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But cease, fond heart! this bootless moan,
Those hours, on rapid pinions flown,

Shall yet return, by Absence crown'd,
And scatter livelier roses round.

The Sun, who ne'er remits his fires,

On heedless eyes may pour the day:
The Moon, that oft from heav'n retires,

Endears her renovated ray.
What tho' she leave the sky unblest
To mourn awhile in murky west ?

When she relumes her lovely light,
We bless the wanderer of the night.


Pensive, at eve, on the hard world I mus'd,
And my poor heart was sad : so at the moon
I gaz'd-and sigh'd, and sigh’d-for, Ah! how soon
Eve darkens into night. Mine eye perus’d,
With tearful vacancy, the dampy grass,
Which wept and glitter'd in the paly ray,
And I did pause me on my lonely way,
And mus'd me on those wretched ones, who pass
O’er the black heath of Sorrow. But, alas !
Most of myself I thought: when it befell,
That the sooth Spirit of the breezy wood
Breath'd in mine ear—"All this is very well ;
But much of one thing is for nothing good.”
Ah! my poor heart's inexplicable swell!


O! I do love thee, meek simplicity!
For of thy lays the lulling simpleness
Goes to my heart, and soothes each small distress-
Distress tho'small, yet haply great to me!
'Tis true, on Lady Fortune's gentlest pad
I amble on; yet tho' I know not why,
So sad I am! but should a friend and I
Grow cool and miff, 0! I am very sad !
And then with sonnets and with sympathy
My dreamy bosom's mystic woes I pall;
Now of my false friend plaining plaintively,
Now raving at mankind in general :
But whether sad or fierce, 'tis simple all,
All very simple, meek simplicity.



And this reft house is that the which he built,
Lamented Jack! And here his malt he pil'd,
Cautious in vain! There rats that squeak so wild,
Squeak, not unconscious of their father's guilt.
Did ye not see her gleaming thro' the glade ?
Belike, 'twas she, the maiden all forlorn.
What tho' she milk no cow with crumpled horn,
Yet, aye she haunts the dale where erst she stray'd :
And, aye, beside her, stalks her amorous knight!
Still on his thighs their wonted brogues are worn,

And thro' those brogues, still tatter'd and betorn,
His inward charms gleam an unearthly white;
As when thro’ broken clouds at night's high noon
Peeps, in fair fragments, the full-orb'd harvest moon.


Not always should the tear's ambrosial dew
Roll it's soft anguish down thy furrow'd cheek!
Not always heav'n breath'd tones of suppliance meek,
Beseem thee, Mercy. Yon dark scowler view,
Who with proud words of dear-lov'd freedom came
More blasting than the mildew from the South,
And kiss'd his country with Iscariot mouth-
(Ah! foul apostate from his father's fame!)
Then fix'd her on the cross of deep distress,
And at safe distance marks the thirsty lance
Pierce her big side! But, oh! if some strange trance
The eye-lids of thy stern-brow'd sister press,
Seize, Mercy, tho' more terrible the brand,
And hurl her thunderbolts with fiercer hand,


O WHAT a loud and fearful shriek was there;
As tho' a thousand souls one death-groan pour’d.
Ah me! they viewed beneath an hireling's sword
Fall'n Koskiusko! Thro' the burden'd air,
(As pauses the tir'd Copac's barb'rous yell
Of triumph) on the chill and midnight gale

Rises with frantic burst or sadder swell
The dirge of murder'd Hope-while Freedom pale,
Bends in such anguish o'er her distin'd bier,
As if from eldest time some spirit meek
Had gather'd in a mystic urn each tear,
That ever furrow'd a sad patriot's cheek:
And she had drain'd the sorrows of the bowl,
Ev’n till she reeld, intoxicate of soul.


As late I lay in Slumber's shadowy vale,
With wetted cheek and in a mourner's guise,
I saw the sainted form of Freedom rise :
She spake! not sadder moans the Autumnal gale.
“ Great son of Genius! sweet to me thy name,
Ere in an evil hour with alter'd voice
Thou bad'st Oppression's hireling crew rejoice,
Blasting with wizard spell my laurell’d fame.
Yet never, Burke ! thou drank'st Corruption's bowl !
The stormy pity and the cherished lure
Of pomp and proud precipitance of soul,
Wilder'd with meteor fires. Ah spirit pure !
That error's mist had left thy purged eye:
So might I clasp thee with a mother's joy."


It was some spirit, Sheridan, that breath'd
O’er thy young mind such wildly-various power;
My soul hath mark'd thee in her shaping hour,
Thy temples with Hymmettian flowrets wreath'd ;

And sweet thy voice, as when o'er Laura's bier
Sad music trembled thro' Vauclusa’s glade ;
Sweet as at dawn the love-lorn serenade
That wafts soft dreams to Slumber's list’ning ear.
Now patriot rage and indignation high
Swell the full tones! And now thine eye-beams dance
Meanings of scorn and wit's quaint revelry.
Writhes inly from the bosom-probing glance
Th' apostate by the brainless rout ador'd,
As erst that elder fiend beneath great Mitchael's sword.


Tho'rous'd by that dark Vizir Riot rude,
Have driven our Priestly o'er the ocean swell ;
Tho' Superstition and her wolfish brood
Bay his mild radiance, impotent and fell ;
Calm in his halls of brightness he shall dwell ;
For lo ! Religion, at his strong behest,
Starts with mild anger from the Papal spell,
And flings to earth her tinsel-glittring vest,
Her mitred state and cumbrous pomp unholy ;
And Justice wakes to bid the oppressor wail,
Insulting aye the wrongs of patient Folly;
And from her dark retreat by wisdom won,
Meek Nature slowly lifts her matron veil
To smile with fondess on her gazing son !

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Not Stanhope ! with a patriot's doubtful name
I mark thy worth—friend of the human race !

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