To watch the distant sail; Perhaps, on Sundah's hills forlorn, He faints, with aching toil o'erborn, And life's last spirits fail. Ah, no! the cruel thought forbear! Avannt, thou fiend of fell despair, That only death canst give! While Heav'n eternal rules above, Almena yet may find her love, And Solyman may live!

WRITTEN IN

A COTTAGE-GARDEN,

AT A VILLAGE IN LORRAIN.

OCCASIONED BY A TRADITION CONCERNING A TREE OF ROSEMARY,

Arbustum loquitur.

O THOU, whom love and fancy lead
To wander near this woodland hill,
If ever music smooth'd thy quill,
Or pity wak'd thy gentle reed,
Repose beneath my humble tree,
If thou lov'st simplicity.
Stranger, if thy lot has laid

In toilsome scenes of busy life,
Full sorely may'st thou rue the strife
Of weary passions ill repaid.
In a garden live with 'ne,
If thou lov'st simplicity.
Flowers have sprung for many a year
O'er the village maiden's grave,
That, one memorial sprig to save,
Bore it from a sister's bier;

And, homeward walking, wept o'er me
The true tears of simplicity.
And soon, her cottage window near,

With care my slender stem she plac'd; And fondly thus her grief embrac'd; And cherish'd sad remembrance dear:

For love sincere and friendship free
Are children of simplicity.
When past was many a painful day,
Slow-pacing o'er the village green,
In white were all its maidens seen,
And bore my guardian friend away.
Ah death! what sacrifice to thee,
The ruins of simplicity.

One gen'rous swain her heart approv'd,
A youth whose fond and faithful breast,
With many an artless sigh confess'd,
In Nature's language, that he lov'd:

But, stranger, 'tis no tale to thee,
Unless thou lov'st simplicity.
He died and soon her lip was cold,
And soon her rosy cheek was pale;
The village wept to hear the tale,
When for both the slow bell toll'd—
Beneath yon flow'ry turf they lie,
The lovers of simplicity.

Yet one boon have I to crave;
Stranger, if thy pity bleed,

Wilt thou do one tender deed,
And strew my pale flowers o'er their grave?

So lightly lie the turf on thee, Because thou lov'st simplicity.

THE PASTORAL PART OF MILTON'S EPITAPHIUM DAMONIS. O FOR the soft lays of Himeria's maids! The strains that died in Arethusa's shades; Tun'd to wild sorrow on her mournful shore. When Daphnis, Hylas, Bion breath'd no more! Thames' vocal wave shall ev'ry note prolong, And all his villas learn the Doric song.

How Thyrsis mourn'd his long lov'd Damon
dead,

What sighs he utter'd, and what tears he shed-
Ye dim retreats, ye wandering fountains know,
Ye desert wilds bore witness to his woe:
Where oft in grief he past the tedious day,
Or lonely languish'd the dull night away.

Twice had the fields their blooming honours
bore;

And Autumn twice resign'd his golden store,
Unconscious of his loss, while Thyrsis staid
To woo the sweet Muse in the Tuscan shade:
Crown'd with her favour, when he sought again
His flock forsaken, and his native plain;
When to his old elm's wonted shade return'd-
Then then, he miss'd his parted friend-and
mourn'd.

And go, he cry'd, my tender lambs, adieu!
Your wretched master has no time for you.

Yet are there pow'rs divine in Earth or sky?
Gods can they be who destin'd thee to die?
And shalt thou mix with shades of vulgar name;
Lost thy fair honours, and forgot thy fame?
Not he, the god whose golden wand restrains
The pale ey'd people of the gloomy plains,
Of Damon's fate shall thus regardless be,
Or suffer vulgar shades to herd with thee.
Then go, he cry'd, &c.

Yet while one strain my trembling tongue may try,

Not unlamented, shepherd, shalt thou die.
Long in these fields thy fame shall flourish fair,
And Daphnis only greater honours share;
To Daphnis only purer vows be paid,
While Pan or Pales loves the vulgar shade.
If truth or science may survive the grave,
Or, what is more, a poet's friendship save.
Then go, &c.

These, these are thine: for me what hopes remain ?

Save of long sorrow, and of anguish vain.
For who, still faithful to my side, shall go,
Like thee, through regions clad with chilling
snow?

Like thee, the rage of fiery summers bear,
When fades the wan flower in the burning air?
The lurking dangers of the chase essay,
Or sooth with song and various tales the day?
Then go, &c..

