So to mankind, in darkness lost,

The beam of ardour dies.

Wan Moon, thy nightly task is done,

And now, encurtain'd in the main,
Thou sinkest into rest;

But I, in vain, on thorny bed
Shall woo the god of soft repose—

TO THE MUSE.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN.

ILL-FATED maid, in whose unhappy train Chill poverty and misery are seen,

Anguish and discontent, the unhappy bane Of life, and blackener of each brighter scene. Why to thy votaries dost thou give to feel So keenly all the scorns the jeers of life? Why not endow them to endure the strife

With apathy's invulnerable steel,

Of self-content and ease, each torturing wound to heal?

Ah! who would taste your self-deluding joys, That lure the unwary to a wretched doom,

That bid fair views and flattering hopes arise, Then hurl them headlong to a lasting tomb?. What is the charm which leads thy victims on

To persevere in paths that lead to woe?
What can induce them in that route to go,
In which innumerous before have gone,
And died in misery poor and woe-begone.

Yet can I ask what charms in thee are found; I, who have drunk from thine ethereal rill, And tasted all the pleasures that abound Upon Parnassus' loved Aonian hill?

I, through whose soul the Muses' strains aye thrill! Oh! I do feel the spell with which I'm tied; And though our annals fearful stories tell, How Savage languish'd, and how Otway died, Yet must I persevere, let whate'er will betide.

TO LOVE.

WHY should I blush to own I love?
'Tis Love that rules the realms above.
Why should I blush to say to all,
That Virtue holds my heart in thrall?

Why should I seek the thickest shade,
Lest Love's dear secret be betray'd?
Why the stern brow deceitful move,
When I am languishing with love?

Is it weakness thus to dwell
On passion that I dare not tell?
Such weakness I would ever prove;
'Tis painful, though 'tis sweet to love.

ON WHIT-MONDAY.

HARK! how the merry bells ring jocund round, And now they die upon the veering breeze; Anon they thunder loud

Full on the musing ear.

Wafted in varying cadence, by the shore
Of the still twinkling river, they bespeak
A day of jubilee,

An ancient holiday.

And lo! the rural revels are begun,
And gaily echoing to the laughing sky,
On the smooth shaven green

Resounds the voice of Mirth.

Alas! regardless of the tongue of Fate,
That tells them 'tis but as an hour since they
Who now are in their graves

Kept up the Whitsun dance.

And that another hour, and they must fall Like those who went before, and sleep as still Beneath the silent sod,

A cold and cheerless sleep.

Yet why should thoughts like these intrude to scare
The vagrant Happiness, when she will deign
To smile upon us here,

A transient visitor?

Mortals be gladsome while ye have the power,
And laugh and seize the glittering lapse of joy;
In time the bell will toll

That warns ye to your graves.

I to the woodland solitude will bend

My lonesome way-where Mirth's obstreperous

shout

Shall not intrude to break

The meditative hour.

There will I ponder on the state of man,

Joyless and sad of heart, and consecrate
This day of jubilee

To sad reflection's shrine;

And I will cast my fond eye

far beyond

This world of care, to where the steeple loud

Shall rock above the sod,

Where I shall sleep in peace.

TO THE WIND, AT MIDNIGHT.

NOT unfamiliar to mine ear,

Blasts of the night! ye howl as now
My shuddering casement loud
With fitful force ye beat.

Mine ear has dwelt in silent awe,
The howling sweep, the sudden rush;
And when the passing gale
Pour'd deep the hollow dirge.

TO THE HARVEST MOON.

Cum ruit imbriferum ver:

Spicea jam campis cum messis inhorruit, et cum
Frumenta in viridi stipula lactentia turgent.
Cuncta tibi Cererem pubes agrestis adoret.

VIRGIL.

MOON of Harvest, herald mild
Of plenty rustic labour's child,
Hail! oh hail! I greet thy beam,
As soft it trembles o'er the stream,
And gilds the straw-thatch'd hamlet wide,
Where Innocence and Peace reside!

'Tis thou that gladd'st with joy the rustic throng, Promptest the tripping dance, the exhilarating

song.