice of mirth.
How oft inscribed, with Friendship’s votive rhyme, The glow-worm loves her emerald-light to shed,
The bark now silvered by the touch of Time Where now the sexton rests his hoary head.
Soared in the swing, half pleased, and half afraid, Oft, as he turned the greensward with his spade,
Thro' sister elms that waved their summer-shade; He lectured every youth that round him played;
Or strewed with crumbs yon root-inwoven seat, And, calmly pointing where our fathers lay,
To lure the redbreast from his lone retreat ! Roused us to rival each, the hero of his day.

Childhood's loved group revisits every scene; Hush, ye fond flutterings, hush! while here alone
The tangled wood-walk, and the tufted green ! I search the records of each mouldering stone.
Indulgent MEMORY wakes, and lo, they live ! Guides of my life! Instructors of my youth!
Clothed with far softer hues than Light can give. Who first unveiled the hallowed form of Truth!
Thou first, best friend that Heaven assigns, below Whose every word enlightened and endeared;
To sooth and sweeten all the cares we know; In age beloved, in poverty revered;
Whose glad suggestions still each vain alarm, In Friendship’s silent register ye live,
When nature fades, and life forgets to charm; Nor ask the vain memorial Art can give.
Thee would the Muse invoke !--to thee belong But when the sons of peace, of pleasure sleep,
The sage's precept, and the poet's song.

When only Sorrow wakes, and wakes to weep, What softened views thy magic glass reveals, What spells entrance my visionary mind When o'er the landscape Time's meek twilight With sighs so sweet, with transports so refined ? As when in ocean sinks the orb of day, (steals ! Ethereal Power ! who at the noon of night Long on the wave reflected lustres play ;

Recall'st the far-fled spirit of delight; Thy tempered gleams of happiness resigned From whom that musing, melancholy mood Glance on the darkened mirror of the mind. Which charms the wise, and elevates the good ;

The School's lone porch, with reverend mosses Blest MEMORY, hail! Oh grant the grateful Muse, Just tells the pensive pilgrim where it lay. [grey, Her pencil dipt in Nature's living hues, Mute is the bell that rung at peep of dawn, To pass the clouds that round thy empire roll, Quickening my truant-feet across the lawn ; And trace its airy precincts in the soul. Unheard the shout that rent the noontide air, Lulled in the countless chambers of the brain, When the slow dial gave a pause to care.

Our thoughts are linked by many a hidden chain,
Up springs, at every step, to claim a tear, Y Awake but one, and lo, what myriads rise !
Some little friendship formed and cherished here; Each stamps its image as the other flies.
And not the lightest leaf, but trembling teems Each, as the various avenues of sense
With golden visions, and romantic dreams! Delight or sorrow to the soul dispense,

Down by yon hazel copse, at evening, blazed Brightens or fades; yet all, with magic art,
The Gipsy's fagot—there we stood and gazed ; Controul the latent fibres of the heart.

As studious PROSPERO's mysterious spell

Sate at the helm himself. No meaner hand
Drew every subject-spirit to his cell ;

Steered thro' the waves, and, when he struck the
Each, at thy call, advances or retires,

Such in his soul the ardour to explore, [land,
As judgment dictates, or the scene inspires. PELIDES-like, he leaped the first ashore.
Each thrills the seat of sense, that sacred source "Twas ever thus. As now at VIRGIL's tomb
Whence the fine nerves direct their mazy course, We bless the shade, and bid the verdure bloom :
And thro' the frame invisibly convey

So TULLY paused, amid the wrecks of Time,
The subtle, quick vibrations as they play ;

On the rude stone to trace the truth sublime ;
Man's little universe at once o'ercast,

When at his feet, in honoured dust disclosed,
At once illumined when the cloud is past.

The immortal sage of Syracuse reposed.
Survey the globe, each ruder realm explore ; And as he long in sweet delusion hung,
From Reason's faintest ray to NEWTON soar. Where once a Plato taught, a PINDAR sung ;
What different spheres to human bliss assigned ! Who now but meets him musing, when he roves
What slow gradations in the scale of mind! His ruined Tusculan's romantic groves ?
Yet mark in each these mystic wonders wrought ; In Rome's great forum, who but hears him roll
Oh mark the sleepless energies of thought ! His moral thunders o'er the subject soul ?