To whom shall I my hopes and fears impart? Or trust the cares and follies of my heart? Whose gentle councils put those cares to flight? Whose cheerful converse cheat the tedious night?

TO THE REV. MR. LAMB.

LAMB, could the Muse that boasts thy forming

care,

Unfold the grateful feelings of my heart, Her hand for thee should many a wreath prepare, And cull the choicest flowers with studious art. For mark'd by thee was each imperfect ray

That haply wander'd o'er my infant mind; The dawn of genius brighten'd into day,

As thy skill open'd, as thy lore refin'd.

Each uncouth lay that faulter'd from my tongue,
At eve or morn from Eden's murmurs caught;
Whate'er I painted, and whate'er I sung,
Tho' rude the strain, tho' artless was the
draught;

You wisely prais'd, and fed the sacred fire

That warms the breast with love and honest fame;

You swell'd to nobler heights the infant lyre, Rais'd the low thought, and check'd th' exuberant flame.

O could the Muse in future times obtain

One humble garland from th' Aonian tree! With joy I'd bind thy favour'd brows again, With joy I'd form a fairer wreath for thee.

EPISTLE TO MR.

FROM Scenes where fancy no excursion tries, Nor trusts her wing to smoke-envelop❜d skies; Far from the town's detested haunts remov'd, And nought but thee deserted that I lov'd; From noise and folly and the world got free, One truant thought yet only stays for thee.

TO A LADY,

ON READING AN ELEGY WRITTEN BY HER ON THE SEARCH OF HAPPINESS.

To seek the lovely nymph you sing,

I've wander'd many a weary mile,
From grove to grove, from spring to spring;
If here or there she deign'd to smile.
Nay what I now must blush to say,
For sure it hap'd in evil hour;
I once so far mistook my way,

To seek her in the haunts of power.
How should success my search betide,
When still so far I wander'd wrong?
For Happiness on Arrowe's side,

Was list'ning to Maria's song.
Delighted thus with you to stay,
What hope have I the nymph to see;
Unless you cease your magic lay,
Or bring her in your arms to me?

For ever lov'd, and once enjoy'd again!
Ah! where is now that nameless bliss refin'd,
That tranquil hour, that vacancy of mind?

slave?

A restless sea, revolving wave on wave:
There rage the storms of each uncertain clime;
There float the wrecks of fortune and of time:
There hope's smooth gales in soft succession
blow,

While disappointment hides the rock below.
The syren pleasures tune their fatal breath,
And lull you to the long repose of death.
What is that world? ah!-'tis no more
Than the vext ocean while we walk the shore.
Loud roar the winds and swell the wild waves
high,

Lash the rude beach, and frighten all the sky;
No longer shall my little bark be rent,
Since Hope resign'd her anchor to Content.

Like some poor fisher that, escap'd with life,
Will trust no more to elemental strife;
But sits in safety on the green-bank side,
And lives upon the leavings of the tide ;
Like him contented you your friend shall see,
As safe, as happy, and as poor as he.

As soon the breeze with murmurs sooths to rest;
As smooth the stream of silver Irwan flows;
As fair each flower along his border blows;
Yet dwells not here that nameless bliss refin'd,
That tranquil hour, that vacancy of mind.
Is it that knowledge is allied to woe;
And are we happy only e'er we know?
Is it that Hope withholds her golden ray,
That Fancy's fairy visions fade away?
Or can I, distant far from all that's dear,
Be happy only when Almena's near?
That truth, the feelings of my heart disclose:
Too dear the friendship for the friend's repose."
Thus mourn'd the Muse, when thro' his osiers

wild,

The hill-born frwan rais'd his head and smil'd:
"Child of my hopes," he fondly cried, "for-
Nor let thy Irwan witness thy despair.
[bear;
Has peace indeed forsook my flow'ry shore?
Shall Fame, and Hope, and Fancy charm no
more?

Tho' Fame and Hope in kindred air depart,
Yet Fancy still should hold thee to her heart;
For, at thy birth, the village hind has seen
Her light wings waving o'er the shadowy green.
With rosy wreaths she crown'd the new-born

In vain-if grief shall waste thy blooming years, And life dissolve in solitude and tears."

TO GEORGE COLMAN, ESQ.

PREFIXED TO THe correspondenCE OF THEODOSIUS

AND CONSTANTIA.

