Thy sacred influence grateful may I own;
Nor till old age shall lead me to my tomb,
Quit thee and all thy charms with many a tear.
On Omole, or cold Soracte's top,
Singing defiance to the threatning storm,
Thus the lone bird in winter's rudest hour
Hid in some cavern shrouds its ruffled plumes,
And through the long, long night, regardles hears
The wild wind's keenest blast and dashing rain.

TO CYNTHIA,

A FRAGMENT.

FAIR are thy cold chaste beams, thy virgin face,

Of mild ethereal hue and sweet aspect,

How many know thee not, nor aught regard

Thy tints delicious that are wont appear

On evening's shadowy mantle moist and grey!

What though, dear maid, thou bear'st a borrow'd beam,

The sickly sister of the gaudy sun,

How have I gazed thy beauties! when alone

At close of day, pacing in mournful mood

The yellow margin of the steril main,

Shagg'd with the sleet-worn summit of the cliff,
Till oft emparadised, I deem'd the scene
Some looser cozenage of vagrant fancy,
Or fairy phantasm, that delusive thought
Forms from the remnant of a passing dream.

Ah! who but you bears witness to the vows
That faultering speak of unrequited love?
To whom but thee does poesy unfold
The honey'd numbers of her bashful lay?
This mortal coil shook off, the Poet's eye,
Dim'd with the dazzling radiance of the sun,
Full fondly flies to thee, and far retired,
With inspiration by thy silver light,
Surveys the changeful features of the world,
Flitting around the throng'd ideas wait,
Like charmed spirits obedient to his call,
To each its place he gives, whilst at his beck
Sudden the shade imperfect starts to life
And meets in form confess'd its Maker's eye.

TO PHILOMEL,

A FRAGMENT.

No noise I heard, but all was still as death,
Save that at times a distant dying note
Of spirit unseen, or Heaven's minstrelsy,
Would indistinctly meet my ravish'd ear;
Such as was never heard from harp or lute,
Or waked into a voice by human hand.
Ah, Philomel, the strain was thine!-

VERSES WRITTEN ON A WINTER'S NIGHT.

WHO heeds it when the lightning's forked gleam

The rifted towers of old Cilgarran strikes?

Keen from the piercing East, or when the blast
In deathful speed at midnight howls along
The drifted desert, or the frozen main,
Or to the earth on Mona's chasmy side
Bends the broad knotted oak-yet sad it is
To think that at this very hour, perhaps,
The self-same blast, with angry visiting
May play the ruffian with a vermir cheek,
Scatter at will the few and tatter'd weeds,
And dim with bitter tears the radiant eye,
Of some unnoticed daughter of distress ;-
To think that she may want Compassion's sigh,
That in no single eye through the wide world,
Save mine alone, her gentle image lives.
Ye happier souls, whose winter days are none,
Who bask in sunshine of prosperity,
And feel no flint in all the paths of life,
How little know ye what affliction is!
To pine alone with sad disquietude,
To sojourn long and late with nakedness,
In torments new to watch the slow decline
Of each returning day without a hope,
And with dejection meet the merry morn;
To lose good hours, and hear with aching heart
The train of blushless Folly sweeping by,

Nor dare, though hunger gnaws, to dog its heels,

Before old age comes on, and beckons death,
Wrinkles to meet, that Laughter never fills,
But mournful streams of unremitting tears;
And when the fiends of life their worst have done,
To have the memory clean forgotten,

Ere the poor body rots and falls to dust.—

TO THE

MEMORY OF MISS LUCY S

N,

A young Woman, who, being betrayed into much undeserved misfortune, was at last thrown upon the town; and, concluding her life at the age of two-and-twenty, with Suicide, was inhumanly refused burial by the parish in which she died.

HARK, hark, methinks a calling voice I hear!

A voice I well remember once was dear,

“I gave you all *, exclaims some shade unbless'd,
"The poor return I ask is only rest;

"From Heaven's delaying hand no vengeance due,
"For what is done, I deprecate on you;
"Love's misled child in youth's gay morn I die,
"Ah! lend a little earth for charity !"

"Tis she-grief-sunk, yet why that haggard eye,
Those tears, that phrensy'd step, and inward sigh,
Those clasping hands, with deepen'd anguish wrung,
And Angel-tress in wild disorder flung?

Full fondly had I hoped some luckier day,
However distant, still might lend its ray,
Thy winter-smitten hues again to rear,
Life's bitter storms but ill disposed to bear,

* See Shakspeare's Lear.

And bid thy tender frailties reassume

Fair Virtue's injur'd grace, and banish'd bloom,

That Peace, with joy-fledged wing, within thy breast Might still find warm her long-forsaken nest: Much have I wish'd to me that angry Heaven An angel-like reclaiming power had given, For ever to have won thee from distress, And lodged thee in the arms of happiness, Before the sated world had left its prey, And flung thee like a faded flower away; Vain wish, how blind to fate!-'twas e'en deny'd, At life's last hour to linger by thy side, With kind concern to assist each sinking sense, And lend fresh warmth to faltering penitence; When dim with Death's eclipse thy speaking eye In trembling hope held converse with the sky, Or through th' eventful past seem'd sick to run, And fain had found th' eventful tale undone. Let Levite prudence with contented sneer Reserve for meaner clay his abject tear, Ah! may he long this luckless dust forego, And hoard for kindred minds his sordid woe; Though thy pale bones beneath the common sky, Cold as the heart he bears, forgotten lie, Their martyr cause to other souls they trust, And leave relentless Caution to be just : Well pleas'd her tear-wet mantle to have laid O'er thy sad wounds by fell misfortune made, Pity shall ever place her best thoughts there, And kiss the spot proscribed without a fear; With vindicating voice shall damn to rest Base Censure's fiend-like bark, and Scandal's jest ; Telling weak man to him it ne'er was given, To mark the bounds of mercy out to Heaven.