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O (have I sigh’d) were mine the wizard's Smoothing through fertile fields thy rod,

current meek ! Or mine the power of Proteus, changeful Dear native brook! where first young God !

Poesy A flower - entangled Arbour I would Stared wildly - eager in her noontide seem

dream! To shield my Love from Noontide's Where blameless pleasures dimple Quiet's sultry beam :

cheek, Or bloom a Myrtle, from whose odorous As water-lilies ripple thy slow stream ! boughs

Dear native haunts where Virtue still My Love might weave gay garlands for her brows.

Where Friendship’s fixed star sheds a When Twilight stole across the fading

mellowed ray, vale,

Where Love a crown of thornless Roses To fan my Love I'd be the Evening

wears, Gale;

Where soften'd Sorrow smiles within her tears;

90 waum Mourn in the soft folds of her swelling vest,

And Memory, with a Vestal's chaste And flutter my faint pinions on her

employ, breast !

Unceasing feeds the lambent flame of On Seraph wing I'd float a Dream by

joy! night,

No more your sky-larks melting from the To soothe my Love with shadows of

sight delight :-

Shall thrill the attuned heart-string with Or soar aloft to be the Spangled Skies,

delightAnd gaze upon her with a thousand No more shall deck your pensive Pleaeyes !

sures sweet

With wreaths of sober hue my evening As when the Savage, who his drowsy

seat. frame

Yet dear to Fancy's eye your varied Ilad basked beneath the Sun's unclouded flame,

Of wood, hill, dale, and sparkling brook Awakes amid the troubles of the air,

between! The skiey deluge, and white lightning's Yet sweet to Fancy's ear the warbled glare

( Aghast he scours before the tempest's That soars on Morning's wing your

vales among
And sad recalls the sunny hour of
sleep :-

Scenes of my Hope! the aching eye ye
So tossed by storms along Life's wilder-

leave ing way,

Like yon bright hues that paint the Mine eye reverted views that cloudless

clouds of eve! day,

Tearsul and saddening with the saddened When by my native brook I wont to

blaze rove,

Mine eye the gleam pursues with wistful While IIope with kisses nursed the

gaze : Infant Love.

80 Sees shades on shades with deeper tint

impend, Dear native brook! like Peace, SO Till chill and damp the moonless night placidly


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? 1793:

Trembling, I plac'd it in my secret breast : TO FORTUNE

And thrice I've viewed the vernal gleam, TO THE EDITOR OF THE MORNING

Since oft mine eye, with joy's electric CHRONICLE


Illum'd it--and its sadder hue Sir,- The following poem you may

Oft moistened with the tear's ambrosial perhaps deem admissible into your jour

dew ! nal—if not, you will commit it eis iepòv Poor wither'd floweret ! on its head Mévos 'Họalotolo. — I am, with more Has dark Despair his sickly mildew shed! respect and gratitude than I ordinarily But thou, O Fortune ! canst relume feel for Editors of Papers, your obliged,

Its deaden'd tints—and thou with hardier etc., CANTAB.-S. T. C.

May'st haply tinge its beauties pale,

And yield the unsunn'd stranger to the

western gale!

Morning Chronicle, Nov. 7, 1793. On buying a Ticket in the Irish Lottery

Composed during a walk to and from the Queen's Head, Gray's Inn Lane,

LEWTI Holborn, and Hornsby's and Co., Cornhill.


At midnight by the stream I roved,

To forget the form I loved. O snatch that circling bandage from thine

Image of Lewti! from my mind O look, and smile! No common prayer

Depart ; for Lewti is not kind. Solicits, Fortune ! thy propitious care ! The Moon was high, the moonlight gleam For, not a silken son of dress,

And the shadow of a star I clink the gilded chains of politesses, Ileaved upon Tamaha's stream ; Nor ask thy boon what time I scheme But the rock shone brighter far, Unholy Pleasure's frail and feverishị The rock half sheltered from my view dream;

By pendent boughs of tressy yew.Nor yet my view life's dazzle blinds--

So shines my Lewti's forehead fair, Pomp !-Grandeur ! Power ! I give you Gleaming through her sable hair, to the winds!

