my unnumber'd brethren toil'd and bled, That I should dream away the entrusted hours On rose-leaf beds, pamp'ring the coward heart With feelings all too delicate for use?
Sweet is the tear that from some Howard's eye
Drops on the cheek of one he lifts from earth:
And he, that works me good with unmov'd face,
Does it but half: he chills me while he aids,
My benefactor, not my brother man!
Yet even this, this cold beneficence
Seizes my praise; when I reflect on those,
The sluggard pity's vision-weaving tribe!
Who sigh for wretchedness, yet shun the
wretched,
Nursing in some delicious solitude
Their slothful loves and dainty sympathies !
I therefore go, and join head, heart, and hand
Active and firm, to fight the bloodless fight
Of science, freedom, and the truth in Christ.
Yet oft when after honourable toil
Rests the tir'd mind, and waking loves to dream,
My spirit shall revisit thee, dear cot!
Thy jasmin and thy window-peeping rose,
And myrtles fearless of the mild sea air.
And I shall sigh fond wishes-sweet abode !
Ah-had none greater! and that all had such!
LINES ON OBSERVING A BLOSSOM ON THE FIRST OF FEBRUARY, 1796.
SWEET flower! that peeping from thy russet stem, Unfoldest timidly (for in strange sort
This dark, frieze-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!
An 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 flow'r 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 stolen 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 harmonise
Th' attemper'd brain, that even 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
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 carest,
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!
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 flow'ret 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-piled, 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 summer torrent's gentle dash, Dance brighten'd the red clusters of the ash; Beneath whose boughs, by stillest sounds beguil'd,
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
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