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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 l 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!!”

M

VOL. II.

“ 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 N 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

Which for the soul is best,
And with contentment blest,

In some secluded glen
To dwell with Peace and Edith far from men.

TO RECOVERY.

RECOVERY, where art thou ? Daughter of Heaven, where shall we seek thy help? Upon what hallowed fountain hast thou laid,

O Nymph adored! thy spell ?

By the

gray
ocean's

verge, Daughter of Heaven, we seek thee, but in vain; We find no healing in the breeze that sweeps

The thymny mountain's brow.

Where are the happy hours, The sunshine where, that cheered the morn of life? For Health is fled, and with her fled the joys

Which made existence dear.

I saw the distant hills
Smile in the radiance of the orient beam,
And gazed delighted that anon our feet

Should visit scenes so fair.

I looked abroad at noon,
The shadow and the storm were on the hills;

The crags, which like a fairy fabric shone,

Darkness had overcast.

On you, ye coming years, So fairly shone the April gleam of hope ; So darkly o’er the distance, late so bright,

Now settle the black clouds.

Come thou, and chase away Sorrow and Pain, the persecuting Powers, Who make the melancholy day so long,

So long the restless night.

Shall we not find thee here, Recovery, on the salt sea's breezy strand? Is there no healing in the gales that sweep

The thymy mountain's brow?

I look for thy approach, O life-preserving Power! as one, who strays Alone in darkness o'er the pathless marsh,

Watches the dawn of day. MINEHEAD, July, 1799.

YOUTH AND AGE.

WITH cheerful step the traveller

Pursues his early way,
When first the dimly-dawning east

Reveals the rising day.

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