Who then will soothe thee, when thy mother's

sleeping

In her low grave of shame and infamy!

Sleep, baby mine-To-morrow I must leave thee, And I would snatch an interval of rest:

Sleep these last moments, ere the laws bereave thee,

For never more thou❜lt press a mother's breast.

POEMS

OF A LATER DATE.

ODE,

ADDRESSED TO H. FUSELI, ESQ. R. A.

On seeing Engravings from his Designs.

MIGHTY magician! who on Torneo's brow,

When sullen tempests wrap the throne of night, Art wont to sit and catch the gleam of light, That shoots athwart the gloom opaque below; And listen to the distant death-shriek long

From lonely mariner foundering in the deep,
Which rises slowly up the rocky steep,
While the weird sisters weave the horrid song:
Or when along the liquid sky

Serenely chant the orbs on high,
Dost love to sit in musing trance,

And mark the northern meteor's dance,
(While far below the fitful oar

Flings its faint pauses on the steepy shore,)

And list the music of the breeze,

That sweeps by fits the bending seas;

And often bears with sudden swell

The shipwreck'd sailor's funeral knell,

By the spirits sung, who keep

Their night-watch on the treacherous deep,
And guide the wakeful helms-man's eye
To Helice in northern sky:

And there upon the rock inclined

With mighty visions fill'st the mind,