Image of Lewti! from my mind
Let the little bosom cold

Depart ; for Lewti is not kind.
Melt only at the sunbeam ray of gold---
My pale cheeks glow—the big drops I saw a cloud of palest hue,

Onward to the moon it passed ;
The rebel Feeling riots at my heart ! Still brighter and more bright it grew,
And if in lonely durance pent,

With floating colours not a few, Thy poor mite mourn a brief imprison- Till it reach'd the moon at last : ment

Then the cloud was wholly bright, That mite at Sorrow's faintest sound With a rich and amber light ! Leaps from its scrip with an elastic And so with many a hope I seek bound !

And with such joy I find my Lewti; But oh ! if ever song thine ear

And even so my pale wan cheek Might soothe, O haste with fost’ring hand Drinks in as deep a flush of beauty ! to rear

Nay, treacherous image! leave my mind, One Flower of Hope! At Love's behest, If Lewti never will be kind.




The little cloud-it floats away,

Away it goes ; away so soon ?
Alas! it has no power to stay :

Its hues are dim, its hues are grey

Away it passes from the moon !
How mournfully it seems to fly,

Ever fading more and more,
To joyless regions of the sky-

And now 'tis whiter than before !
As white as my poor cheek will be,

When, Lewti ! on my couch I lie,
* A dying man for love of thee.

Nay, treacherous image! leave my mind-
And yet, thou didst not look unkind. 41

I then might view her bosom white
Heaving lovely to my sight,
As these two swans together heave
On the gently-swelling wave.
Oh! that she saw me in a dream,

And dreamt that I had died for care;
All pale and wasted I would seem

Yet fair withal, as spirits are !
I'd die indeed, if I might see

Her bosom heave, and heave for me!
Soothe, gentle image! soothe my mind !
To-morrow Lewti may be kind.




I saw a vapour in the sky,
Thin, and white, and very high ;

I ne'er beheld so thin a cloud :
Perhaps the breezes that can fly

Now below and now above,
Have snatched aloft the lawny shroud

Of Lady fair-that died for love.
For maids, as well as youths, have

youths, have THE solemn-breathing air is endedperished

Cease, O Lyre! thy kindred lay!
From fruitless love too fondly cherished. 50 From the poplar-branch suspended
Nay, treacherous image! leave my mind- Glitter to the eye of Day!
For Lewti never will be kind.

On thy wires hovering, dying,
Hush! my heedless feet from under

Softly sighs the summer wind:

I will slumber, careless lying,
Slip the crumbling banks for ever :
Like echoes to a distant thunder,

By yon waterfall reclined.
They plunge into the gentle river.

In the forest hollow-roaring
The river-swans have heard my tread,

Hark! I hear a deepening sound-
And startle from their reedy bed.

Clouds rise thick with heavy louring ! O beauteous birds ! methinks ye measure

See! the horizon blackens round!
Your movements to some heavenly

60 Parent of the soothing measure,
O beauteous birds ! 'tis such a pleasure Let me seize thy wetted string !

To see you move beneath the moon, Swistly flies the flatterer, Pleasure,
I would it were your true delight

Headlong, ever on the wing.

1794. To sleep by day and wake all night.


I know the place where Lewti lies
When silent night has closed her eyes :

It is a breezy jasmine-bower,
The nightingale sings o'er her head :

Voice of the Night ! had I the power
That leafy labyrinth to thread, 70
And creep, like thee, with soundless


Vivamus, mea Lesbia, atque amemus.

My Lesbia, let us love and live,
And to the winds, my Lesbia, give
Each cold restraint, each boding fear
Of age and all her saws severe.




To-morrow death shall freeze this

hand, And on thy breast, my wedded trea

sure, I never, never more shall live;Alas! I quit a life of pleasure.

Morning Post, May 10, 1798.

Yon sun now posting to the main
Will set,-but 'tis to rise again ;-
But we, when once our mortal light
Is set, must sleep in endless night.
Then come, with whom alone I'll live,
A thousand kisses take and give !
Another thousand !-to the store
Add hundreds-then a thousand more!
And when they to a million mount,
Let confusion take the account,
That you, the number never knowing,
May continue still bestowing--
That I for joys may never pine,
Which never can again be mine!

Morning Post, April 11, 1798.