The adventurous boy, that asks his little share, And hence that calm delight the portrait gives :
And hies from home with many a gossip's prayer,

We

e gaze on every feature till it lives!
Turns on the neighbouring hill, once more to see Still the fond lover sees the absent maid ;
The dear abode of peace and privacy.;

And the lost friend still lingers in his shade!
And as he turns, the thatch among the trees, Say why the pensive widow loves to weep,
Thesmoke's blue wreaths ascending with the breeze, When on her knee she rocks her babe to sleep :
The village-common spotted white with sheep, Tremblingly still, she lifts his veil to trace
The church-yard yews round which his fathers sleep; The father's features in his infant face.
All rouse Reflection's sadly-pleasing train, The hoary grandsire smiles the hour away,
And oft he looks and weeps, and looks again. Won by the raptures of a game at play ;
So, when the mild TUPIA dared explore

He bends to meet each artless burst of joy,
Arts yet untaught, and worlds unknown before, Forgets his age, and acts again the boy.
And, with the sons of Science, wooed the gale

What tho’ the iron school of War erase
That, rising, swelled their strange expanse of sail; Each milder virtue, and each softer grace ;
So, when he breathed his firm yet fond adieu, What though the fiend's torpedo-touch arrest
Borne from his leafy hut, his carved canoe, Each gentler, finer impulse of the breast ;
And all his soul best loved-such tears he shed, Still shall this active principle preside,
While each soft scene of summer-beauty fled. And wake the tear to Pity's self denied.
Long o'er the wave a wistful look he cast,

The intrepid Swiss, who guards a foreign shore,
Long watched the streaming signal from the mast;

Condemned to climb his mountain-cliffs no more,
Till twilight's dewy tints deceived his eye,

If chance he hears the song so sweetly wild
And fairy-forests fringed the evening-sky.

Which on those cliffs his infant hours beguiled,
So Scotia's Queen, as slowly dawned the day, Melts at the long-lost scenes that round him rise,
Rose on her couch, and gazed her soul away. And sinks a martyr to repentant sighs.
Her eyes had blessed the beacon's glimmeriąg Ask not if courts or camps dissolve the charm :
height,

Say why VESPASIAN loved his Sabine farm ;
That faintly tipt the feathery surge with light ; Why great NAVARRE, when France and freedom
But now the morn with orient hues pourtrayed Sought the lone limits of a forest-shed. [bled,
Each castled cliff, and brown monastic shade : When DIOCLETIAN's self-corrected mind
All touched the talisman's resistless spring, The imperial fasces of a world resigned,

a
And lo, what busy tribes were instant on the wing! Say why we trace the labours of his spade

Thus kindred objects kindred thoughts inspire, In calm Salona's philosophic shade.
As summer-clouds flash forth electric fire.

Say, when contentious CHARLES renounced a throne,
And hence this spot gives back the joys of youth, To muse with monks unlettered and unknown,
Warm as the life, and with the mirror's truth. What from his soul the parting tribute drew ?
Hence home-felt pleasure prompts the Patriot's What claimed the sorrows of a last adieu ?
sigh;

The still retreats that soothed his tranquil breast
This makes him wish to live, and dare to die. Ere grandeur dazzled, and its cares oppressed.
For this young FOSCARI, whose hapless fate

Undamped by time, the generous Instinct glows Venice should

blush to hear the Muse relate, Far as Angola's sands, as Zembla's snows;
When exile wore his blooming years away,

Glows in the tiger's den, the serpent's nest,
To sorrow's long soliloquies a prey,

On every form of varied life imprest.
When reason, justice, vainly urged his cause,

The social tribes its choicest influence hail :
For this he roused her sanguinary laws ;

And when the drum beats briskly in the gale,
Glad to return, tho' Hope could grant no more,

The war-worn courser charges at the sound,
And chains and torture hailed him to the shore. And with young vigour wheels the pasture round.

And hence the charm historic scenes impart; Oft has the aged tenant of the vale
Hence Tiber awes, and Avon melts the heart. Leaned on his staff to lengthen out the tale ;
Aërial forms in Tempe's classic vale

Oft have his lips the grateful tribute breathed,
Glance thro' the gloom and whisper in the gale ;

From sire to son with pious zeal bequeathed. In wild Vaucluse with love and LAURA dwell,

When o'er the blasted heath the day declined, And watch and weep in Eloisa's cell.

