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! The wild storm howling round his head: "Fly, son of Banquo! Fleance, fly! On every blast was heard the moan, And, lo 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!'” "Parent of the sceptred race, OXFORD, 1793. WRITTEN IN ALENTEJO, JANUARY 23, 1796. 1. WHEN, at morn, the Muleteer 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, 3. At the cool hour of even, And o'er the western hill A richer radiance robes the mellowed heaven, 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, I see the miserable room, 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? Daughter of Heaven, we seek thee, but in vain ; We find no healing in the breeze that sweeps The thymy 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, 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; 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. |