THE CHAPEL BELL.

Lo I, the man who from the Muse did ask
Her deepest notes to swell the Patriot's meeds,
Am now enforced, a far unfitter task,

For cap and gown to leave my minstrel weeds;
For yon dull tone that tinkles on the air
Bids me lay by the lyre and go to morning prayer.

Oh how I hate the sound! it is the knell

That still a requiem tolls to Comfort's hour; And loth am I, at Superstition's bell,

To quit or Morpheus' or the Muse's bower: Better to lie and doze, than gape amain, Hearing still mumbled o'er the same eternal strain.

Thou tedious herald of more tedious prayers,
Say, dost thou ever summon from his rest
One being wakening to religious cares?

Or rouse one pious transport in the breast?
Or rather, do not all reluctant creep
To linger out the time in listlessness or sleep?

I love the bell that calls the poor to pray, Chiming from village church its cheerful sound, When the sun smiles on Labour's holy-day, And all the rustic train are gather'd round, Each deftly dizen'd in his Sunday's best, And pleased to hail the day of piety and rest.

And when, dim shadowing o'er the face of day The mantling mists of even-tide rise slow, As through the forest gloom I wend my way, The minster curfew's sullen voice I know, And pause, and love its solemn toll to hear, As made by distance soft it dies upon the ear.

Nor with an idle nor unwilling ear

Do I receive the early passing-bell ;
For, sick at heart with many a secret care,

When I lie listening to the dead man's knell,
I think that in the grave all sorrows cease,
And would full fain recline my head and be at peace.

But thou, memorial of monastic gall!

What fancy sad or lightsome hast thou given? Thy vision-scaring sounds alone recall

The prayer that trembles on a yawn to heaven, The snuffling, snaffling Fellow's nasal tone, And Romish rites retain'd, though Romish faith be flown.

Oxford, 1799.

TO HYMEN.

GOD of the torch, whose soul-illuming flame
Beams brightest radiance o'er the human heart,
Of many a woe the cure,
Of many a joy the source;

To thee I sing, if haply may the Muse

Pour forth the song unblamed from these dull haunts Where never beams thy torch

To cheer the sullen scene.

I pour the song to thee, though haply doom'd
Alone and unbeloved to pass my days;
Though doom'd perchance to die
Alone and unbewail'd.

Yet will the lark albeit in cage enthrall'd
Send out her voice to greet the morning sun,
As wide his cheerful beams

Light up the landscape round;

When high in heaven she hears the caroling,
The prisoner too begins her morning hymn,
And hails the beam of joy,

Of joy to her denied.

VOL. II.

Friend to each better feeling of the soul,
I sing to thee, for many a joy is thine,
And many a Virtue comes

To join thy happy train.

Lured by the splendour of thy sacred torch,

The beacon-light of bliss, young Love draws near, And leads his willing slaves

To wear thy flowery chain.

And chasten'd Friendship comes, whose mildest sway Shall cheer the hour of age, when fainter burn

The fading flame of Love,

The fading flame of Life.

Parent of every bliss, the busy hand
Of Fancy oft will paint in brightest hues
How calm, how clear, thy torch
Illumes the wintry hour;

Will paint the wearied labourer at that hour,
When friendly darkness yields a pause to toil,
Returning blithely home

To each domestic joy;

Will paint the well-trimm'd fire, the frugal meal
Prepared with fond solicitude to please;

The ruddy children round
Climbing the father's knee.

And oft will Fancy rise above the lot
Of honest Poverty, and think how man
Nor rich, nor poor, enjoys

His best and happiest state;

When toil no longer irksome and constrain'd
By hard necessity, but comes to please,
To vary the still hour

Of tranquil happiness.

Why, Fancy, wilt thou, o'er the lovely scene
Pouring thy vivid hues, why, sorceress bland,
Soothe sad reality

With visionary bliss?

Turn thou thine eyes to where the hallowed light Of Learning shines; ah rather lead thy son Along her mystic paths

To drink the sacred spring.

Lead calmly on along the unvaried path
To solitary Age's drear abode ;...
Is it not happiness

That gives the sting to Death?

Well then is he whose unembitter'd years
Are waning on in lonely listlessness;

If Life hath little joy,

Death hath for him no sting.

Oxford, 1794.