Yet art thou happier far than she
Who feels the widow's love for thee!
For while her days are days of weeping,
Thou, in peace, in silence sleeping,
In some still world, unknown, remote,

The mighty parent's care hast found, Without whose tender guardian thought

No sparrow falleth to the ground.



Lugete, O Veneres, Cupidinesque.-Catullus.

Pity! mourn in plaintive tone
The lovely starling dead and gone !

Pity mourns in plaintive tone
The lovely starling dead and gone.
Weep, ye Loves! and Venus ! weep
The lovely starling fallin asleep!
Venus sees with tearful eyes—
In her lap the starling lies !
While the Loves all in a ring
Softly stroke the stiffen'd wing.

THE SIGH WHEN Youth his faery reign began Ere sorrow had proclaimed me man; While Peace the present hour beguiled, And all the lovely Prospect smiled; Then Mary! 'mid my lightsome glee I heaved the painless Sigh for thee.

? 1794:

And when, along the waves of woe,
My harassed Heart was doomed to know
The frantic burst of Outrage keen,
And the slow Pang that gnaws unseen;
Then shipwrecked on Life's stormy sea
I heaved an anguished Sigh for thee!

THE hour-bell sounds, and I must go;
Death waits — again I hear him call-

No cowardly desires have I,
Nor will I shun his face appalling.
I die in faith and honour rich-
But ah! I leave behind my treasure
In widowhood and lonely pain ;-
To live were surely then a pleasure !

But soon Reflection's power imprest
A stiller sadness on my breast;
And sickly Hope with waning eye
Was well content to droop and die:
I yielded to the stern decree,
Yet heaved a languid Sigh for thee!
And though in distant climes to roam,
A wanderer from my native home,
I fain would soothe the sense of Care,
And lull to sleep the Joys that were !
Thy Image may not banished be-
Still, Mary! still I sigh for thee.
June 1794

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Clasp'd to her bosom with a mother's care ; And, as she loved thy kindred form to

trace, The slow smile wander'd o'er her pallid


One kiss, dear Maid! I said and sighed---
Your scorn the little boon denied.
Ah why refuse the blameless bliss ?
Can danger lurk within a kiss ?
Yon viewless wanderer of the vale,
The Spirit of the Western Gale,
At Morning's break, at Evening's close
Inhales the sweetness of the Rose,
And hovers o'er the uninjured bloom
Sighing back the soft perfume.
Vigour to the Zephyr's wing
IIer nectar-breathing kisses fling;
And He the glitter of the Dew
Scatters on the Rose's hue.
Bashful lo! she bends her head,
And darts a blush of deeper Red !
Too well those lovely lips disclose
The triumphs of the opening Rose;
O fair ! O graceful ! bid them prove
As passive to the breath of Love.
In tender accents, faint and low,
Well - pleased I hear the whispered

The whispered · No' — how little

meant! Sweet Falsehood that endears Consent ! For on those lovely lips the while Dawns the soft relenting smile, And tempts with feigned dissuasion coy The gentle violence of Joy.

For never yet did mortal voice impart Tones more congenial to the sadden'd

heart : Whether, to rouse the sympathetic glow, Thou pourest lone Monimia's tale of

woe; Or haply clothest with funereal vest The bridal loves that wept in Juliet's

breast. O'er our chill limbs the thrilling Terrors

creep, Th’ entranced Passions their still vigil

keep; While the deep sighs, responsive to the

song, Sound through the silence of the tremb

ling throng. But purer raptures lighten'd from thy

face, And spread o'er all thy form an holier

grace, When from the daughter's breasts the

father drew The life he gave, and mix'd the big

tear's dew. Nor was it thine th' heroic strain to roll With mimic feelings foreign from the

soul : Bright in thy parent's eye we mark'd the

tear; Methought he said, “Thou art no

Actress here! A semblance of thyself the Grecian

dame, And Brunton and Euphrasia still the


? 1794




Maid of unboastful charms! whom

white-robed Truth Right onward guiding through the maze

of youth, Forbade the Circe Praise to witch thy

soul, And dash'd to earth th' intoxicating

bowl: Thee meek-eyed Pity, eloquently fair,

O soon to seek the city's busier scene, Pause thee a while, thou chaste-eyed

maid serene, Till Granta's sons from all her sacred

bowers With grateful hand shall weave Pierian


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