THIS morn, ere yet had rung the matin peal,
The cursed Merlin, with his potent spell,
Aggrieved me sore, and from his wizard cell
(First fixing on mine eyes a magic seal)
Millions of ghosts and shadowy shapes let steal,
Who swarming round my couch, with horrid yell,
Chatter'd and moe'd, as though from deepest hell
They had escap'd.-I oft, with fervent zeal,
Essay'd, and pray'd, to mar the' enchanter's power.
In vain; for thicker still the crew came on,
And now had weigh'd me down; but that the day Appear'd, and Phoebus, from his eastern tower,
With new trick'd beam, like Truth immortal shone, And chased the visionary forms away.
WHAT numerous tribes beneath thy shadowy wing,
O mild and modest Evening, find delight!
First to the grove his lingering fair to bring,
The warm and youthful lover, hating light,
Sighs oft for thee:-And next the boisterous string
Of school-imps, freed from dame's all-dreaded sight,
Round village cross, in many a wanton ring,
Wishes thy stay. Then too with vasty might
From steeple's side to urge the bounding ball
The lusty hinds await thy fragrant call.
I, general friend, by turns am join'd with all,
Lover, and elfin gay, and harmless hind;
Nor heed the proud, to real wisdom blind,
So as my heart be pure, and free my mind.
WITH footstep slow, in furry pall yclad,
His brows inwreath'd with holly never sere,
Old Christmas comes, to close the waned year;
And aye the shepherd's heart to make right glad;
Who, when his teeming flocks are homeward had,
To blazing hearth repairs, and nut-brown beer,
And views well pleased the ruddy prattlers dear
Hug the gray mongrel; meanwhile maid and lad
Squabble for roasted crabs. Thee, Sire, we hail,
Whether thine aged limbs thou dost enshroud
In vest of snowy white and hoary veil,
Or wrapp'st thy visage in a sable cloud:
Thee we proclaim with mirth and cheer, nor fail
To greet thee well with many a carol loud.
ALL ye who far from town, in rural hall,
Like me, were wont to dwell near pleasant field,
Enjoying all the sunny day did yield,
With me the change lament, in irksome thrall,
By rains incessant held; for now no call
From early swain invites my hand to wield
The scythe; in parlour dim I sit conceal'd,
And mark the lessening sand from hourglass fall:
Or 'neath my window view the wistful train
Of dripping poultry, whom the vine's broad leaves Shelter no more.-, -Mute is the mournful plain; Silent the swallow sits beneath the thatch, And vacant hind hangs pensive o'er his hatch, Counting the frequent drop from reeded eaves.
"TIS not for Muse like mine, in rude essay
To paint the beauties of thy classic page:
Which aye deserve far other patronage
Than the small meed sincere she fain would pay
Of verse, grave eulogy, or distich gay;
For that thou deign'st to' inform this sapient age,
Whate'er was whilom told by tuneful sage,
Or harp'd in hall or bower on solemn day:
But more, for that thy skill the minstrel throng
Forbids in cold Oblivion's arms to lie:
Dear long-lost masters of the British song,
They shall requite thee better far than I;
And other shades and other climes among,
Weave thee a laureate wreath that ne'er shall die.
IN PRAISE OF DELIA.
COLD is the senseless heart that never strove
With the first tumult of a real flame;
Rugged the breast that beauty cannot tame,
Nor youth's enlivening graces teach to love
The pathless vale, the long forsaken grove,
The rocky cave that bears the fair one's name,
With ivy mantled o'er. For empty fame
Let him amid the rabble toil, or rove
In search of plunder far to eastern clime:-
Give me, to waste the hours in amorous play
With Delia, beauteous maid, and build the rhyme, Praising her flowing hair, her snowy arms,
And all that prodigality of charms
Form'd to enslave my heart, and grace my lay.
ODE TO THE RIVER TEIGN.
OH thou! the guardian of each floweret pale
That decks thy lonely brim; whether thy car
Hoarse murmuring from afar,
Foams down the dark and solitary vale;
Or through yon meads thy peaceful current roves,
Where, mid the pendent umbrage pleased to stray,
Thou shunn'st the noontide ray
Which gilds the' encircling majesty of groves;
Hail, holy sire! whilst keen remorse corrodes,
Sicken'd with pleasure's pangs, this aching heart,
Thy freshening streams impart;
And take, oh, take me to thy bless'd abodes!
But if led on by Heaven's decree to' explore
The depths and shoals of fortune, once again
I trust the faithless main,
Torn from thy desert caves and solemn roar;
Give me at length, from storms secure, and woes
Of latest age, to lose the silent hours,
And in thy awful bowers
Enshroud me, far from men, in deep repose.
STANZAS TO A LADY.
IN vain from clime to clime I stray
To chase thy beauteous form away,
And banish every care;
In vain to quit thy charms I try,
Since every thought creates a sigh,
And every wish a tear.
Ask, wafting on my plaints, the breeze,
If aught can lend a moment's ease,
Or aught my grief assuage;
Oh! it will tell thee how I trace
With pain each step, each lingering pace,
And think each hour an age.
Yon setting sun, whose placid smile
Shall quickly gild thy western isle,
No pleasure yields to me;
My longing eyes ne'er cease to stream,
To follow every fading beam
Which parts, to fall on thee.
CLAY AND TAYLOR, PRINTERS.
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