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MA

AID of my Love, sweet Genevieve !

In Beauty's light you glide along : Your

eye

is like the star of eve,
And sweet your Voice, as Seraph's song.
Yet not your heavenly Beauty gives
This heart with passion soft to glow:
Within

your

soul a Voice there lives !
It bids you hear the tale of Woe.
When sinking low the Sufferer wan
Beholds no hand outstretcht to save,
Fair, as the bosom of the Swan
That rises graceful o'er the wave,
I've seen your breast with pity heave,
And therefore love I you, sweet Genevieve!

SONNET.

TO THE AUTUMNAL MOON.

M

ILD Splendour of the various-vested Night!

Mother of wildly-working visions ! hail ! I watch thy gliding, while with watery light Thy weak eye glimmers through a fleecy veil;

B

And when thou lovest thy pale orb to shroud
Behind the gathered blackness lost on high;
And when thou dartest from the wind-rent cloud
Thy placid lightning o'er the awakened sky.
Ah such is Hopel as changeful and as fair!
Now dimly peering on the wistful sight;
Now hid behind the dragon-winged Despair :
But soon emerging in her radiant might
She o'er the sorrow-clouded breast of Care
Sails, like a meteor kindling in its flight.

ANTHEM

FOR THE CHILDREN OF CHRIST'S HOSPITAL.

SER

'ERAPHS! around th’ Eternal's seat who

throng With tuneful extasies of praise: O! teach our feeble tongues like yours the song

Of fervent gratitude to raise
Like you, inspired with holy flame

To dwell on that Almighty name
Who bade the child of woe no longer sigh,
And Joy in tears o'erspread the Widow's eye.

Th’all-gracious Parent hears the wretch's

prayer ; The meek tear strongly pleads on high ; Wan Resignation struggling with despair

The Lord beholds with pitying eye;
Sees cheerless want unpitied pine,

Disease on earth its head recline,
And bids compassion seek the realms of woe
To heal the wounded, and to raise the low.

flee;

She comes! she comes ! the meek eyed power I see

With liberal hand that loves to bless ; The clouds of sorrow at her presence

Rejoice! rejoice! ye children of distress ! The beams that play around her head Thro’ want's dark vale their radiance spread :

incultur'd mind imbibes the ray, And Vice reluctant quits th' expected prey.

The young

Cease, thou lorn mother! cease thy wailings

drear; Ye babes! the unconscious sob forego , Or let full gratitude now prompt the tear

Which erst did sorrow force to flow. Unkindly cold and tempest shrill

In life's morn oft the traveller chill, But soon his path the sun of Love shall warm; And each glad scene look brighter for the storm!

1789,

TIME, REAL AND IMAGINARY.

AN ALLEGORY.

Oiknew net where, but "rwas some faery place)

Their pinions, ostrich-like, for sails outspread,
Two lovely children run an endless race,

A sister and a brother!

That far outstripp'd the other;
Yet ever runs she with reverted face,
And looks and listens for the boy behind:

For he, alas! is blind !
O'er rough and smooth with even step he pass d,
And knows not whether he be first or last.

MONODY ON THE DEATH OF

CHATTERTON.

O

WHAT a wonder seems the fear of death,

Seeing how gladly we all sink to sleep, Babes, Children, Youths, and Men, Night following night for threescore years and ten! But doubly strange, where life is but a breath To sigh and pant with, up Want's rugged steep.

Away, Grim Phantom! Scorpion King, away!
Reserve thy terrors and thy stings display
For coward Wealth and Guilt in robes of State!
Lo! by the grave I stand of one, for whom
A prodigal Nature and a niggard Doom
(That all bestowing, this withholding all,)
Made each chance knell from distant spire or dome
Sound like a seeking Mother's anxious call,
Return, poor

Child ! Home, weary Truant, home!

Thee, Chatterton ! these unblest stones protect
From want, and the bleak freezings of neglect.
Too long before the vexing Storm-blast driven
Here hast thou found repose ! beneath this sod !
Thou! O vain word! thou dwell'st not with the clod!
Amid the shining Host of the Forgiven
Thou at the throne of Mercy and thy God
The triumph of redeeming Love dost hymn
(Believe it, O my soul!) to harps of Seraphim.

Yet oft, perforce, ('tis suffering Nature's call)
I
weep,

that heaven-born Genius so should fall; And oft, in Fancy's saddest hour, my soul

Averted shudders at the poisoned bowl.
Now groans my sickening heart, as still I view

Thy corse of livid hue ;
Now indignation checks the feeble sigh,
Or flashes through the tear that glistens in mine eye!

Is this the land of song-ennobled line ?
Is this the land, where Genius ne'er in vain

Poured forth his lofty strain ?
Ah me! yet Spenser, gentlest bard divine,
Beneath chill Disappointment's shade,
His weary limbs in lonely anguish laid ;

And o'er her darling dead

Pity hopeless hung her head, While “ mid the pelting of that merciless storm," Sunk to the cold earth Otway's famished form !

Sublime of thought, and confident of fame,
From vales where Avon winds the Minstrel ? came.

Light-hearted youth! aye, as he hastes along,

He meditates the future song,
How dauntless Ælla fray'd the Dacyan foe;

And while the numbers flowing strong

In eddies whirl, in surges throng,
Exulting in the spirits' genial throe
In tides of power his life-blood seems to flow.

And now his cheeks with deeper ardours flame,
His eyes have glorious meanings, that declare
More than the light of outward day shines there,
A holier triumph and a sterner aim !
Wings grow within him, and he soars above

Avon, a river near Bristol; the birth-place of Chatterton.

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