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While tinkling soft the silver-tuning bell

Floats on the gale, or dies by fits away From the sweet straw-roofd grange, deep buried

from the day.

Man was not made to pine in solitude,
Ensepulchred, and far from converse placed,
Not for himself alone, untamed and rude,
To live the Bittern of the desert waste;
It is not his (by manlier virtues graced)
To pore upon the noontide brook, and sigh,

for aye o’er sorrow uneffaced; Him social duties call the tear to dry, And wake the nobler powers of usefulness to ply.

And weep

The savage broods that in the forest shroud,
The Pard and Lion mingle with their kind;
And, oh, shall man, with nobler powers endow'd
Shall he, to nature's strongest impulse blind,
Bury in shades his proud immortal mind?
Like the sweet flower, that on some steep rock

thrown, Blossoms forlorn, rock'd by the mountain wind;

A little while it decks the rugged stone, Then, withering, fades away, unnoticed and un


For ye who, fill'd with fancy's wildest dreams, Run from the imperious voice of human pride, And shrinking quick from woe's unheeded

screams, Long in some desert-cell your heads to hide,

Where you may muse from morn to eventide, Free from the taunts of contumely and scorn, From sights of woe—the power to soothe denied, Attend the song which in life's early morn


EL EGY Occasioned by the death of Mr. Gill, who was drowned in the river Trent, while bathing, 9th

August, 1802.

HE sunk—the impetuous river roll'd along,

The sullen wave betray'd his dying breath; And rising sad the rustling sedge among,

The gale of evening touch'd the chords of death.

Nymph of the Trent! why didst not thou appear,

To snatch the victim from thy felon wave? Alas! too late thou camest to embalm his bier,

And deck with water-flags his early grave.

Triumphant, riding o’er its tumid prey,

Rolls the red stream in sanguinary pride; While anxious crowds, in vain, expectant stay, And ask the swoln corse from the murdering


The stealing tear-drop stagnates in the eye,

The sudden sigh by friendship's bosom proved, I mark them rise-I mark the gen'ral sigh;

Unhappy youth! and wert thou so beloved ?

On thee, as lone I trace the Trent's green brink,

When the dim twilight slumbers on the glade, On thee my thoughts shall dwell, nor Fancy shrink

To hold mysterious converse with thy shade.

Of thee, as early I, with vagrant feet,

Hail the grey-sandald morn in Colwick's vale, Of thee my sylvan reed shall warble sweet,

And wild-wood echoes shall repeat the tale.

And oh! ye nymphs of Pæon! who preside

O'er running rill and salutary stream, Guard ye in future well the halcyon tide (scream.

From the rude death-shriek, and the dying


These lines were composed extempore soon after the publication

of Clifton Grove,” in the presence of an acquaintance who doubted the author's ability to write poetry.

Thou base repiner at another's joy,

Whose eye turns green at merit not thine own, Oh, far away from generous Britons fly, , And find in meaner climes a fitter throne. Away, away; it shall not be,

Thou shalt not dare defile our plains;

The truly generous heart disdains

Thy meaner, lowlier fires, while he Joys at another's joy, and smiles at others' jollity.

Triumphant monster! though thy schemes succeed;

Schemes laid in Acheron, the brood of night, Yet, but a little while, and nobly freed,

Thy happy victim will emerge to light; When o'er his head in silence that reposes,

Some kindred soul shall come to drop a tear; Then will his last cold pillow turn to roses,

Which thou hadst planted with the thorn severe; Then will thy baseness stand confest, and all [fall. Will curse the ungen'rous fate, that bade a Poet


Yet, ah! thy arrows are too keen, too sure:

Couldst thou not pitch upon another prey ? Alas! in robbing him thou robb'st the poor,

Who only boast what thou wouldst take away. See the lorn Bard at midnight-study sitting,

O'er his pale features streams his dying lamp ; While o'er fond Fancy's pale perspective flitting,

Successive forms their fleet ideas stamp. Yet say, is bliss upon his brow imprest? [live?

Does jocund Health in thought's still mansion Lo, the cold dews that on his temples rest,

That short quick sigh-their sad responses give.

And canst thou rob a Poet of his song?

Snatch from the bard his trivial meed of praise ? Small are his gains, nor does he hold them long :

Then leave, oh, leave him to enjoy his lays While yet he lives—for, to his merits just,

Though future ages join, his fame to raise, Will the loud trump awake his cold unheeding dust?





Yes, my stray steps have wanderd, wander'd far
From thee, and long, heart-soothing Poesy !
And many a flower, which in the passing time
My heart hath register'd, nipp'd by the chill
Of undeserved neglect, hath shrunk and died.
Heart-soothing Poesy !--though thou hast ceased
To hover o'er the many-voiced strings
Of my long silent lyre, yet thou canst still
Call the warm tear from its thrice-hallow'd cell,
And with recall'd images of bliss
Warm my reluctant heart.--Yes, I would throw,
Once more would throw, a quick and hurried hand
O’er the responding chords.— It hath not ceased :
It cannot, will not cease; the heavenly warmth
Plays round my heart, and mantles o'er my cheek;
Still, though unbidden, plays.–Fair Poesy !
The summer and the spring, the wind and rain,
Sunshine and storm, with various interchange,
Have mark'd full many a day, and week, and


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