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It pours such sweet upbraidings, as must needs Tempt to repeat the wrong! And now its strings Boldlier swept, the long sequacious notes Over delicious surges sink and rise Such a soft floating witchery of sound As twilight Elfins make, when they at eve Voyage on gentle gales from Fairy Land, Where Melodies, round honey-dropping flowers Footless and wild, like birds of Paradise, Nor pause nor perch, hov'ring on untam'd wing. And thus, my Love! as on the midway slope Of yonder hill I stretch my limbs at noon, Whilst thro' my half-clos'd eyelids I behold The sunbeams dance, like diamonds, on the main, And tranquil muse upon tranquillity; Full many a thought uncall'd and undetain'd, And many idle flitting phantasies, Traverse my indolent and passive brain, As wild and various as the random gales That swell or flutter on this subject Lute ! And what if all of animated nature Be but organic Harps diversly fram'd, That tremble into thought, as o'er them sweeps, Plastic and vast, one intellectual Breeze, At once the Soul of each, and God of all ?But thy more serious eye a mild reproof Darts, O beloved Woman! nor such thoughts Dim and unhallow'd dost thou not reject, And biddest me walk humbly with my God. Meek Daughter in the Family of Christ, Well hast thou said and holily disprais'd These shapings of the unregenerate mind, Bubbles that glitter as they rise and break On vain Philosophy's aye-babbling spring.
For never guiltless may I speak of Him,
Th’ Incomprehensible ! save when with awe
I praise him, and with Faith that inly feels ; *
Who with his saving mercies healed me,
A sinful and most miserable man
Wilder'd and dark, and gave me to possess
Peace, and this Cot, and Thee, heart-honour'd Maid !
WHOM THE AUTHOR HAD KNOWN IN THE DAYS OP HER
MYRTLE leaf, that ill besped
Pinest in the gladsome ray,
Soil'd beneath the common tread
Far from thy protecting spray!
When the Rustic o'er his sheaf
Caroll'd in the yellow vale,
Sad, I saw thee, headless leaf!
Love the dalliance of the gale.
Lightly didst thou, foolish thing!
Heave and flutter to his sighs,
• L'athée n'est point à mes yeux un faux esprit; je puis vivre avec lui aussi bien et mieux qu'avec le dévot, car il raisonne d'avantage, mais il lui manque un sens, et mon ame ne se fond point entièrement avec la sienne : il est froid au spectacle le plus ravissant, et il cherche un syllogisme lorsque je rends une action de grace.
“Appel a l'impartiale postérité, par la Citoyenne Roland," troisème partie, p. 67.
While the Flatt'rer on his wing
Woo'd and whisper'd thee to rise.
Gaily from thy mother stalk
Wert thou danc'd and wafted high ;
Soon on this unshelter'd walk
Flung to fade, to rot, and die !
LINES. ON OBSERVING A BLOSSOM ON THE FIRST OF FEBRUARY,
1796. WRITTEN NEAR SHEFFIELD.
Sweet Flower! that peeping from thy russet stem,
Unfoldest timidly (for in strange sort
This dark, freeze-coated, hoarse, teeth-chattering Month
Hath borrow'd Zephyr's voice, and gaz'd upon thee
With blue voluptuous eye) alas poor Flower !
These are but flatteries of the faithless Year.
Perchance escap'd its unknown polar cave
Ev'n now the keen North-East is on its way.
Flower, that must perish! shall I liken thee
To some sweet Girl of too, too rapid growth
Nipp'd by Consumption mid untimely charms ?
Or to Bristowa's *Bard, the wond'rous boy!
And Amaranth, which Earth scarce seem'd to own,
Blooming 'mid poverty's drear wintry waste,
Till Disappointment came and pelting Wrong
Beat it to earth! Or with indignant grief
Shall I compare thee to poor Poland's hope,
Bright flower of hope kill'd in the opening bud ?
Farewell, sweet Blossom! better fate be thine
And mock my boding! dim similitudes
Weaving in moral strains, I've stol'n one hour
From black anxiety that gnaws my heart
For her who droops far off on a sick bed :
And the warm wooings of this sunny day
Tremble along my frame, and harmonize
Th’ attemper'd brain, that ev'n the saddest thoughts
Mix with some sweet sensations, like harsh tunes
Play'd deftly on a soft-ton'd instrument.
THE HOUR WHEN WE SHALL MEET AGAIN.
COMPOSED DURING ILLNESS, AND IN ABSENCE.
Dim Hour! that sleep'st on pillowing clouds afar,
O rise and yoke the Turtles to thy car!
Bend o'er the traces, blame each lingering Dove,
And give me to the bosom of my Love!
My gentle Love, caressing and caress’d,
With heaving heart shall cradle me to rest ;
Shed the warm tear-drop from her smiling eyes,
Lull with fond woe, and med'cine me with sighs.
While finely-flushing float her kisses meek,
Like melted rubies o'er my pallid cheek.
Chill’d by the night, the drooping Rose of May
Mourns the long absence of the lovely Day;
Young Day returning at her promis'd hour
Weeps o'er the sorrows of her fav’rite Flower;
Weeps the soft dew, the balmy gale she sighs,
And darts a trembling lustre from her eyes.
New life and joy th’expanding flowret feels :
His pitying Mistress mourns, and mourning heals!
ON HIS PROPOSING TO DOMESTICATE WITH THE AUTHOR.
A Mount, not wearisome and bare and steep,
But a green Mountain variously up-pil'd,
Where o'er the jutting rocks soft mosses creep
Or colour'd lichens with slow oozing weep;
Where cypress and the darker yew start wild;
And mid the sumer torrent's gentle dash
Dance brighten'd the red clusters of the ash;
Beneath whose boughs, by stilly sounds beguild,
Calm Pensiveness might muse herself to sleep:
Till haply startled by some fleecy dam,
That rustling on the bushy cliff above
With melancholy bleat of anxious love
Made meek inquiry for her wand'ring lamb:
Such a green Mountain 'twere most sweet, to climb
E'en while the bosom ach'd with loneliness-
How heavenly sweet, if some dear Friend should bless
Th’advent'rous toil, and up the path sublime
Now lead, now follow; the glad landscape round,
Wide and more wide, increasing without bound !
O then 'twere loveliest sympathy, to mark
The berries of the half up-rooted ash
Dripping and bright; and list the torrent's dash-
Beneath the cypress or the yew more dark,
Seated at ease, on some smooth mossy rock ;
In social silence now, and now t’unlock
The treasur'd heart; arm link'd in friendly arm,
Save if the one, his muse's witching charm
Mutt'ring brów-bent, at unwatch'd distance lag ;
Till high o'er head his beck’ning Friend appears,