TO THE

YOUNGEST DAUGHTER

OF

LADY **.

Au! why with tell-tale tongue reveal *

What most her blushes would conceal?
Why lift that modest veil to trace
The seraph-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!

* Alluding to some verses which she had written on an elder sister.

AN EPITAPH *

ON A ROBIN-REDBREAST.

TREAD
READ lightly here, for here, 'tis 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 leafless groves,

With ruffled 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!

* Inscribed on an urn in the flower-garden at Hafod.

TO THE GNAT.

WHEN by the green-wood 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;
'Tis 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,

Unsheaths its terrors in the sultry air!

No guardian sylph, in golden panoply,

Lifts the broad shield, and points the glittering spear.

Now near and nearer rush thy whirring wings,

Thy dragon-scales still wet with human gore.
Hark, thy shrill horn its fearful larum flings!
-I wake in horror, and dare sleep no more!

A WISH.

MINE be a cot beside the hill,

A bee-hive's hum shall sooth my ear;
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.

WE

HILE thro' 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 tufts their grave!