And on the scathed oak warred the winter-wind ; 'Twas ever thus. Young Ammon when he sought When not a distant taper's twinkling ray, Where Ilium stood, and where PELIDES fought,

Gleamed o'er the furze to light him on his way ;

When not a sheep-bell soothed his listening ear, only anticipate the future, by concluding what is possible And the big rain-drops told the tempest near ;

from what is past. On her agency depends every effusion Then did his horse the homeward track descry,

of the Fancy, who with the boldest effort can only comThe track that shunned his sad, inquiring eye ;

pound or transpose, augment or diminish the materials

which she has collected and still retains. And win each wavering purpose to relent,

When the first emotions of despair have subsided, and With warmth so mild, so gently violent,

sorrow has softened into melancholy, she amuses with a That his charmed hand the careless rein resigned, retrospect of innocent pleasures, and inspires that noble And doubts and terrors vanished from his mind. confidence which results from the consciousness of having Recall the traveller, whose altered form

acted well. When sleep has suspended the organs of sense Has borne the buffet of the mountain-storm ; from their office, she not only supplies the mind with And who will first his fond impatience meet?

images, but assists in their combination. And even in

madness itself, when the soul is resigned over to the tyranny His faithful dog's already at his feet !

of a distempered imagination, she revives past perceptions, Yes, tho' the porter spurn him from the door,

and awakens that train of thought which was formerly Tho' all, that knew him, know his face no more, most familiar. His faithful dog shall tell his joy to each,

Nor are we pleased only with a review of the brighter With that mute eloquence which passes speech.— passages of life. Events, the most distressing in their And see, the master but returns to die !

immediate consequences, are often cherished in remem. Yet who shall bid the watchful servant fly?

brance with a degree of enthusiasm. The blasts of heaven, the drenching dews of earth,

But the world and its occupations give a mechanical The wanton insults of unfeeling mirth,

impulse to the passions, which is not very favourable to

the indulgence of this feeling. It is in a calm and wellThese, when to guard Misfortune's sacred grave,

regulated mind that the Memory is most perfect; and Will firm Fidelity exult to brave.

solitude is her best sphere of action. With this sentiment Led by what chart, transports the timid dov

is introduced a Tale illustrative of her influence in solitude, The wreaths of conquest, or the vows of love? sickness, and sorrow. And the subject having now been Say, thro’ the clouds what compass points her flight? considered, so far as it relates to man and the animal Monarchs have gazed, and nations blessed the sight. world, the Poem concludes with a conjecture that suPile rocks on rocks, bid woods and mountains rise, perior beings are blest with a nobler exercise of this faculty. Eclipse her native shades, her native skies :'Tis vain ! thro’ Ether's pathless wilds she goes, And lights at last where all her cares repose.

Sweet bird ! thy truth shall Harlem's walls attesta SWEET MEMORY, wafted by thy gentle gale, And unborn ages consecrate thy nest.

Oft up the stream of Time I turn my sail, When, with the silent energy of grief,

To view the fairy haunts of long-lost hours, With looks that asked, yet dared not hope relief, Blest with far greener shades, far fresher flowers. Want with her babes round generous Valour clung, Ages and climes remote to Thee impart To wring the slow surrender from his tongue,

What charms in Genius, and refines in Art'; 'Twas thine to animate her closing eye ;

Thee, in whose hands the keys of Science dwell, Alas ! 'twas thine perchance the first to die, The pensive portress of her holy cell ; Crushed by her meagre hand when welcomed from Whose constant vigils chase the chilling damp the sky.“

Oblivion steals upon her vestal-lamp: Hark! the bee winds her small but mellow horn, They in their glorious course the guides of Youth, Blithe to salute the sunny smile of morn.

Whose language breathed the eloquence of Truth ; O’er thymy downs-she bends her busy course,

Whose life, beyond preceptive wisdom, taught And many a stream allures her to its source. The great in conduct, and the pure in thought ; 'Tis noon, 'tis night. That eye so finely wrought, These still exist, by Thée to Fame consigned, Beyond the search of sense, the soar of thought, Still speak and act, the models of mankind. Now vainly asks the scenes she left behind ;

From Thee gay Hope her airy colouring draws ; Its orb so full, its vision so confined !