To live beneath the golden star of love,

With happier fancy, passions more refin'd, Each soft'ning charm of tenderness to prove,

And all the finer movements of the mind-
From gifts like these say, what the boasted gain
Of those who exquisitively feel or know?
The skill from pleasure to extract the pain,
And open all the avenues of woe.

Yet shall we, Colman, at these gifts repine?
Implore cold apathy to steel the heart?
Would you that sensibility resign,

And with those powers of genius would you
part?

Ah me! my friend! nor deem the verse divine That weakness wrote in Petrarch's gentle strain!

When once he own'd at love's unfav'ring shrine "A thousand pleasures were not worth one pain."

The dreams of fancy sooth the pensive heart;
For fancy's urn can new delights dispense:
The powers of genius purer joys impart;
For genius brightens all the springs of sense.
O charm of every muse-ennobl'd mind,

Far, far above the grovelling crowd to rise!— Leave the low train of trifling cares behind,

Assert its birthright, and affect the skies! O right divine, the pride of power to scorn! On fortune's little vanity look down! With nobler gifts, to fairer honours born,

Than fear, or folly, fancies in a crown! As far each boon that Nature's hand bestows The worthless glare of fortune's train exceeds, As yon fair orb, whose beam eternal glows,

Outshines the transient meteor that it feeds. To Nature, Colman, let thy incense rise,

For, much indebted, much hast thou to pay; For taste refin'd, for wit correctly wise,

And keen discernment's soul-pervading ray. To catch the manners from the various face, To paint the nice diversities of mind, The living lines of character to trace,

She gave thee powers, and the task assign'd. Seize, seize the pen! the sacred hour departs! Nor, led by kindness, longer lend thine ear: The tender tale of two ingenuous hearts Would rob thee of a moment and a tear.

AN ODE

TO THE GENIUS OF WESTMORELAND.

HAIL, hidden power of these wild groves, These uncouth rocks, and mountains grey! Where oft, as fades the closing day, The family of Fancy roves. VOL. XVI.

In what lone cave, what sacred cell, Coeval with the birth of 'Time, Wrapt in high cares, and thoughts sublime, In awful silence dost thou dwell?

Oft in the depth of winter's reign,
As blew the bleak winds o'er the dale;
Moaning along the distant gale,

Has Faney heard thy voice complain,
Oft in the dark wood's lonely way,
Swift has she seen thee glancing by;
Or down the summer evening sky,
Sporting in clouds of gilded day.

If caught from thee the sacred fire,
That glow'd within my youthful breast;
Those thoughts too high to be exprest,

Genius, if thou didst once inspire,

O pleas'd accept this votive lay,
That, in my native shades retir'd,
And once, once more by thee inspir'd,
In gratitude I pay.

HYMN TO HOPE. Μωνη δ' αυτόθι ΕΛΠΙΣ εν ἀρρηκτοισι δόμοισιν Ενδον έμιμνε

WRITTEN IN 1761.

SUN of the soul! whose cheerful ray Darts o'er this gloom of life a smile; Sweet Hope, yet further gild my way,

Yet light my weary steps awhile,
Till thy fair lamp dissolve in endless day.

O come with such an eye and mien,
As when by amorous shepherd seen;
While in the violet-breathing vale
He meditates his evening tale!
Nor leave behind thy fairy train,
Repose, Belief, and Fancy vain ;
That towering on her wing sublime,
Outstrips the lazy flight of Time,
Riots on distant days with thee,
And opens all futurity.

O come! and to my pensive eye
Thy far-foreseeing tube apply,
Whose kind deception steals us o'er
The gloomy waste that lies before;
Still opening to the distant sight
The sunshine of the mountain's height;
Where scenes of fairer aspect rise,
Elysian groves, and azure skies.

Nor, gentle Hope, forget to bring
The family of Youth and Spring;
The hours that glide in sprightly round,
The Mountain-nymphs with wild thyme crown'd;
Delight that dwells with raptur'd eye
On stream, or flower, or field, or sky:
And foremost in thy train advance
The Loves and Joys in jovial dance;
Nor last be Expectation seen,
That wears a wreath of ever-green.

Attended thus by Beleau's streams,
Oft hast thou sooth'd my waking dreams,
Hh

When, prone beneath an osier shade,
At large my vacant limbs were laid;
To thee and Fancy all resign'd,
What visions wander'd o'er my mind!
Illusions dear, adieu! no more
Shall I your fairy haunts explore;
For Hope withholds her golden ray,
And Fancy's colours faint away.
To Eden's shores, to Enon's groves,
Resounding once with Delia's loves,
Adieu! that name shall sound no more
O'er Enon's groves or Eden's shore:
For Hope withholds her golden ray,
And Fancy's colours faint away.

