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My Sara too shall tend thee, like a Child :
And thou shalt talk, in our fire-side's recess,
Of purple pride, that scowls on wretchedness.
He did not so, the Galilean mild,
Who met the Lazars turned from rich men's doors,
And called them Friends, and healed their noisome

Sores!

SONNET XI. THOU bleedest, my poor Heart! and thy distress

Reasoning I ponder with a scornful smile, And probe thy sore wound sternly, though the

while Swoln be mine eye and dim with heaviness. Why didst thou listen to Hope's whisper bland ? Or, listening, why forget the healing tale, When Jealousy with feverous fancies pale Jarred thy fine fibres with a maniac's hand ? Faint was that Hope, and rayless !-Yet 'twas fair, And soothed with many a dream the hour of rest; Thou shouldst have loved it most, when most opprest, And nursed it with an agony

of

care, Even as a Mother her sweet infant heir That, wan and sickly, droops upon her breast !

SONNET XII. TO THE AUTHOR OF 66THE ROBBERS." SCHILLER! that hour I would have wished to die

If through the shuddering midnight I had sent From the dark dungeon of the tower time-rent, That fearful voice, a famished Father's cry

Lest in some after moment aught more mean
Might stamp me mortal! A triumphant shout
Black Horror screamed, and all her goblin rout
Diminished shrunk from the more withering scene !
Ah! Bard tremendous in sublimity !
Could I behold thee in thy loftier mood,
Wandering at eve with finely frenzied eye,
Beneath some vast old tempest-swinging wood !
Awhile with mute awe gazing I would brood :
Then weep aloud in a wild ecstasy!

LINES

COMPOSED WHILE CLIMBING THE LEFT ASCENT OF

BROCKLEY COOMB, SOMERSETSHIRE, MAY, 1795.

WITH many a pause and oft reverted eye

I climb the Coomb's ascent: sweet songsters

near

Warble in shade their wild-wood melody :
Far off the unvarying Cuckoo soothes my ear
Up scour the startling stragglers of the Flock
That on green plots o'er precipices browse :
From the deep fissures of the naked rock
The Yew-tree bursts ! Beneath its dark green boughs
(Mid which the May-thorn blends its blossoms

white)
Where broad smooth stones jut out in mossy seats,
I rest and now have gained the topmost site.
Ah! what a luxury of landscape meets
My gaze! Proud towers, and cots more dear to me,
Elm-shadow'd fields, and prospect-bounding sea !
Deep sighs my lonely heart: I drop the tear :
Enchanting spot! O were my Sara here!

LINES AS

IN THE MANNER OF SPENSER.

O PEACE, that on a lilied bank dost love

To rest thine head beneath an olive tree, I would that from the pinions of thy dove One quill withouten pain yplucked might be! For O! I wish my Sara's frowns to flee, And fain to her some soothing song would write, Lest she resent my rude discourtesy, Who vowed to meet her ere the morning light, But broke my plighted word—ah! false and recreant

wight! Last night as I my weary head did pillow With thoughts of my dissevered Fair engrost, Chill Fancy drooped wreathing herself with willow, As though my breast entombed a pining ghost. “From some blest couch, young Rapture's bridal

boast, Rejected Slumber! hither wing thy way; But leave me with the matin hour, at most! As night-closed floweret to the orient ray, My sad heart will expand, when I the Maid survey."

But Love, who heard the silence of my thought,
Contrived a loo successful wile, I ween:
And whispered to himself, with malice fraught,
“ Too long our Slave the Damsel's smiles hath seen:
To-morrow shall he ken her altered mien !"
He spake, and ambushed lay, till on my bed
The morning shot her dewy glances keen,
When as I 'gan to lift my drowsy head-
“Now, Bard ! I'll work thee woe!” the laughing

Elfin said.

Sleep, softly-breathing God! his downy wing
Was fluttering now, as quickly to depart;
When twanged an arrow from Love's mystic string,
With pathless wound it pierced him to the heart.
Was there some magic in the Elfin's dart ?
Or did he strike my couch with wizard lance ?
For straight so fair a Form did upwards start
(No fairer decked the bowers of old Romance)
That Sleep enamored grew, nor moved from his

sweet trance !

My Sara came, with gentlest look divine;
Bright shone her eye, yet tender was its beam :
I felt the pressure of her lip to mine!
Whispering we went, and Love was all our theme-
Love pure and spotless, as at first, I deem,
He sprang from Heaven! Such joys with sleep did

'bide,
That I the living image of my dream
Fondly forgot. Too late I woke, and sighd-
“O! how shall I behold my Love at even-tide !"

IMITATED FROM OSSIAN.

THE stream, with languid murmur creeps,

In Lumin's flowery vale:
Beneath the dew the Lily weeps

Slow-waving to the gale.

Cease, restless gale!" it seems to say,

“ Nor wake me with thy sighing ! The honors of my vernal day

On rapid wing are flying.

“ To-morrow shall the traveller come

Who late beheld me blooming :
His searching eye shall vainly roam

The dreary vale of Lumin.”
With eager gaze and wetted cheek

My wonted haunts along,
Thus, faithful Maiden! thou shalt seek

The Youth of simplest song.
But I along the breeze shall roll

The voice of feeble power ;
And dwell, the Moon-beam of thy soul,

In slumber's nightly hour.

THE COMPLAINT OF NINATHOMA. HOW long will ye round me be swelling, To ye

blue-tumbling waves of the sea ? Not always in caves was my dwelling,

Nor beneath the cold blast of the tree. Through the bigh-sounding halls of Cathlóma

In the steps of my beauty I strayed ; The warriors beheld Ninathóma,

And they blessed the white-bosomed Maid !

A Ghost ! by my cavern it darted !

In moon-beams the Spirit was drestFor lovely appear the departed

When they visit the dreams of my rest ! But disturbed by the tempest's commocion

Fleet the shadowy forms of delightAh cease, thou shrill blast of the Ocean !

To howl through my cavern by night.

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