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When the low gales of evening moan along,
I love with thee to feel the calm cool breeze,
And roam the pathless forest wilds among,

Listening the mellow murmur of the trees, Full foliaged, as they lift their arms on high, And wave their shadowy heads in wildest melody.

Or lead me where, amid the tranquil vale,

The broken stream flows on in silver light, And I will linger where the gale

O'er the bank of violets sighs,

Listening to hear its soften'd sounds arise;
And hearken the dull beetle's drowsy flight:
And watch the horn-eyed snail

Creep o'er his long moon-glittering trail,
And mark where, radiant through the night,
Moves in the grass-green hedge the glowworm's
living light.

Thee, meekest Power! I love to meet,
As oft with ever solitary pace

The scatter'd Abbey's hallow'd rounds I trace,

And listen to the echoings of my feet.

Or on the half demolish'd tomb,

Whose warning texts anticipate my doom,
Mark the clear orb of night

Cast through the storying glass a faintly varied light.

Nor will I not in some more gloomy hour
Invoke with fearless awe thine holier power,

Wandering beneath the sainted pile

When the blast moans along the darksome aisle, And clattering patters all around

The midnight shower with dreary sound.

But sweeter 'tis to wander wild
By melancholy's dream beguiled,
While the summer moon's pale ray
Faintly guides me on my way
To the lone romantic glen
Far from all the haunts of men,
Where no noise of uproar rude
Breaks the calm of solitude,
But soothing Silence sleeps in all,
Save the neighbouring waterfall,
Whose hoarse waters falling near
Load with hollow sounds the ear,
And with down-dash'd torrent white
Gleam hoary through the shades of night.
Thus wandering silent on and slow
I'll nurse Reflection's sacred woe,
And muse upon the perish'd day
When Hope would weave her visions gay,
Ere Fancy chill'd by adverse fate
Left sad Reality my mate.

O Contemplation! when to Memory's eyes
The visions of the long past days arise,
Thy holy power imparts the best relief,
And the calm'd spirit loves the joy of grief.

SOUTHEY.

TO

THE REV. JOHN IRELAND.

IMITATION OF HORACE, LIB. III. ODE XVI.

WHEN howling winds and louring skies
The light untimber'd bark surprise
Near Orkney's boisterous seas,
The trembling crew forget to swear,
And bend the knees, unused to prayer,
To ask a little ease.

For ease the Turk, ferocious, prays, For ease the barbarous Russ, for ease Which Palk could ne'er obtain; Which Bedford lack'd amidst his store, And liberal Clive, with mines of ore, Oft bade for-but in vain.

For not the liveried troop that wait
Around the mansions of the great
Can keep, my friend, aloof
Fear, that attacks the mind by fits,
And Care, that like a raven flits
Around the lordly roof.

6 O, well is he' to whom kind Heaven
A decent competence has given !
Rich in the blessing sent,

He grasps not anxiously at more,
Dreads not to use his little store,
And fattens on content.

'O, well is he !' for life is lost,
Amidst a whirl of passions toss'd;
Then why, dear Jack, should man,
Magnanimous ephemera! stretch
His views beyond the narrow reach
Of his contracted span!

Why should he from his country run,
In hopes, beneath a foreign sun,

Serener hours to find?

Was never man in this wild chase
Who changed his nature with his place,
And left himself behind.

For, wing'd with all the lightning's speed,
Care climbs the bark, Care mounts the steed,
An inmate of the breast:

Nor Barca's heat nor Zembla's cold
Can drive from that pernicious hold
The too tenacious guest.

They whom no anxious thoughts annoy,
Grateful, the present hours enjoy,
Nor seek the next to know;
To lighten every ill they strive,
Nor, ere misfortune's hand arrive,
Anticipate the blow.

Something must ever be amiss-
Man has his joys; but perfect bliss

Lives only in the brain :

We cannot all have what we want;
And Chance, unask'd, to this may grant
What that has begg'd in vain.

Wolfe rush'd on death in manhood's bloom, Paulet crept slowly to the tomb;

Here breath, there fame was given : And that wise Power who weighs our lives By contras and by pros contrives To keep the balance even.

To thee she gave two piercing eyes,
A body-just of Tydeus' size;
A judgment sound and clear;
A mind with various science fraught,
A liberal soul, a threadbare coat,
And forty pounds a year.

To me one eye not over good,

Two sides that, to their cost, have stood
A ten years' hectic cough;
Aches, stitches, all the numerous ills
That swell the devilish doctor's bills,
And sweep poor mortals off:

A coat more bare than thine; a soul
That spurns the crowd's malign control;
A fix'd contempt of wrong;
Spirits above affliction's power;
And skill to charm the lonely hour

With no inglorious song.

W. GIFFORD.

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