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He heard the widow's heaven-breathed prayer

of praise, He marked the sheltered orphan's tearful gaze, Or where the sorrow-shrivelled captive lay, Poured the bright blaze of Freedom's noon-tide

ray. Beneath this roof if thy cheered moments pass, Fill to the good man's name one grateful glass : To higher zest shall Memory wake thy soul, And Virtue mingle in the ennobled bowl. But if, like me, through life's distressful scene Lonely and sad thy pilgrimage hath been ; And if thy breast with heart-sick anguish fraught, Thou journeyest onward tempest-tossed in thought; Here cheat thy cares ! in generous visions melt, And dream of Goodness, thou hast never felt !

EPIGRAM.

H

OARSE Mævius reads his hobbling verse

To all, and at all times ;
And finds them both divinely smooth,

His voice, as well as rhymes.

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Yet folks say—“ Mævius is no ass;

But Mævius makes it clear, That he's a monster of an ass

An ass without an ear.

1797.

LINES

TO A BEAUTIFUL SPRING IN A VILLAGE.

O

NCE more, sweet Stream! with slow foot wan

dering near, I bless thy milky waters cold and clear. Escaped the flashing of the noontide hours, With one fresh garland of Pierian flowers, (Ere from thy zephyr-haunted brink I turn,) My languid hand shall wreathe thy mossy urn. For not through pathless grove with murmur rude Thou soothest the sad wood-nymph, Solitude; Nor thine unseen in cavern depths to well, The hermit-fountain of some dripping cell! Pride of the Vale! thy useful streams supply The scattered cots and peaceful hamlet nigh. The elfin tribe around thy friendly banks With infant uproar and soul-soothing pranks, Released from school, their little hearts at rest, Launch paper navies on thy waveless breast. The rustic here at eve with pensive look Whistling lorn ditties leans upon his crook, Or starting pauses with hope-mingled dread To list the much-loved maid's accustomed tread: She, vainly mindful of her dame's comm

mand, Loiters, the long-filled pitcher in her hand.

Unboastful Stream ! thy fount with pebbled falls
The faded form of past delight recalls,
What time the morning sun of Hope arose,
And all was joy; save when another's woes
A transient gloom upon my soul imprest,
Like passing clouds impictured on thy breast.

Life's current then ran sparkling to the noon,
Or silvery stole beneath the pensive Moon :
Ah! now it works rude brakes and thorns among,
Or o'er the rough rock bursts and foams along !

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E ,

I And inly groan for Heaven's poor outcast'Tis tempest all or gloom : in early youth [Man! If gifted with the Ithuriel lance of Truth We force to start amid her feigned caress Vice, siren-hag ! in native ugliness; A Brother's fate will haply rouse the tear, And on we go in heaviness and fear! But if our fond hearts call to Pleasure's bower Some pigmy Folly in a careless hour, [ground The faithless guest shall stamp the enchanted And mingled forms of Misery rise around : Heart-fretting Fear, with pallid look aghast, That courts the future woe to hide the past ; Remorse, the poisoned arrow in his side, And loud lewd Mirth, to Anguish close allied : Till Frenzy, fierce-eyed child of moping pain, Darts her hot lightning-flash athwart the brain. Rest, injured shade! Shall Slander squatting near Spit her cold venom in a dead Man's ear? 'Twas thine to feel the sympathetic glow In Merit’s joy, and Poverty's meek woe; Thine all, that cheer the moment as it flies, The zoneless Cares, and smiling Courtesies.

D

Nursed in thy heart the firmer Virtues grew,
And in thy heart they withered ! Such chill dew
Wan Indolence on each young blossom shed;
And Vanity her filmy net-work spread,
With eye that rolled around in asking gaze,
And tongue that trafficked in the trade of praise.
Thy follies such! the hard world marked them well!
Were they more wise, the proud who never fell ?
Rest, injured Shade! the poor man's grateful prayer
On heaven-ward wing thy wounded soul shall bear.
As oft at twilight gloom thy grave I pass,
And sit me down upon its recent grass,
With introverted eye I contemplate
Similitude of soul, perhaps of— fate;
To me hath Heaven with bounteous hand assigned
Energic Reason and a shaping mind,
The daring ken of Truth, the Patriot's part,
And Pity's sigh, that breathes the gentle heart.
Sloth-jaundiced all I and from my graspless hand
Drop Friendship's precious pearls, like hour-glass

sand. I

weep, yet stoop not! the faint anguish flows, A dreamy pang in Morning's feverous doze.

Is this piled earth our Being's passless mound?
Tell me, cold grave! is death with poppies crowned?
Tired Sentinel ! mid fitful starts I nod,
And fain would sleep, though pillowed on a clod!

TO A YOUNG LADY,

WITH A POEM ON THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.

ME

UCH on my early youth I love to dwell,
Ere
yet

I bade that friendly dome farewell,
Where first, beneath the echoing cloisters pale,
I heard of guilt and wondered at the tale !
Yet though the hours flew by on careless wing,
Full heavily of Sorrow would I sing.
Aye as the star of evening flung its beam
In broken radiance on the wavy stream,
My soul amid the pensive twilight gloom
Mourned with the breeze, O Lee Boo !! o'er thy
Where'er I wandered, Pity still was near, (tomb.
Breathed from the heart and glistened in the tear :
No knell that tolled, but filled

my
anxious

eye, And suffering Nature wept that one should die!

Thus to sad sympathies I soothed my breast,
Calm, as the rainbow in the weeping West :
When slumbering Freedom roused by high Disdain
With giant fury burst her triple chain !
Fierce on her front the blasting Dog-star glowed ;
Her banners, like a midnight meteor, flowed ;
Amid the yelling of the storm-rent skies
She came, and scattered battles from her eyes !
Then Exultation waked the patriot fire

1 Lee Boo, the son of Abba Thule, Prince of the Pelew Islands, came over to England with Captain Wilson, died of the small-pox, and is buried in Greenwich church-yard, See Keate's Account.

Southey's Retrospect.

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