1

Yon naked waste survey;

Where late was heard the flute's mellifluous lay;
Where late the rosy-bosom'd hours

In loose array danced lightly o'er the flowers;
Where late the shepherd told his tender tale;
And waken'd by the murmuring breeze of morn,
The voice of cheerful Labour fill'd the dale;

And dove-eyed Plenty smiled, and waved her liberal horn.

I

III.-2.

Yon ruins, sable from the wasting flame,
But mark the once resplendent dome;

The frequent corse obstructs the sullen stream,
And ghosts glare horrid from the sylvan gloom.
How sadly silent all!

Save where, outstretch'd beneath yon hanging wall,
Pale Famine moans with feeble breath,

And Anguish yells, and grinds his bloody teeth—
Though vain the Muse, and every melting lay,
To touch thy heart, unconscious of remorse!
Know, monster, know, thy hour is on the way,
I see the
years begin their mighty course.

see,

III.-3.

What scenes of glory rise

Before my dazzled eyes!

Young Zephyrs wave their wanton wings,

And melody celestial rings:

All blooming on the lawn the nymphs advance,

And touch the lute, and range the dance;

And the blithe shepherds on the mountain's side,
Array'd in all their rural pride,

Exalt the festive note,

Inviting Echo from her inmost grot―

But ah! the landscape glows with fainter light, It darkens, swims, and flies for ever from my sight.

IV.-1.

Illusions vain! Can sacred Peace reside
Where sordid gold the breast alarms,
Where Cruelty inflames the eye of Pride,

And Grandeur wantons in soft Pleasure's arms?
Ambition! these are thine:

These from the soul erase the form divine;

And quench the animating fire,

That warms the bosom with sublime desire.

Thence the relentless heart forgets to feel,
And Hatred triumphs on th' o'erwhelming brow,

And midnight Rancour grasps the cruel steel,

Blaze the blue flames of death, and sound the shrieks of Woe.

IV.-2.

From Albion fled, thy once beloved retreat,
What region brightens in thy smile,
Creative Peace, and underneath thy feet
Sees sudden flowers adorn the rugged soil?
In bleak Siberia blows,

Waked by thy genial breath, the balmy rose ?
Waved over by thy magic wand

Does life inform fell Lybia's burning sand?
Or does some isle thy parting flight detain,
Where roves the Indian through primeval shades,
Haunts the pure pleasures of the sylvan reign,
And led by reason's light the path of nature treads.

IV.-3.

On Cuba's utmost steep

Far leaning o'er the deep

The Goddess' pensive form was seen.

Her robe of Nature's varied green

Waved on the gale; grief dimm'd her radiant eyes,

Her bosom heaved with boding sighs:

She eyed the main; where, gaining on the view,
Emerging from th' ethereal blue,

Midst the dread pomp of war,

Blazed the Iberian streamer from afar.

She saw; and, on refulgent pinions borne,

Slow wing'd her way sublime, and mingled with the morn.

THE TRIUMPH OF MELANCHOLY.

MEMORY, be still! why throng upon the thought
These scenes so deeply-stain'd with Sorrow's dye?
Is there in all thy stores no cheerful draught,
To brighten yet once more in Fancy's eye?

Yes-from afar a landscape seems to rise,

Embellish'd by the lavish hand of Spring; Thin gilded clouds float lightly o'er the skies, And laughing Loves disport on fluttering wing.

How blest the youth in yonder valley laid!
What smiles in every conscious feature play!
While to the murmurs of the breezy glade
His merry pipe attunes the rural lay.

Hail Innocence! whose bosom, all serene,
Feels not as yet th' internal tempest roll!
Oh, ne'er may Care distract that placid mien !
Ne'er may the shades of Doubt o'erwhelm thy soul!

Vain wish! for lo, in gay attire conceal'd,

Yonder she comes! the heart-inflaming fiend! (Will no kind power the helpless stripling shield?) Swift to her destined prey see Passion bend!

O smile accursed, to hide the worst designs!
Now with blithe eye she wooes him to be blest,
While round her arm unseen a serpent twines-
And lo, she hurls it hissing at his breast!

And, instant, lo, his dizzy eyeball swims

Ghastly, and reddening darts a frantic glare; Pain with strong grasp distorts his writhing limbs, And Fear's cold hand erects his frozen hair!

Is this, O life, is this thy boasted prime !

And does thy spring no happier prospect yield? Why should the sunbeam paint thy glittering clime, When the keen mildew desolates the field?

How memory pains! Let some gay theme beguile
The musing mind, and soothe to soft delight.
Ye images of woe, no more recoil;

Be life's past scenes wrapt in oblivious night.

Now when fierce Winter, arm'd with wasteful power,
Heaves the wild deep that thunders from afar,

How sweet to sit in this sequester'd bower,
To hear, and but to hear, the mingling war!

Ambition here displays no gilded toy

That tempts on desperate wing the soul to rise, Nor Pleasure's paths to wilds of woe decoy, Nor Anguish lurks in Grandeur's proud disguise.

Oft has Contentment cheer'd this lone abode
With the mild languish of her smiling eye;
Here Health in rosy bloom has often glow'd;
While loose-robed Quiet stood enamour'd by.

G

Even the storm lulls to more profound repose:

The storm these humble walls assails in vain ; The shrub is shelter'd when the whirlwind blows, While the oak's mighty ruin strows the plain.

Blow on, ye winds! Thine, Winter, be the skies,
And toss th' infuriate surge, and vales lay waste:
Nature thy temporary rage defies;

To her relief the gentler Seasons haste.

Throned in her emerald-car see Spring appear!
(As Fancy wills, the landscape starts to view ;)
Her emerald-car the youthful Zephyrs bear,
Fanning her bosom with their pinions blue.

Around the jocund Hours are fluttering seen;
And lo, her rod the rose-lipp'd power extends !
And lo, the lawns are deck'd in living green,

And Beauty's bright-eyed train from heaven descends!

Haste, happy days, and make all nature glad—
But will all nature joy at your return?

Oh, can ye cheer pale Sickness' gloomy bed,
Or dry the tears that bathe th' untimely urn?

Will ye one transient ray of gladness dart

Where groans the dungeon to the captive's wail?
To ease tired Disappointment's bleeding heart,
Will all your stores of softening balm avail?

When stern Oppression in his harpy-fangs

From Want's weak grasp the last sad morsel bears, Can ye allay the dying parent's pangs,

Whose infant craves relief with fruitless tears?