And Fancy's flights are subject to thy laws. Who guides the patient pilgrim to her cell ? From Thee that bosom-spring of rapture flows, Who bids her soul with conscious triumph swell ? Which only Virtue, tranquil Virtue, knows. With conscious truth, retrace the mazy clue

When Joy's bright sun has shed his evening-ray, Of summer-scents, that charmed her as she flew ? And Hope's delusive meteors cease to play ; Hail, MEMORY, hail ! thy universal reign

When clouds on clouds the smiling prospect close, Guards the least link of Being's glorious chain.

Still thro' the gloom thy star serenely glows :
Like yon fair orb, she gilds the brow of night
With the mild magic of reflected light.

The beauteous maid, who bids the world adieu,

Oft of that world will snatch a fond review ;
PART II.

Oft at the shrine neglect her beads, to trace
Delle cose custode e despensiera.- TASSO

Some social scene, some dear, familiar face :
And ere, with iron-tongue, the vesper-bell

Bursts thro' the cypress-walk, the convent-cell,
ANALYSIS OF THE SECOND PART.

Oft will her warm and wayward heart revive,

To love and joy still tremblingly alive ; The Memory has hitherto acted only in subservience to

The whispered vow, the chaste caress prolong, the senses, and so far man ís not eminently distinguished from other animals : but, with respect to man, she has a

Weave the light dance and swell the choral song; higher province; and is often busily employed, when ex

With rapt ear drink the enchanting serenade, cited by no external cause whatever. She preserves, for

And, as it melts along the moonlight-glade, his use, the treasures of art and science, history and phi

To each soft note return as soft a sigh, losophy. She colours all the prospects of life ; for we can And bless the youth that bids her slumbers fly.

But not till Time has calmed the ruffled breast, Cold was her grasp, a withering scowl she wore; Are these fond dreams of happiness confest. And Hope's soft energies were felt no more. Not till the rushing winds forget to rave,

Yet still how sweet the soothings of his art ! Is Heaven's sweet smile reflected on the wave. From the rude wall what bright ideas start!

From Guinea's coast pursue the lessening sail, Even now he claims the amaranthine wreath, And catch the sounds that sadden every gale. With scenes that glow, with images that breathe! Tell, if thou canst, the sum of sorrows there; And whence these scenes, these images, declare. Mark the fixed gaze, the wild and frenzied glare, Whence but from Her who triumphs o'er despair ? The racks of thought, and freezings of despair ! Awake, arise ! with grateful fervour fraught, But pause not then-beyond the western wave, Go, spring the mine of elevating thought. Go, see the captive bartered as a slave !

He, who, thro’ Nature's various walk, surveys Crushed till his high, heroic spirit bleeds,

The good and fair her faultless line pourtrays ; And from his nerveless frame indignantly recedes. 1.Whose mind, profaned by no unhallowed guest,

Yet here, even here, with pleasures long resigned, Culls from the crowd the purest and the best ; Lo! Memory bursts the twilight of the mind. May range, at will, bright Fancy's golden clime, Her dear delusions sooth his sinking soul,

Or, musing, mount where Science sits sublime, When the rude scourge assumes its base controul; Or wake the Spirit of departed Time. And o’er Futurity's blank page

diffuse

Who acts thus wisely, mark the moral Muse, The full reflection of her vivid hues.

A blooming Eden in his life reviews ! "Tis but to die, and then, to weep no more, So rich the culture, tho' so small the space, Then will he wake on Congo's distant shore; Its scanty limits he forgets to trace. Beneath his plantain's ancient shade renew But the fond fool, when evening shades the sky, The simple transports that with freedom flew; Turns but to start, and gazes but to sigh! Catch the cool breeze that musky Evening blows, The weary waste, that lengthened as he ran, And quaff the palm's rich nectar as it glows; Fades to a blank, and dwindles to a span ! The oral tale of elder time rehearse,

Ah! who can tell the triumphs of the mind, And chant the rude, traditionary verse

By truth illumined, and by taste refined ? With those, the loved companions of his youth, When age has quenched the eye, and closed the ear, When life was luxury, and friendship truth. Still nerved for action in her native sphere,

Ah! why should Virtue fear the frowns of Fate? Oft will she rise-with searching glance pursue Hers what no wealth can buy, no power create! Some long-loved image vanished from her view; A little world of clear and cloudless day,

Dart thro' the deep recesses of the past, Nor wrecked by storms, nor mouldered by decay; O'er dusky forms in chains of slumber cast; A world, with MEMORY's ceaseless sunshine blest, With giant-grasp fling back the folds of night, The home of Happiness, an honest breast. And snatch the faithless fugitive to light.

