As through the world he wends; With heaviness he casts his eye And still remembers, with a sigh, To school the little exile goes, Torn from its mother's arms; From hard control and tyrant-rules, And tears will struggle in his eye, Youth comes; the toils and cares of life Torment the restless mind: Where shall the tired and harassed heart Its consolation find? Then is not Youth, as Fancy tells, And Youth remembers, with a sigh, Maturer Manhood now arrives, And other thoughts come on; Cold, calculating cares succeed, The dull realities of truth. So reaches he the latter stage New ills that latter stage await, Yet Age remembers, with a sigh, WESTBURY, 1798. THE SOLDIER'S WIFE. DACTYLICS. WEARY way-wanderer, languid and sick at heart, Travelling painfully over the rugged road,— Wild-visaged Wanderer! God help thee, wretched one! Sorely thy little one drags by thee barefooted; Cold is the baby that hangs at thy bending back, Meagre and livid, and screaming for misery. * Woe-begone mother, half anger, half agony, As over thy shoulder thou look'st to hush the babe, Bleakly the blinding snow beats in thy haggard face. Ne'er will thy husband return from the war again; * This stanza was written by S. T. COLERIDGE. THE WIDOW. SAPPHICS. COLD was the night-wind, drifting fast the snow fell, Wide were the downs, and shelterless and naked, When a poor Wanderer struggled on her journey, Weary and way-sore. Drear were the downs, more dreary her reflections; Cold was the night-wind, colder was her bosom : She had no home; the world was all before her; She had no shelter. Fast o'er the heath a chariot rattled by her: 66 66 66 'Pity me!" feebly cried the lonely Wanderer; 'Pity me, strangers! lest with cold and hunger Here I should perish. Once I had friends, though now by all forsaken; Once I had parents, they are now in heaven; I had a home once; I had once a husband: Pity me, strangers! "I had a home once; I had once a husband; Then on the snow she laid her down to rest her; She heard a horseman : "Pity me!" she groaned out: Loud was the wind, unheard was her complaining, On went the horseman. Worn out with anguish, toil, and cold and hunger, Down sunk the Wanderer; sleep had seized her senses: There did the traveller find her in the morning; GOD had released her. BRISTOL, 1795. THE CHAPEL-BELL. Lo I, the man who from the Muse did ask For cap and gown to leave my minstrel weeds; Oh, how I hate the sound! it is the knell 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. |