"Tis thine to range in busy quest of prey,
Thy feathery antlers quivering with delight,
Brush from my lids the hues of heaven away,
And all is Solitude, and all is Night!
-Ah now thy barbed shaft, relentless fly,
Unsheathes its terrors in the sultry air!
No guardian sylph, in golden panoply,

Lifts the broad shield, and points the glittering spear.

Now near and nearer rush thy whirring wings,
Thy dragon-scales still wet with human gore.
Hark, thy shrill horn its fearful larum flings!
-I wake in horror, and dare sleep no more!

A WISH.

MINE be a cot beside the hill,

A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear; A willowy brook, that turns a mill, With many a fall, shall linger near.

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivied porch shall spring
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;
And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing
In russet gown and apron blue.

The village-church, among the trees, Where first our marriage-vows were given, With merry peals shall swell the breeze, And point with taper spire to heaven.

WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT. 1786. WHILE through the broken pane the tempest sighs, And my step falters on the faithless floor, Shades of departed joys around me rise, With many a face that smiles on me no more; With many a voice that thrills of transport gave, Now silent as the grass that tufts their grave!

AN ITALIAN SONG.

DEAR is my little native vale,

The ring-dove builds and murmurs there;
Close by my cot she tells her tale
To every passing villager.

The squirrel leaps from tree to tree,
And shells his nuts at liberty.

In orange-groves and myrtle-bowers,
That breathe a gale of fragrance round,
I charm the fairy-footed hours
With my loved lute's romantic sound;
Or crowns of living laurel weave,
For those that win the race at eve.

The shepherd's horn at break of day,
The ballet danced in twilight glade,
The canzonet and roundelay

Sung in the silent greenwood shade,
These simple joys, that never fail,
Shall bind me to my native vale.

AN INSCRIPTION.

SHEPHERD, or Huntsman, or worn Mariner,
Whate'er thou art, who wouldst allay thy thirst,
Drink and be glad. This cistern of white stone,
Arch'd, and o'erwrought with many a sacred verse,
This iron cup chain'd for the general use,
And these rude seats of earth within the grove,

Were given by FATIMA. Borne hence a bride,

"T was here she turn'd from her beloved sire, To see his face no more. Oh, if thou canst, ("T is not far off) visit his tomb with flowers; And with a drop of this sweet water fill The two small cells scoop'd in the marble there, That birds may come and drink his grave, upon Making it holy! 2

WRITTEN IN THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND, SEPTEMBER 2, 1812.

BLUE was the loch, the clouds were gone

Ben Lomond in his glory shone,

When, Luss, I left thee; when the breeze,
Bore me from thy silver sands,
Thy kirk-yard wall among the trees,
Where, grey with age, the dial stands;
That dial so well known to me!
-Though many a shadow it had shed,
Beloved Sister, since with thee
The legend on the stone was read.

The fairy-isles fled far away;
That with its woods and uplands green,
Where shepherd-huts are dimly seen,
And songs are heard at close of day;
That, too, the deer's wild covert, fled,
And that, the asylum of the dead :
While, as the boat went merrily,
Much of Rob Roy the boatman told;
His arm, that fell below his knee,
His cattle-ford and mountain-hold.

Tarbat, thy shore I climb'd at last;
And, thy shady region pass'd,
Upon another shore I stood,
And look'd upon another flood; "
Great Ocean's self! (Tis He who fills
That vast and awful depth of hills);
Where many an elf was playing round
Who treads unshod his classic ground;
And speaks, his native rocks among,
As Fingal spoke, and Ossian sung.

Night fell; and dark and darker grew
That narrow sea, that narrow sky,
As o'er the glimmering waves we flew ;
The sea-bird rustling, wailing by.
And now the grampus, half-descried,
Black and huge above the tide;
The cliffs and promontories there,
Front to front, and broad and bare;
Each beyond each, with giant-feet
Advancing as in haste to meet;

1 See an anecdote related by Pausanias, iii, 20.

2 A Turkish superstition.

3 A famous outlaw.

4 Signifying, in the Erse language, an Isthmus.

5 Loch-Long.

The shatter'd fortress, whence the Dane
Blew his shrill blast, nor rush'd in vain,
Tyrant of the drear domain:

All into midnight-shadow sweep,
When day springs upward from the deep!'
Kindling the waters in its flight,

The prow wakes splendor; and the oar,
That rose and fell unseen before,
Flashes in a sea of light!

Glad sign, and sure! for now we hail
Thy flowers, Glenfinnart, in the gale;
And bright indeed the path should be
That leads to Friendship and to thee!
Oh blest retreat, and sacred too!
Sacred as when the bell of prayer
Toll'd duly on the desert air,
And crosses deck'd thy summits blue.
Oft, like some loved romantic tale,
Oft shall my weary mind recall,
Amid the hum and stir of men,
Thy beechen grove and waterfall,
Thy ferry with its gliding sail,
And her the Lady of the Glen!

