Aloof, with hermit-eye I scan
The present works of present man—

A wild and dream-like trade of blood and guile,
Too foolish for a tear, too wicked for a smile!

TO A YOUNG FRIEND,

ON HIS PROPOSING TO DOMESTICATE WITH THE
AUTHOR. COMPOSED IN 1796.

A MOUNT, not wearisome and bare and steep, But a green mountain variously up-piled, Where o'er the jutting rocks soft mosses creep, Or colored lichens with slow oozing weep;

Where cypress and the darker yew start wild;
And 'mid the summer torrent's gentle dash
Dance brightened the red clusters of the ash;
Beneath whose boughs, by those still sounds be-
guiled,

Calm Pensiveness might muse herself to sleep;
Till haply startled by some fleecy dam,
That rustling on the bushy cliff above,
With melancholy bleat of anxious love,

Made meek inquiry for her wandering lamb:
Such a green
mountain 'twere most sweet to climb,
E'en while the bosom ached with loneliness-
How more than sweet, if some dear friend should

bless

The adventurous toil, and up the path sublime Now lead, now follow: the glad landscape round, Wide and more wide, increasing without bound}/

O then 'twere loveliest sympathy, to mark The berries of the half-uprooted ash Dripping and bright; and list the torrent's dash,Beneath the cypress, or the yew more dark,

Seated at ease, on some smooth mossy rock;
In social silence now, and now to unlock
The treasured heart; arm linked in friendly arm,
Save if the one, his muse's witching charm
Muttering brow-bent, at unwatched distance lag;

Till high o'er head his beckoning friend appears, And from the forehead of the topmost crag

Shouts eagerly for haply there uprears That shadowing pine its old romantic limbs,

Which latest shall detain the enamored sight Seen from below, when eve the valley dims,

Tinged yellow with the rich departing light; And haply, basoned in some unsunned cleft, A beauteous spring, the rock's collected tears, Sleeps sheltered there, scarce wrinkled by the gale! Together thus the world's vain turmoil left, Stretched on the crag, and shadowed by the pine, And bending o'er the clear delicious fount, Ah! dearest youth! it were a lot divine To cheat our noons in moralizing mood, While west-winds fanned our temples toil-bedewed: Then downwards slope, oft pausing, from the mount,

To some lone mansion, in some woody dale,
Where smiling with blue eye, domestic bliss
Gives this the husband's, that the brother's kiss!
Thus rudely versed in allegoric lore,
The Hill of Knowledge I essayed to trace ;
That verdurous hill with many a resting-place,
And many a stream, whose warbling waters pour
To glad and fertilize the subject plains ;
That hill with secret springs, and nooks untrod,
And many a fancy-blest and holy sod
Where Inspiration, his diviner strains

Low murmuring, lay; and starting from the rocks
Stiff evergreens, whose spreading foliage mocks
Want's barren soil, and the bleak frost of age,
And bigotry's mad fire-invoking rage!
O meek retiring spirit! we will climb,
Cheering and cheered, this lovely hill sublime;

And from the stirring world up-lifted high,
(Whose noises, faintly wafted on the wind,
To quiet musings shall attune the mind,

And oft the melancholy theme supply)

There, while the prospect through the gazing eye Pours all its healthful greenness on the soul, We'll smile at wealth, and learn to smile at fame, Our hopes, our knowledge, and our joys the same,

As neighboring fountains image, each the whole : Then when the mind hath drunk its fill of truth, We'll discipline the heart to pure delight, Rekindling sober joy's domestic flame. They whom I love shall love thee, honored youth ! Now may Heaven realize this vision bright!

LINES TO W. L.

WHILE HE SANG A SONG TO PURCELL'S MUSIC.

WHILE my young cheek retains its healthful

hues,

And I have many friends who hold me dear;
L! methinks, I would not often hear
Such melodies as thine, lest I should lose
All memory of the wrongs and sore distress,
For which my miserable brethren weep!
But should uncomforted misfortunes steep
My daily bread in tears and bitterness;
And if at death's dread moment I should lie

With no beloved face at my bed-side, To fix the last glance of my closing eye, Methinks, such strains, breathed by my angel

guide,

Would make me pass the cup of anguish by,
Mix with the blest, nor know that I had died!

ADDRESSED

A YOUNG MAN OF FORTUNE,

WHO ABANDONED HIMSELF TO AN INDOLENT AND CAUSELESS MELANCHOLY.

TO

HENCE that fantastic wantonness of woe,
O Youth to partial Fortune vainly dear!
To plundered Want's half-sheltered hovel go,
Go, and some hunger-bitten infant hear
Moan haply in a dying mother's ear:
Or when the cold and dismal fog-damps brood
O'er the rank church-yard with sear elm-leaves
strewed,

Pace round some widow's grave, whose dearer part Was slaughtered, where o'er his uncoffined limbs The flocking flesh-birds screamed! Then, while thy heart

Groans, and thine eye a fiercer sorrow dims, Know (and the truth shall kindle thy young mind) What nature makes thee mourn, she bids thee heal! O abject! if, to sickly dreams resigned, All effortless thou leave life's common-weal A prey to tyrants, murderers of mankind.

SONNET TO THE RIVER OTTER.

DEAR native brook! wild streamlet of the West! How many various-fated years have past, What happy, and what mournful hours, since last I skimmed the smooth thin stone along thy breast, Numbering its light leaps! yet so deep imprest Sink the sweet scenes of childhood, that mine eyes I never shut amid the sunny ray,

But straight with all their tints thy waters rise,

Thy crossing plank, thy marge with willows grey, And bedded sand that, veined with various dyes, Gleamed through thy bright transparence! On my

way

Visions of childhood! oft have ye beguiled Lone manhood's cares, yet waking fondest sighs : Ah! could I be once more a careless child!

SONNET.

COMPOSED ON A JOURNEY HOMEWARD; THE AUTHOR HAVING RECEIVED INTELLIGENCE OF THE BIRTH

OF A SON, SEPT. 20, 1796.

OFT
FT o'er my brain does that strange fancy roll
Which makes the present (while the flash doth
last)

Seem a mere semblance of some unknown past.
Mixed with such feelings, as perplex the soul
Self-questioned in her sleep; and some have said*

* Ιν που ἡμῶν ἡ ψύχη πρὶν ἐν τῷδε τῷ ἀνθρωπίνῳ εἴδει γενέσθαι -Plat. in Phædon.