Life's ocean slept,—the liquid gale
Gently mov'd the waving sail.
Fallacious Hope! with flattering eye
You smil'd to see the streamers fly.
The thunder bursts, the mad wind raves,
From slumber wake the 'frighted waves:
You saw me, fled me thus distrest,
And tore your anchor from my breast.

Yet come, fair fugitive, again;

I love thee still, though false and vain.
Forgive me, gentle Hope, and tell
Where, far from me, you deign to dwell.
To sooth Ambition's wild desires;
To feed the lover's eager fires;
To swell the miser's mouldy store;
To gild the dreaming chymist's ore;
Are these thy cares?-Or more humane,
To loose the war-worn captive's chain,
And bring before his languid sight
The charms of liberty and light:
The tears of drooping Grief to dry;
And hold thy glass to Sorrow's eye?

Or do'st thou more delight to dwell
With Silence in the hermit's cell?
To teach Devotion's flanie to rise,
And wing her vespers to the skies;
To urge, with still returning care,
The holy violence of prayer;
In rapt'rous visions to display
The realms of everlasting day,
And snatch from Time the golden key,
That opens all eternity?

Perchance, on some unpeopled strand,
Whose rocks the raging tide withstand,
Thy soothing smile, in deserts drear,
A lonely mariner may cheer,
Who bravely holds his feeble breath,
Attack'd by Famine, Pain, and Death.
With thee, he bears each tedious day
Along the dreary beach to stray:
Whence their wide way his toil'd eyes strain
O'er the blue bosom of the main ;
And meet, where distant surges rave,
A white sail in each foaming wave.

Doom'd from each native joy to part,
Each dear connection of the heart,
You the poor exile's steps attend,
The only undeserting friend.
You wing the slow-declining year;
You dry the solitary tear;

And oft, with pious guile, restore

'Those scenes he must behold no more.

O most ador'd of Earth or skies!
To thee ten thousand temples rise;
By age retain'd, by youth carest,
The same dear idol of the breast.
Depriv'd of thee, the wretch were poor
That rolls in heaps of Lydian ore:
With thee the simple hind is gay,
Whose toil supports the passing day.

The rose-lip'd Loves that, round their queen,
Dance o'er Cythera's smiling green,
Thy aid implore, thy power display
In many a sweetly-warbled lay,
For ever in thy sacred shrine,
Their unextinguish'd torches shine;
Idalian flowers their sweets diffuse,
And myrtles shed their balmy dews.
Ah! still propitious, may'st thou deign
To sooth an anxious lover's pain!
By thee deserted, well I know,
His heart would feel no common woe.
His gentle prayer propitious hear,
And stop the frequent-falling tear.

For me, fair Hope, if once again
Perchance, to smile on me you deign,
Be such your sweetly-rural air,
And such a graceful visage wear,
As when, with Truth and young Desire,
You wak'd the lord of Hagley's lyre;
And painted to her poet's mind,
The charms of Lucy, fair and kind.

But ah! too early lost!—then go,
Vain Hope, thou harbinger of woe.
Ah! no;-that thought distracts my heart;
Indulge me, Hope, we must not part.
Direct the future as you please;
But give me, give me present ease.

Sun of the soul! whose cheerful ray

Darts o'er this gloom of life a smile;
Sweet Hope, yet further gild my way,
Yet light my weary steps awhile,
Till thy fair lamp dissolve in endless day.

HYMN TO PLUTUS.

GREAT god of wealth, before whose sacred throne [prone! Truth, Honour, Genius, Fame, and Worth lie To thy throng'd temples take one vot'ry more : To thee a poet never kneel'd before.

Adien the gods that caught my early prayer! · Wisdom that frown'd, and Knowledge fraught with care,

Friendship that every veering gale could move!
And tantalizing Hope, and faithless Love!
These, these are slaves that in thy liv'ry shine:
For Wisdom, Friendship, Love himself is thine !
For thee I'll labour down the mine's dark way,
And leave the confines of enliv'ning day;
For thee Asturia's shining sands explore,
And bear the splendours of Potosi's ore;
Scale the high rock, and tempt the raging sea,
And think, and toil, and wish, and wake for thee.
Farewell the scenes that thoughtless youth could

please;

The flow'ry scenes of indolence and ease.