VERSES. WHEN pride and envy, and the scorn To hear the forest bee on wing, Or by the stream, or woodland spring, While the tinkling waters moan, Now, surely, thought I, there's enow And who will miss a poet's feet, And when the Autumn's withering hand Hurl in ten thousand shapes the snow. * EPIGRAM ON ROBERT BLOOMFIELD. BLOOMFIELD, thy happy-omen'd name ODE TO MIDNIGHT. SEASON of general rest, whose solemn still, 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, And pours upon my ear her thrilling song, 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. 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 ODE TO THOUGHT. WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT. I. HENCE away, vindictive Thought! Thy pictures are of pain; The visions through thy dark eye caught, 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, 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? Does bliss untainted from thee flow? 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, 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, By them unheeded, carking Care, |