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Nor think it aught a misnomer
To christen Chaucer's busto Homer, [know,
Because they both have beards, which, you
Will mark them well from Joan, and Juno,)
For some great man, I could not tell
But Neck might answer just as well,
So perch'd it up, all in a row
With Chatham and with Cicero.


Then all around in just degree,
A range of portraits you may see,
Of mighty men and eke of women,
Who are no whit inferior to men.

With these fair dames, and heroes round,
I call my garret classic ground.
For though confined, 'twill well contain
The ideal flights of Madam Brain.
No dungeon's walls, no cell confined,
Can cramp the energies of mind!
Thus, though my heart may seem so small,
I've friends, and 'twill contain them all;
And should it e'er become so cold
That these it will no longer hold,
No more may Heaven her blessings give,
I shall not then be fit to live.


MILD offspring of a dark and sullen sire!
Whose modest form, so delicately fine,

Was nursed in whirling storms,
And cradled in the winds.

Thee when young Spring first question’d Winter's

And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight,

Thee on this bank he threw
To mark his victory.

In this low vale, the promise of the year,
Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale,

Unnoticed and alone,
Thy tender elegance.

So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms
Of chill adversity, in some lone walk

Of life she rears her head,
Obscure and unobserved;

While every bleaching breeze that on her blows,
Chastens her spotless purity of breast,

And hardens her to bear
Serene the ills of life.



To the River Trent. Written on Recovery from Sickness.
Once more, 0 Trent! along thy pebbly marge

A pensive invalid, reduced and pale,
From the close sick-room newly let at large,

Wooes to his wan-worn cheek the pleasant gale. 0! to his ear how musical the tale

Which fills with joy the throstle's little throat! And all the sounds which on the fresh breeze sail,

How wildly novel on his senses float!
It was on this that many a sleepless night,

As, lone, he watch'd the taper's sickly gleam, And at his casement heard, with wild affright,

The owl's dull wing and melancholy scream, On this he thought, this, this his sole desire, Thus once again to hear the warbling woodland



GIVE me a cottage on some Cambrian wild,

Where, far from cities, I may spend my days, And, by the beauties of the scene beguiled, May pity man's pursuits, and shun his ways.

While on the rock I mark the browsing goat,

List to the mountain-torrent's distant noise, Or the hoarse bittern's solitary note,

I shall not want the world's delusive joys; But with my little scrip, my book, my lyre,

Shall think my lot complete, nor covet more;
And when, with time, shall wane the vital fire,

I'll raise my pillow on the desert shore,
And lay me down to rest where the wild wave
Shall make sweet music o'er my lonely grave.


Supposed to have been addressed by a female lunatic to

a Lady.

LADY, thou weepest for the Maniac's wo,

And thou art fair, and thou, like me, art young; Oh! may thy bosom never, never know [wrung. The

pangs with which my wretched heart is I had a mother once-a brother too

(Beneath yon yew my father rests his head:) I had a lover once,—and kind, and true,

But mother, brother, lover, all are fled! Yet, whence the tear which dims thy lovely eye?

Oh! gentle lady-not for me thus weep, The green sod soon upon my breast will lie,

And soft and sound will be my peaceful sleep.

* This Quatorzain had its rise from an elegant Sonnnet, "occasioned by seeing a young Female Lunatic,” written by Mrs. Lofft, and published in the Monthly Mirror.

Go thou and pluck the roses while they bloom

My hopes lie buried in the silent tomb.


Supposed to be written by the unhappy Poet Dermody, in

a Storm, while on board a Ship in his Majesty's Service.

Lo! o'er the welkin the tempestuous clouds

Successive fly, and the loud-piping wind Rocks the poor sea-boy on the dripping shrouds,

While the pale pilot, o'er the helm reclined Lists to the changeful storm: and as he plies

His wakeful task, he oft bethinks him sad,

Of wife and little home, and chubby lad, And the half-strangled tear bedews his eyes; I, on the deck, musing on themes forlorn,

View the drear tempest, and the yawning deep, Nought dreading in the green sea's caves to sleep, For not for me shall wife or children mourn, And the wild winds will ring my funeral knell Sweetly, as solemn peal of pious passing-bell.



God help thee, Traveller, on thy journey far;

The wind is bitter keen,—the snow o'erlays

The hidden pits, and dangerous hollow ways, And darkness will involve thee.-No kind star

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