Soon did thy fair cheek fade, and thine eye weep
The tear of anguish for the babe unborn,
The helpless heir of poverty and scorn.
She drank the draught that chilled her soul to sleep,
I pause, and wipe the big drop from mine eye,
Whilst the proud Levite scowls and passes
TO A BROOK NEAR THE VILLAGE OF CORSTON.
As thus I bend me o'er thy babbling stream
And watch thy current, memory's hand portrays
The faint-formed scenes of the departed days,
Like the far forest by the moon's pale beam
Dimly descried, yet lovely. I have worn,
Upon thy banks, the livelong hour away,
When sportive childhood wantoned through the day,
Joyed at the opening splendour of the morn,
Or, as the twilight darkened, heaved the sigh,
Thinking of distant home; as down my cheek,
At the fond thought, slow stealing on, would speak
The silent eloquence of the full eye.
Dim are the long past days, yet still they please [breeze. As thy soft sounds half heard, borne on the inconstant
TO THE EVENING RAINBOW.
MILD arch of promise! on the evening sky
Thou shinest fair, with many a lovely ray,
Each in the other melting. Much mine eye
Delights to linger on thee; for the day,
Changeful and many-weathered, seemed to smile,
Flashing brief splendour through its clouds awhile,
Which deepened dark anon, and fell in rain:
But pleasant it is now to pause, and view
Thy various tints of frail and watery hue,
And think the storm shall not return again.
Such is the smile that piety bestows
On the good man's pale cheek, when he, in peace,
Departing gently from a world of woes,
Anticipates the realm where sorrows cease.
WITH many a weary step, at length I gain
Thy summit, Lansdown; and the cool breeze plays,
Gratefully round my brow, as hence the gaze
Returns to dwell upon the journeyed plain.
'Twas a long way and tedious! To the eye
Though fair the extended vale, and fair to view
The falling leaves of many a faded hue,
That eddy in the wild gust moaning by.
Even so it fared with life! in discontent,
Restless through fortune's mingled scenes I went....
Yet wept to think they would return no more!
But cease, fond heart, in such sad thoughts to roam;
For surely thou ere long shalt reach thy home,
And pleasant is the way that lies before.
FAIR is the rising morn, when o'er the sky
The orient sun expands his roseate ray,
And lovely to the bard's enthusiast eye
Fades the meek radiance of departing day;
But fairer is the smile of one we love,
Than all the scenes in nature's ample sway,
And sweeter than the music of the grove,
The voice that bids us welcome. Such delight,
Edith is mine; escaping to thy sight
From the hard durance of the empty throng.
Too swiftly then towards the silent night,
Ye hours of happiness! ye speed along;
Whilst I, from all the world's cold cares apart,
Pour out the feelings of my burthened heart.
How darkly o'er yon far-off mountain frowns
The gathered tempest! from that lurid cloud
The deep-voiced thunders roll, awful and loud,
Though distant; while upon the misty downs
Fast falls in shadowy streaks the pelting rain.
I never saw so terrible a storm!
Perhaps some way-worn traveller in vain
Wraps his torn raiment round his shivering form,
Cold even as hope within him! I the while
Pause me in sadness, though the sun-beams smile
Cheerily round me. Ah, that thus my lot
Might be with peace and solitude assigned,
Where I might, from some little quiet cot,
Sigh for the crimes and miseries of mankind!
STATELY yon vessel sails adown the tide To some far-distant land adventurous bound, The sailors' busy cries, from side to side, Pealing among the echoing rocks resound; A patient, thoughtless, much-enduring band, Joyful they enter on their ocean way, With shouts exulting leave their native land, And know no care beyond the present day. But is there no poor mourner left behind, Who sorrows for a child or husband there? Who at the howling of the midnight wind Will wake and tremble in her boding prayer? So may her voice be heard, and heaven be kindGo gallant ship, and be thy fortune fair!
BEWARE a speedy friend, the Arabian said, And wisely was it he advised distrust. The flower that blossoms earliest fades the first. Look at yon oak that lifts its stately head And dallies with the autumnal storm, whose rage Tempests the ocean waves; slowly it rose, Slowly its strength increased, through many an age, And timidly did its light leaves unclose, As doubtful of the spring, their palest green. They to the summer cautiously expand, And by the warmer sun and season bland Matured, their foliage in the grove is seen, When the bare forest by the wintry blast Is swept, still lingering on the boughs the last.
A WRINKLED crabbed man they picture thee,
Old winter, with a ragged beard as gray
As the long moss upon the apple tree;
Close muffled up, and on thy dreary way,
Blue lipt, an ice-drop at thy sharp blue nose,
Plodding alone through sleet and drifting snows.
They should have drawn thee by the high-heapt hearth,
Old winter! seated in thy great arm'd chair,
Watching the children at their Christmas mirth,
Or circled by them as their lips declare
Some merry jest or tale of murder dire,
Or troubled spirit that disturbs the night,
Pausing at times to move the languid fire,
Or taste the old October brown and bright.
O GOD! have mercy in this dreadful hour
On the poor mariner!-In comfort here,
Safe sheltered as I am, I almost fear
The blast that rages with resistless power.
What were it now to toss upon the waves,-
The maddened waves,-and know no succour near;
The howling of the storm alone to hear,
And the wild sea that to the tempest raves,
amid the horrors of the night,
To gaze
And only see the billows' gleaming light;
And in the dread of death to think of her
Who as she listens sleepless to the gale,
Puts up a silent prayer and waxes pale!
O God! have mercy on the mariner.
The three utilities of poetry-the praise of virtue and goodness, the memory of things remarkable, and to invigorate the affections.-Welsh Triad.
FOR A COLUMN AT NEWBURY.
ART thou a patriot, traveller ? on this field
Did Falkland fall, the blameless and the brave,
Beneath a tyrant's banners: dost thou boast
Of loyal ardour? Hampden perished here,
The rebel Hampden, at whose glorious name
The heart of every honest Englishman
Beats high with conscious pride. Both uncorrupt,
Friends to their common country both, they fought,
They died in adverse armies. Traveller!
If with thy neighbour thou shouldst not accord,
In charity remember these good men,
And quell each angry and injurious thought.
JOR A CAVERN THAT OVERLOOKS THE RIVER AVON.
ENTER this cavern, stranger! the ascent
Is long and steep and toilsome; here awhile
Thou mayst repose thee from the noontide heat,
O'ercanopied by this arched rock that strikes
A grateful coolness: clasping its rough arms
Round the rude portal, the old ivy hangs
Its dark green branches down. No common spot
Receives thee, for the power who prompts the song
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