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Poor wanderers of a stormy day,

From wave to wave we're driven;
And Fancy's flash, and Reason's ray,
Serve but to light the troubled way-

There's nothing calm but Heaven!

TO THE MEMORY OF JOSEPH ATKINSON, ESQ., OF DUBLIN. If ever lot was prosperously cast,

If ever life was like the lengthend flow
Of some sweet music, sweetness to the last,

'Twas his who, mourn'd by many, sleeps below. The sunny temper, bright where all is strife,

The simple heart that mocks at worldly wiles, Light wit, that plays along the calm of life,

And stirs its languid surface into smiles ; Pure charity, that comes not in a shower,

Sudden and loud, oppressing what it feeds, But, like the dew, with gradual, silent power,

Felt in the bloom it leaves among the meads; The happy, grateful spirit, that improves

And brightens every gift by fortune given, That, wander where it will with those it loves,

Makes every place a home, and home a heaven: All these were his. Oh! thou who read'st this stone,

When for thyself, thy children, to the sky Thou humbly prayest, ask this boon alone,

That ye like him may live, like him may die!

TO MY MOTHER.

THEY tell us of an Indian tree,

Which, howsoe'er the sun and sky
May tempt its boughs to wander free,

And shoot and blossom, wide and high,

Far better loves to bend its arms

Downward again to that dear earth
From which the life, that fills and warms

Its grateful being, first had birth.
'Tis thus, though woo'd by flattering friends

And fed with fame (if fame it be),
This heart, my own dear mother, bends,

With love's true instinct, back to thee!

DEAR HARP OF MY COUNTRY. Dear harp of my country! in darkness I found thee;

The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long, When proudly, my own island harp! I unbound

thee, And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and

song! The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness

Have waken'd thy fondest, thy loveliest thrill ; But, so oft hast thou echoed the deep sigh of sad

ness, That even in thy mirth it will steal from thee still. Dear harp of my country! farewell to thy numbers, This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall

twine; Go sleep, with the sunshine of Fame on thy slum

bers, Till touch'd by some hand less unworthy than

mine. If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover,

Have throbb’d at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone; It was but as the wind passing heedlessly over, And all the wild sweetness I waked was thy own,

Vot: II.-BB

SAMUEL ROGERS. 1762.

FROM

THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY."

Twilight's soft dews steal o'er the village green With magic tints to harmonize the scene : Stillid is the hum that through the hamlet broke, When round the ruins of their ancient oak The peasants flock'd to hear the minstrel play, And games and carols closed the busy day. Her wheel at rest, the matron thrills no more With treasured tales and legendary lore. All, all are fled; nor mirth nor music flows, To chase the dreams of innocent repose. All, all are fled; yet still I linger here! What secret charms this silent spot endear?

Mark yon old mansion frowning through the trees,
Whose hollow turret woos the whistling breeze.
That casement, arch'd with ivy's brownest shade,
First to these eyes the light of Heaven convey'd.
The mouldering gateway strews the grass-grown

court,
Once the calm scene of many a simple sport,
When nature pleased, for life itself was new,
And the heart promised what the fancy drew.

See, through the fractured pediment reveald,
Where moss inlays the rudely-sculptured shield,
The martin's old hereditary nest :
Long may the ruin spare its hallow'd guest !

As jars the hinge, what sullen echoes call!
Oh haste, unfold the hospitable hall!
That hall, where once, in antiquated state,
The chair of justice held the grave debate.

Now stain'd with dews, with cobwebs darkly hung,
Oft has its roof with peals of rapture rung ;
When round yon ample board, in due degree,
We sweeten'd every meal with social glee.
The heart's light laugh pursued the circling jest,
And all was sunshine in each little breast.

'Twas here we chased the slipper by the sound,
And turn'd the blindfold hero round and round.
'Twas here, at eve, we form’d our fairy ring,
And fancy flutter'd on her wildest wing.
Giants and genii chain'd each wondering ear,
And orphan-sorrows drew the ready tear.
Oft with the babes we wander'd in the wood,
Or viewed the forest-feats of Robin Hood:
Oft, fancy-led, at midnight's fearful hour,
With startling step we scaled the lonely tower;
O’er infant innocence to hang and weep,
Murder'd by ruffian hands when smiling in its sleep.

Ye household deities! whose guardian eye
Mark'd each pure thought ere register'd on high ;
Still, still ye walk the consecrated ground,
And breathe the soul of inspiration round.

As o'er the dusky furniture I bend,
Each chair awakes the feelings of a friend.
The storied arras, source of fond delight,
With old achievement charms the wilder'd sight;
And still, with heraldry's rich hues impress'd,
On the dim window glows the pictured crest.
The screen unfolds its many-colourd chart;.
The clock still points its moral to the heart;
That faithful monitor 'twas heaven to hear,
When soft it spoke a promised pleasure near:
And has its sober hand, its simple chime,
Forgot to trace the feather'd feet of Time ?
That massive beam, with curious carvings wrought,
Whence the caged linnet sooth'd my pensive thought;
Those muskets, cased with venerable rust; [dust,
Those once-loved forms, still breathing through their
Still, from the frame in mould gigantic cast,
Starting to life, all whisper of the Past!

As through the garden's desert paths I rove, What fond illusions swarm in every grove ! How oft, when purple evening tinged the west, We watch'd the emmet to her grainy nest; Welcomed the wild bee home on weary wing, Laden with sweets, the choicest of the spring!

How oft inscribed with Friendship's votive rhyme,
The bark now silver'd by the touch of Time;
Soard in the swing, half pleased and half afraid,
Through sister elms that waved their summer shade;
Or strew'd with crumbs yon root-inwoven seat,
To lure the redbreast from his lone retreat!

Childhood's loved group revisits every scene,
The tangled wood-walk, and the tufted green!
Indulgent Memory wakes, and lo, they live!
Clothed with far softer hues than light can give.
Thou first, best friend that Heaven assigns below,
To sooth and sweeten all the cares we know;
Whose glad suggestions still each vain alarm,
When nature fades, and life forgets to charm;
Thee would the muse invoke! to thee belong
The sage's precept and the poet's song.
What soften'd views thy magic glass reveals,
When o'er the landscape Time's meek twilight steals!
As when in ocean sinks the orb of day,
Long on the wave-reflected lustres play:
Thy temper'd gleams of happiness resign'd,
Glance on the darken'd mirror of the mind.
The school's lone porch, with reverend mosses gray,
Just tells the pensive pilgrim where it lay.
Mute is the bell that rung at peep of dawn,
Quickening my truant feet across the lawn:
Unheard the shout that rent the noontide air,
When the slow dial gave a pause to care.
Up springs, at every step, to claim a tear,
Some little friendship form’d and cherish'd here;
And not the lightest leaf but trembling teems
With golden visions and romantic dreams!

Down by you hazel copse, at evening, blazed The gipsy's fagot : there we stood and gazed; Gazed on her sunburn'd face with silent awe, Her tatter'd mantle, and her hood of straw; Her moving lips, her caldron brimming o'er ; The drowsy brood that on her back she bore, Imps in the barn with mousing owlet bred, From rifled roost at nightly revel fed ;

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