But most we mark the wonders of her reign, So thro' the grove the impatient mother flies, When Sleep has locked the senses in her chain. Each sunless glade, each secret pathway tries; When sober Judgment has his throne resigned, Till the thin leaves the truant boy disclose, She smiles away the chaos of the mind;

Long on the wood-moss stretched in sweet repose. And, as warm Fancy's bright Elysium glows, Nor yet to pleasing objects are confined From Her each image springs, each colour flows. The silent feasts of the reflecting mind. • She is the sacred guest! the immortal friend ! Danger and death a dread delight inspire; Oft seen o'er sleeping Innocence to bend,

And the bald veteran glows with wonted fire, In that dead hour of night to Silence given, When, richly bronzed by many a summer-sun, Whispering seraphic visions of her heaven. He counts his scars, and tells what deeds were done.

When the blithe son of Savoy, journeying round Go, with old Thames, view Chelsea's glorious pile, With humble 'wares and pipe of merry sound, And ask the shattered hero, whence his smile? From his green vale and sheltered cabin hies, Go, view the splendid domes of Greenwich-Go, And scales the Alps to visit foreign skies ;

And own what raptures from Reflection flow. Tho’ far below the forked lightnings play,

Hail, noblest structures imaged in the wave! And at his feet the thunder dies away,

A nation's grateful tribute to the brave. Oft, in the saddle rudely rocked to sleep,

Hail, blest retreats from war and shipwreck, hail ! While his mule browses on the dizzy steep, That oft arrest the wondering stranger's sail. ,With MEMORY's aid, he sits at home, and sees Long have ye heard the narratives of

age, His children sport beneath their native trees,

The battle's havoc, and the tempest's rage ; And bends to hear their cherub-voices call, Long have ye known Reflection's genial ray O’er the loud fury of the torrent’s fall.

Gild

the calm close of Valour's various day. But can her smile with gloomy Madness dwell? Time's sombrous touches soon correct the piece, Say, can she chase the horrors of his cell?

Mellow each tint, and bid each discord cease: Each fiery flight on Frenzy's wing restrain, A softer tone of light pervades the whole, And mould the coinage of the fevered brain? And steals a pensive languor o'er the soul. Pass but that grate, which scarce a gleam

Hast thou thro' Eden's wild-wood vales pursued supplies,

Each mountain-scene, majestically rude;
There in the dust the wreck of Genius lies! To note the sweet simplicity of life,
He, whose arresting hand divinely wrought

Far from the din of Folly's idle strife;
Each bold conception in the sphere of thought; Nor there awhile, with lifted eye, revered
And round, in colours of the rainbow, threw That modest stone which pious PEMBROKE
Forms ever fair, creations ever new!

reared ; But, as he fondly snatched the wreath of Fame,

Which still records beyond the pencil's power, The spectre Poverty unnerved his frame.

The silent sorrows of a parting hour;

Still to the musing pilgrim points the place And on the green hill's side the meteor played ; Her sainted spirit most delights to trace?

When, hark! a voice sung sweetly thro’ the shade. Thus, with the manly glow of honest pride, It ceased—yet still in Florio's fancy sung, O’er his dead son the gallant Ormond sighed. Still on each note his captive spirit hung ; Thus, thro' the gloom of SHENSTONE's fairy Till o'er the mead a cool, sequestered grot grove,

From its rich roof a sparry lustre shot.
MARIA's urn still breathes the voice of love. A crystal water crossed the pebbled floor,

As the stern grandeur of a Gothic tower And on the front these simple lines it bore.
Awes us less deeply in its morning-hour,
Than when the shades of Time serenely fall

Hence away, nor dare intrude!
On every broken arch and ivied wall;

In this secret, shadowy cell The tender images we love to trace,

Musing MEMORY loves to dwell,
Steal from each year a melancholy grace!

