RICHARD.

And, in faith, I can give you no judgment at all, But that, as you're now settled, and safe from foul

weather,

You drink up your grog, and be merry together.

OXFORD, 1794.

IV.

FREDERIC.

TIME, Night.-SCENE, the Woods.

WHERE shall I turn me? whither shall I bend
My weary way? thus worn with toil, and faint,
How through the thorny mazes of this wood
Attain my distant dwelling? That deep cry
That echoes through the forest seems to sound
My parting knell: it is the midnight howl
Of hungry monsters prowling for their prey.
Again! Oh, save me, save me, gracious Heaven!
I am not fit to die.

Thou coward wretch!

Why palpitates thy heart? why shake thy limbs
Beneath thy palsied burden? Is there aught
So lovely in existence? Wouldst thou drain
Even to its dregs the bitter draught of life?
Stamped with the brand of Vice and Infamy,
Why should the felon Frederic shrink from death?

Death! Where the magic in that empty name That chills my inmost heart? Why at the thought Starts the cold dew of fear on every limb? There are no terrors to surround the Grave, When the calm Mind, collected in itself, Surveys that narrow house: the ghastly train That haunt the midnight of delirious Guilt Then vanish; in that home of endless rest All sorrows cease. Would I might slumber there!

Why, then, this panting of the fearful heart?
This miser love of life, that dreads to lose
Its cherished torment? Shall a man diseased
Yield up his members to the surgeon's knife,
Doubtful of succor, but to rid his frame
Of fleshly anguish; and the coward wretch,
Whose ulcerated soul can know no help,
Shrink from the best Physician's certain aid?
Oh! it were better far to lie me down

--

Here on this cold, damp earth, till some wild beast Seize on his willing victim.

If to die

head

Were all, 'twere sweet indeed to rest my
On the cold clod, and sleep the sleep of Death;
But if the archangel's trump, at the last hour,
Startle the ear of Death, and wake the soul
To frenzy? Dreams of infancy! fit tales
For garrulous beldames to affrighten babes!
What if I warred upon the world; the world
Had wronged me first. I had endured the ills

Of hard injustice; all this goodly earth
Was but to me one wide waste wilderness;
I had no share in Nature's patrimony;
Blasted were all my morning hopes of youth;
Dark Disappointment followed on my ways;
Care was my bosom inmate; Penury
Gnawed at my heart. Eternal One! thou know'st
How that poor heart, even in the bitter hour
Of lewdest revelry, has inly yearned

For peace.

My Father! I will call on thee, Pour to thy mercy-seat my earnest prayer, And wait thy righteous will, resigned of soul. O thought of comfort! how the afflicted heart, Tired with the tempest of its passions, rests On you with holy hope! The hollow howl Of yonder harmless tenant of the woods Comes with no terror to the sobered sense. If I have sinned against mankind, on them Be that past sin: they made me what I was. In these extremest climes, Want can no more Urge me to deeds of darkness; and, at length, Here I may rest. What though my hut be poor, The rains descend not through its humble roof. Would I were there again! The night is cold; And what if, in my wanderings, I should rouse The savage from his thicket?

Hark! the gun ! And, lo! the fire of safety! I shall reach My little hut again; again by toil

Force from the stubborn earth my sustenance; And quick-eared Guilt will never start alarmed Amid the well-earned meal. This felon's garb, Will it not shield me from the winds of heaven? And what could purple more? Oh, strengthen me, Eternal One, in this serener state!

Cleanse thou mine heart, so Penitence and Faith Shall heal my soul, and my last days be peace.

OXFORD, 1794.

SONNETS.

I.

Go, Valentine, and tell that lovely maid,
Whom fancy still will portray to my sight,
How here I linger in this sullen shade,
This dreary gloom of dull, monastic night;
Say that, from every joy of life remote,
At evening's closing hour I quit the throng,
Listening in solitude the ring-dove's note,
Who pours like me her solitary song;
Say that her absence calls the sorrowing sigh;
Say that of all her charms I love to speak,
In fancy feel the magic of her eye,

In fancy view the smile illume her cheek,
Court the lone hour when silence stills the grove,

And heave the sigh of memory and of love.

1794.

II.

THINK, Valentine, as, speeding on thy way,
Homeward thou hastest light of heart along,
If heavily creep on one little day

The medley crew of travellers among,