Ah! vainly does the Pilgrim, whose long road Leads o'er a barren mountain's storm-vexed height,

With wistful eye behold

Some quiet vale far off.

And there are those who love the pensive song, To whom all sounds of mirth are dissonant; Them in accordant mood

This thoughtful strain will find.

For hopeless Sorrow hails the lapse of Time,
Rejoicing, when the fading orb of day
Is sunk again in night,

That one day more is gone.

And he who bears Affliction's heavy load
With patient piety, well pleased he knows
The World a pilgrimage,

The Grave his inn of rest.

BATH, 1794.

WRITTEN ON SUNDAY MORNING.

Go thou, and seek the House of Prayer!
I to the woodlands wend, and there
In lovely Nature see the God of love:
The swelling organ's peal

Wakes not my soul to zeal,

Like the sweet music of the vernal grove.

The gorgeous altar and the mystic vest
Excite not such devotion in my breast,
As where the noontide beam,
Flashed from some broken stream,
Vibrates on the dazzled sight;
Or where the cloud-suspended rain
Sweeps in shadows o'er the plain ;
Or when, reclining on the cliff's huge height,
I mark the billows burst in silver light.

Go thou, and seek the House of Prayer!
I to the woodlands shall repair,

Feed with all Nature's charms mine eyes,
And hear all Nature's melodies.

The primrose bank will there dispense
Faint fragrance to the awakened sense;
The morning beams that life and joy impart
Will with their influence warm my heart;
And the full tear that down my cheek will steal,
Will speak the prayer of praise I feel.

Go thou, and seek the House of Prayer!
I to the woodlands bend my way,

And meet Religion there!

She needs not haunt the high-arched dome to pray,
Where storied windows dim the doubtful day:
At liberty she loves to rove,

Wide o'er the heathy hill or cowslipt dale;
Or seek the shelter of the embowering grove,
Or with the streamlet wind along the vale.

Sweet are these scenes to her; and, when the Night Pours in the North her silver streams of light,

She wooes reflection in the silent gloom,

And ponders on the world to come.

BRISTOL, 1795.

THE RACE OF BANQUO.

A FRAGMENT.

"FLY, son of Banquo! Fleance, fly!
Leave thy guilty sire to die!"
O'er the heath the stripling fled,

The wild storm howling round his head:
Fear, mightier through the shades of night,
Urged his feet, and winged his flight;
And still he heard his father's cry,
"Fly, son of Banquo! Fleance, fly!"

"Fly, son of Banquo! Fleance, fly!
Leave thy guilty sire to die!"

On every blast was heard the moan,
The anguished shriek, the death-fraught groan;
Loathly night-hags join the yell,

And, lo the midnight rites of hell!

"Forms of magic! spare my life!

Shield me from the murderer's knife!

Before me, dim in lurid light,

Float the phantoms of the night;

Behind I hear my father cry,

'Fly, son of Banquo! Fleance, fly!""

“Parent of the sceptred race,
Boldly tread the circled space;
Boldly, Fleance, venture near;
Sire of monarchs, spurn at fear:
Sisters, with prophetic breath,
Pour we now the dirge of Death!”

OXFORD, 1793.

WRITTEN IN ALENTEJO,

JANUARY 23, 1796.

1.

WHEN, at morn, the Muleteer
With early call announces day,
Sorrowing that early call I hear,
Which scares the visions of delight away;
For dear to me the silent hour

When sleep exerts its wizard power,

And busy Fancy then let free,

Borne on the wings of Hope, my Edith, flies to thee.

2.

When the slant sunbeams crest

The mountain's shadowy breast;

When on the upland slope

Shines the green myrtle wet with morning dew, And, lovely as the youthful dreams of Hope, The dim-seen landscape opens on the view,

I gaze around, with raptured eyes,
On Nature's charms, where no illusion lies,
And drop the joy and memory-mingled tear,
And sigh to think that Edith is not here.

3.

At the cool hour of even,
When all is calm and still,

And o'er the western hill

A richer radiance robes the mellowed heaven,
Absorbed in darkness thence,

When slowly fades in night.

The dim, decaying light,

Like the fair day-dreams of Benevolence;

Fatigued and sad and slow,

Along my lonely way I go,

And muse upon the distant day,

And sigh, remembering Edith far away.

4.

When late arriving at our inn of rest,

Whose roof, exposed to many a winter's sky,
Half shelters from the wind the shivering guest;
By the lamp's melancholy gloom,

I see the miserable room,
And, musing on the evils that arise
From disproportioned inequalities,

Pray that my lot may be

Neither with Riches nor with Poverty,

But in that happy mean