With her sister Solitude.
And as the sparks of social love expand,
As the heart opens in a foreign land;

Far from the busy world she flies,
And, with a brother's warmth, a brother's smile, To taste that peace the world denies.
The stranger greets each native of his isle ;

Entranced she sits; from youth to age, : So scenes of life, when present and confest,

Reviewing Life's eventful page; Stamp but their bolder features on the breast;

And noting, ere they fade away,
Yet not an image, when remotely viewed,

The little lines of yesterday.
However trivial, and however rude,
But wins the heart, and wakes the social sigh, Florio had gained a rude and rocky seat,
With every claim of close affinity !

When lo, the Genius of this still retreat !
But these pure joys the world can never know; Fair was her form—but who can hope to trace
In gentler climes their silver currents flow. The pensive softness of her angel-face?
Oft at the silent, shadowy close of day,

Can Virgil's verse, can RAPHAEL's touch impart When the hushed grove has sung its parting lay; Those finer features of the feeling heart, When pensive Twilight, in her dusky car,

Those tend'rer tints that shun the careless eye Comes slowly on to meet the evening-star; And in the world's contagious climate die ? Above, below, aërial murmurs swell,

She left the cave, nor marked the stranger there; From hanging wood, brown heath, and bushy dell ! Her pastoral beauty, and her artless air A thousand nameless rills, that shun the light, Had breathed a soft enchantment o'er his soul ! Stealing soft music on the ear of night,

In every nerve he felt her blest controul ! So oft the finer movements of the soul,

What pure and white-winged agents of the sky, That shun the sphere of Pleasure's gay controul, Who rule the springs of sacred sympathy, In the still shades of calm Seclusion rise,

Inform congenial spirits when they meet? And breathe their sweet, seraphic harmonies! Sweet is their office, as their natures sweet!

Florio, with fearful joy, pursued the maid, Once, and domestic annals tell the time, Till thro' a vista's moonlight-chequered shade, (Preserved in Cumbria's rude, romantic clime) Where the bat circled, and the rooks reposed, When Nature smiled, and o'er the landscape threw (Their wars suspended, and their councils closed) Her richest fragrance, and her brightest hue, An antique mansion burst in awful state, A blithe and blooming Forester explored

A rich vine clustering round the Gothic gate. Those loftier scenes SALVATOR's soul adored ; Nor paused he there. The master of the scene The rocky pass half-hung with shaggy wood, Saw his light step imprint the dewy green; And the cleft oak flung boldly o'er the flood; And, slow-advancing, hailed him as his guest, Nor shunned the track, unknown to human tread, Won by the honest warmth his looks expressed. That downward to the night of caverns led; He wore the rustic manners of a Squire; Some ancient cataract's deserted bed.

Age had not quenched one spark of manly fire; High on exulting wing the heath-cock rose, But giant Gout had bound him in her chain, And blew his shrill blast o’er perennial snows; And his heart panted for the chase in vain. Ere the rapt youth, recoiling from the roar, Yet here Remembrance,sweetly-soothing Power! Gazed on the tumbling tide of dread Lodore; Winged with delight Confinement’s lingering hour. And thro’ the rifted cliffs, that scaled the sky, The fox's brush still emulous to wear, Derwent's clear mirror charmed his dazzled

eye. He scoured the county in his elbow-chair; Each osier isle, inverted on the wave,

And, with view-halloo, roused the dreaming hound Thro' morn's grey mist its melting colours gave; That rung, by starts, his deep-toned music round. And, o'er the cygnet's haunt, the mantling grove Long by the paddock’s humble pale confined, Its emerald arch with wild luxuriance wove. His aged hunters coursed the viewless wind :

Light as the breeze that brushed the orient dew, And each, with glowing energy pourtrayed, From rock to rock the young Adventurer flew; The far-famed triumphs of the field displayed; And day's last sunshine slept along the shore, Usurped the canvass of the crowded hall, When lo, a path the smile of welcome wore. And chased a line of heroes from the wall. Imbowering shrubs with verdure veiled the sky, There slept the horn each jocund echo knew, And on the musk-rose shed a deeper die ;

And many a smile and many a story drew! Save when a bright and momentary gleam High o'er the hearth his forest-trophies hung, Glanced from the white foam of some sheltered And their fantastic branches wildly flung. stream.

How would he dwell on the vast antlers there! O’er the still lake the bell of evening tolled, These dashed the wave, those fanned the mounAnd on the moor the shepherd penned his fold; tain-air,