A FAREWELL.

ONCE more, enchanting maid, adieu!
I must be gone while yet I may;
Oft shall I weep to think of you,
But here I will not, cannot stay.

The sweet expression of that face,
For ever changing, yet the same,
Ah no, I dare not turn to trace-
It melts my soul, it fires my frame!

Yet give me, give me, ere I go,
One little lock of those so blest,
That lend your cheek a warmer glow,
And on your white neck love to rest.

-Say, when to kindle soft delight,
That hand has chanced with mine to meet,
How could its thrilling touch excite

A sigh so short, and yet so sweet?

O say but no, it must not be.
Adieu! a long, a long adieu!

-Yet still, methinks, you frown on me,
Or never could I fly from you.

INSCRIPTION FOR A TEMPLE

DEDICATED TO THE GRACES.2

APPROACH with reverence. There are those within
Whose dwelling-place is Heaven. Daughters of Jove,
From them flow all the decencies of life;
Without them nothing pleases, Virtue's self
Admired, not loved; and those on whom they smile,
Great though they be, and wise, and beautiful,
Shine forth with double lustre.

1 A phenomenon described by many navigators. 2 At Woburn-Abbey.

TO THE BUTTERFLY.

CHILD of the sun! pursue thy rapturous flight, Mingling with her thou lovest in fields of light; And, where the flowers of Paradise unfold, Quaff fragrant nectar from their cups of gold. There shall thy wings, rich as an evening-sky, Expand and shut with silent ecstacy! -Yet wert thou once a worm, a thing that crept On the bare earth, then wrought a tomb and slept. And such is man; soon from his cell of clay To burst a seraph in the blaze of day!

WRITTEN IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.
OCTOBER 10, 1806.'

WHOE'ER thou art, approach, and, with a sigh,
Mark where the small remains of greatness lie.2
There sleeps the dust of Fox, for ever gone :
How near the Place where late his glory shone!
And, though no more ascends the voice of Prayer,
Though the last footsteps cease to linger there,
Still, like an awful dream that comes again,
Alas! at best as transient and as vain,
Still do I see (while through the vaults of night
The funeral-song once more proclaims the rite)
The moving Pomp along the shadowy aisle,
That, like a Darkness, fill'd the solemn Pile;
The illustrious line, that in long order led,

Of those that loved Him living, mourn'd Him dead;
Of those the Few, that for their Country stood
Round Him who dared be singularly good:
All, of all ranks, that claim'd Him for their own;
And nothing wanting-but himself alone! 3

Oh say, of Him now rests there but a name;
Wont, as He was, to breathe ethereal flame?
Friend of the Absent, Guardian of the Dead! 4
Who but would here their sacred sorrows shed?
(Such as He shed on Nelson's closing grave;
How soon to claim the sympathy He gave!)
In Him, resentful of another's wrong,
The dumb were eloquent, the feeble strong.
Truth from his lips a charm celestial drew-
Ah, who so mighty and so gentle too?

What though with War the madding nations rung,

Peace," when He spoke, was ever on his tongue! Amidst the frowns of Power, the tricks of State, Fearless, resolved, and negligently great! In vain malignant vapors gather'd round; He walk'd, erect, on consecrated ground. The clouds, that rise to quench the Orb of day, Reflect its splendor, and dissolve away!

1 After the funeral of the Right Hon. Charles James Fox. 2 Venez voir le peu qui nous reste de tant de grandeur, etc. -Bossuet. Oraison funèbre de Louis de Bourbon.

3 Et rien enfin ne manque dans tous ces honneurs, que celui à qui on les rend.—Ibid.

4 Alluding particularly to his speech on moving a new writ for the borough of Tavistock, March 16, 1802.

5 See that admirable delineation of his character by Sir James Mackintosh, which first appeared in the Bombay Courier, January 17, 1807.

105

When in retreat He laid his thunder by,
For letter'd ease and calm Philosophy,

Blest were his hours within the silent grove,
Where still his godlike Spirit deigns to rove;
Blest by the orphan's smile, the widow's prayer,
For many a deed, long done in secret there.
There shone his lamp on Homer's hallow'd page;
There, listening, sate the hero and the sage;

And they, by virtue and by blood allied,
Whom most He loved, and in whose arms He died.
Friend of all human-kind! not here alone
(The voice that speaks, was not to thee unknown)
Wilt Thou be missed.-O'er every land and sea,
Long, long shall England be revered in Thee!
And, when the Storm is hush'd-in distant years—
Foes on Thy grave shall meet, and mingle tears!