VERSES.

WHEN pride and envy, and the scorn
Of wealth, my heart with gall embued,
I thought how pleasant were the morn
Of silence, in the solitude;

To hear the forest bee on wing,

Or by the stream, or woodland spring,
To lie and muse alone—alone,

While the tinkling waters moan,
Or such wild sounds arise, as say,
Man and noise are far away.

Now, surely, thought I, there's enow
To fill life's dusty way;

And who will miss a poet's feet,
Or wonder where he stray:
So to the woods and waste I'll go,
And I will build an osier bower;
And sweetly there to me shall flow
The meditative hour.

And when the Autumn's withering hand
Shall strew with leaves the sylvan land,
I'll to the forest caverns hie :
And in the dark and stormy nights
I'll listen to the shrieking sprites,
Who, in the wintry wolds and floods,
Keep jubilee, and shred the woods;
Or, as it drifted soft and slow,

Hurl in ten thousand shapes the snow.

*

EPIGRAM

ON

ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.

BLOOMFIELD, thy happy-omen'd name
Ensures continuance to thy fame;
Both sense and truth this verdict give,
While fields shall bloom, thy name shall live!

ODE TO MIDNIGHT.

SEASON of general rest, whose solemn still,
Strikes to the trembling heart a fearful chill,
But speaks to philosophic souls delight,
Thee do I hail, as at my casement high,
My candle waning melancholy by,

I sit and taste the holy calm of night.

Yon pensive orb, that through the ether sails, And gilds the misty shadows of the vales,

Hanging in thy dull rear her vestal flame, To her, while all around in sleep recline, Wakeful I raise my orisons divine,

And sing the gentle honours of her name;

While Fancy lone o'er me her votary bends,
To lift my soul her fairy visions sends,

And pours upon my ear her thrilling song,
And Superstition's gentle terrors come,

See, see yon dim ghost gliding through the gloom! See round yon church-yard elm what spectres throng!

Meanwhile I tune, to some romantic lay.
My flagelet—and, as I pensive play,

The sweet notes echo o'er the mountain scene: The traveller late journeying o'er the moors Hears them aghast,—(while still the dull owl pours Her hollow screams each dreary pause between,)

Till in the lonely tower he spies the light
Now faintly flashing on the glooms of night,
Where I, poor muser, my lone vigils keep,
And, 'mid the dreary solitude serene,
Cast a much-meaning glance upon the scene,
And raise my mournful eye to Heaven, and weep.

ODE TO THOUGHT.

WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT.

I.

HENCE away, vindictive Thought!

Thy pictures are of pain;

The visions through thy dark eye caught,
They with no gentle charms are fraught,

So pr'ythee back again.

I would not weep,

I wish to sleep,

Then why, thou busy foe, with me thy vigils keep?

II.

Why dost o'er bed and couch recline?

Is this thy new delight?

Pale visitant, it is not thine

To keep thy sentry through the mine,

The dark vault of the night:

'Tis thine to die,

While o'er the eye

The dews of slumber press, and waking sorrows

fly.

III.

Go thou, and bide with him who guides

His bark through lonely seas;

And as reclining on his helm,

Sadly he marks the starry realm,
To him thou may'st bring ease;

But thou to me

Art misery,

So pr'ythee, pr'ythee, plume thy wings, and from

my pillow flee.

IV.

And, Memory, pray what art thou?
Art thou of pleasure born?

Does bliss untainted from thee flow?
The rose that gems thy pensive brow,

Is it without a thorn?

With all thy smiles,

And witching wiles,

Yet not unfrequent bitterness thy mournful sway defiles.

V.

The drowsy night-watch has forgot

To call the solemn hour;

Lull'd by the winds he slumbers deep,
While I in vain, capricious Sleep,

Invoke thy tardy power;

And restless lie,

With unclosed eye,

And count the tedious hours as slow they minute

by.

GENIUS.

AN ODE.

I. 1.

MANY there be, who, through the vale of life,
With velvet pace, unnoticed, softly go,
While jarring Discord's inharmonious strife
Awakes them not to wo.

By them unheeded, carking Care,
Green-eyed Grief and dull Despair;