Why didst thou listen to Hope's whisper bland? Faint was that Hope, and rayless!-Yet 'twas fair, Even as a Mother her sweet infant heir That wan and sickly droops upon her breast! SONNET XII. TO THE AUTHOR OF THE "ROBBERS." SCHILLER! that hour I would have wished to die, Beneath some vast old tempest-swinging wood! LINES COMPOSED WHILE CLIMBING THE LEFT ASCENT OF BROCKLEY COOMB, SOMERSETSHIRE, MAY, 1795. WITH many a pause and oft-reverted eye I climb the Coomb's ascent: sweet songsters near That on green plots o'er precipices browse: The Yew tree bursts! Beneath its dark green boughs My gaze! Proud towers, and cots more dear to me, LINES IN THE MANNER OF SPENSER. O PEACE, that on a lilied bank dost love Who vowed to meet her ere the morning light, But broke my plighted word-ah! false and recreant wight! Last night as I my weary head did pillow With thoughts of my dissevered Fair engrost, Chill Fancy drooped wreathing herself with willow, As though my breast entombed a pining ghost. "From some blest couch, young Rapture's bridal boast, Rejected Slumber! hither wing thy way; But leave me with the matin hour, at most! As night-closed floweret to the orient ray, My sad heart will expand, when I the Maid survey.” But Love, who heard the silence of my thought, Too long our Slave the Damsel's smiles hath seen : He spake, and ambushed lay, till on my bed When as I 'gan to lift my drowsy head Now, Bard! I'll work thee woe!" the laughing Elfin said. Sleep, softly-breathing God! his downy wing Was fluttering now, as quickly to depart; When twanged an arrow from Love's mystic string, Or did he strike my couch with wizard lance? (No fairer decked the bowers of old Romance) That Sleep enamored grew, nor moved from his sweet trance! My Sara came, with gentlest look divine; Bright shone her eye, yet tender was its beam: I felt the pressure of her lip to mine! Whispering we went, and Love was all our theme Love pure and spotless, as at first, I deem, He sprang from Heaven! Such joys with Sleep did 'bide That I the living image of my dream, Fondly forgot. Too late I woke, and sigh'd "O! how shall I behold my Love at even-tide "" IMITATED FROM OSSIAN. THE steam with languid murmur creeps, In Lun's flowery vale: Beneath the dew the Lily weeps With eager gaze and wetted cheek Thus, faithful Maiden! thou shalt seek But I along the breeze shall roll And dwell, the Moon-beam of thy soul, THE COMPLAINT OF NINATHOMA. How long will ye round me be swelling, Nor beneath the cold blast of the tree. And they blessed the white-bosomed Maid! A Ghost! by my cavern it darted! When they visit the dreams of my rest! IMITATED FROM THE WELSH. IF, while my passion I impart, Ah no! reject the thoughtless claim That thrilling touch would aid the flame, TO AN INFANT. АH! cease thy tears and sobs, my little Life! To anger rapid and as soon appeased, For trifles mourning and by trifles pleased, Break Friendship's mirror with a tetchy blow, Yet snatch what coals of fire on Pleasure's altar glow! O thou that rearest with celestial aim The future Seraph in my mortal frame, As on I totter with unpractised feet, Still let me stretch my arms and cling to thee, LINES WRITTEN AT SHURTON BARS, NEAR BRIDGEWATER, SEPTEMBER, 1795, IN ANSWER TO A LETTER FROM BRISTOL. Good verse most good, and bad verse then seems better For what so sweet can labored lays impart As one rude rhyme warm from a friendly heart ?—ANON. NOR travels my meandering eye |