I mark the tall cliff, hoary, rugged, and bare,
That rears its broad breast in the midst of the waves, Where the mermaid, they say, often combs her dark hair,
And sings o'er the sailors that rest in their graves.
When the sun sinks behind the high hills of the west,
All lonely and pensive I rest by the stream,
I call to remembrance the days that are past,
And compare all my joys to the sun's setting beam.
I see with regret where the hawthorn once stood, And the yellow furze blossom'd, the marks of the plough,
Yet pleas'd I behold the rock shatter'd and rude, And view with delight the bleak mountain's bare brow.
Beneath the green elm waving dark in the air,
Oft I sit while the moon lights her lamp in the skyAh! why must I tell that my Peggy sleeps there, And that there all my hopes and my happiness lye ?
EPIGRAM, FROM LESSING,
On a Volume of Epigrams.
POINT in his foremost epigram is found:
Bee-like, he lost his sting at the first wound.
WRITTEN AT THE OPENING OF THE YEAR 1797.
Lo! to his task the infant year
Comes forth; no boding frown severe
Scowls on his brow, but smiling mild,
He seems of dove-ey'd Peace the child!
No numbing wand his young hand holds,
No hoary vest his form enfolds,
No angry blasts around him rave:—
The Spirit of the Storm sleeps in his icy cave.
He sleeps. Still wakes a fiercer far,
His dark brow trench'd with many a scar;
His voice loud as the vext-wave's roar,
His sable armour stain'd with gore;
Stern War! his fiery arm the plain
Crimsons with countless legions slain,
While round him Famine, dark Despair,
And the wild grisly forms of Lust and Rapine glare.
The weather, at the opening of the year 1797, was particularly mild.
Frantic each breathless corse he spurns,
His ardent eye with fury burns.
Scar'd by his lurid frowns, the choir
Of weeping Virtues sad retire ;
Far from the battle's horrid yell,
In peace and solitude to dwell,
Where no lorn widow's tender wail,
No shriek, no dying groan, hangs heavy on the gale.
But, with firm gaze, the deathless Muse,
His whirlwind-course indignant views.
Sees him, for conquest and for fame,
Spread wide the wildly-wasting flame;
With lasting infamy she brands
His laurels rent from ravag'd lands;
Then, borne on seraph wings sublime,
She turns from fields of blood, and seeks a milder
How long, alas! must Nature mourn
Her fairest works by rude hands torn,
And tremble as the clarion's breath
Commands her sons to deeds of death?
While, red, before her dewy eyes,
The flames from burning hamlets rise,
Where lost her babes the mother stands,
And calls on Heav'n for aid, and frenzied wrings her hands.
When shall again, at dawning day,
Wak'd by the shrill lark's matin lay,
In safety o'er the furrow'd soil,
The peasant hasten to his toil;
And, at mild eve, his labour done,
Blithe carol, to the setting sun;
Blest once more in his lowly cot,
To clasp his wife belov'd, each gloomy care forgot?
Soon may ye dawn auspicious hours!
Then bright-ey'd Pleasure crown'd with flow'rs,
Shall lead the dance in shady dell;
While feeble Age past woes shall tell,
And gain a sigh from Pity meek:
Then, rosy Love with dimpled-cheek,
His light hair floating round his head,
Shall to the laughing gale his snowy banner spread,
FROM THE FRENCH OF ST. LAMBERT.
PHILLIS, though nothing less than cruel,
Thinks a good name indeed a jewel;
And round her draws, this prize to gain,
Of pedants and of prudes a train:
With Phillis these, in cynic style,
From morn till eve defame, revile,
And preach against Love's powerful sway.
Alas! like fam'd Ulysses' wife,
Poor Phillis, with herself at strife,
Undoes by night the work of day,
On reading the following Inscription on a delightful vacant Cottage at Binsted, in the Isle of Wight.
"CONTENTMENT IS WEALTH."
AND art thou fled, romantic host?
Thy airy hopes at once bely'd?
Contentment's clue for ever lost,
And life the sport of Fortune's tide!
Such still their fate, who idly dream
In court or cot th' enchantress dwells;
Hangs o'er the cool meandering stream,
Or slumbers in monastic cells.
Tho' Freedom guard the Monarch's throne,
And Innocence the cottage grace;
Dwells, in the mind, her spells alone,
Unchang'd by circumstance or place!
If, stranger! such thy inmate prove
On peaceful plain or stormy sea,
Or in this sweet sequester'd grove,
Contentment shall be wealth to thee!
MAY 12, 1799.
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