WRITTEN

ON SUNDAY MORNING.

Go thou and seek the House of Prayer!
I to the woodlands wend, and there
In lovely Nature see the God of Love.
The swelling organ's peal

Wakes not my soul to zeal,

Like the sweet music of the vernal

grove.
The gorgeous altar and the mystic vest
Excite not such devotion in my breast,
As where the noon-tide beam
Flash'd from some broken stream,
Vibrates on the dazzled sight;

Or where the cloud-suspended rain
Sweeps in shadows o'er the plain;
Or when reclining on the cliff's huge height
I mark the billows burst in silver light.

Go thou and seek the House of Prayer!
I to the Woodlands shall repair,
Feed with all Nature's charms mine eyes,
And hear all Nature's melodies.

The primrose bank will there dispense
Faint fragrance to the awaken'd sense;
The morning beams that life and joy impart,
Will with their influence warm my heart,

And the full tear that down my cheek will steal, Will speak the prayer of praise I feel.

Go thou and seek the House of Prayer! I to the Woodlands bend my way,

And meet Religion there!

She needs not haunt the high-arch'd dome to pray,
Where storied windows dim the doubtful day;
At liberty she loves to rove,

Wide o'er the heathy hill or cowslipt dale;
Or seek the shelter of the embowering grove,
Or with the streamlet wind along the vale.
Sweet are these scenes to her; and when the Night
Pours in the North her silver streams of light,

She woos 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 wing'd 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 anguish'd shriek, the death-fraught groan; Loathly night-hags join the yell,

"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. 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 IN 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.