Why didst thou listen to Hope's whisper bland?
Or, listening, why forget the healing tale,
When Jealousy with feverous fancies pale
Jarred thy fine fibres with a maniac's hand?

Faint was that Hope, and rayless!-Yet 'twas fair,
And soothed with many a dream the hour of rest:
Thou shouldst have loved it most, when most opprest,
And nursed it with an agony of care,

Even as a Mother her sweet infant heir

That wan and sickly droops upon her breast!

SONNET XII.

TO THE AUTHOR OF THE "ROBBERS."

SCHILLER! that hour I would have wished to die,
If through the shuddering midnight I had sent
From the dark dungeon of the tower time-rent
That fearful voice, a famished Father's cry—
Lest in some after-moment aught more mean
Might stamp me mortal! A triumphant shout
Black Horror screamed, and all her goblin rout
Diminished shrunk from the more withering scene!
Ah! Bard tremendous in sublimity!
Could I behold thee in thy loftier mood
Wandering at eve with finely frenzied eye

Beneath some vast old tempest-swinging wood!
Awhile with mute awe gazing I would brood:
Then weep aloud in a wild ecstasy.

LINES

COMPOSED WHILE CLIMBING THE LEFT ASCENT OF BROCKLEY

COOMB, SOMERSETSHIRE, MAY, 1795.

WITH many a pause and oft-reverted eye

I climb the Coomb's ascent: sweet songsters near
Warble in shade their wild-wood melody:
Far off the unvarying Cuckoo soothes my ear.
Up scour the startling stragglers of the Flock

That on green plots o'er precipices browse:
From the deep fissures of the naked rock

The Yew tree bursts! Beneath its dark green boughs
(Mid which the May-thorn blends its blossoms white)
Where broad smooth stones jut out in mossy seats,
I rest :—and now have gained the topmost site.
Ah! what a luxury of landscape meets

My gaze!

Proud towers, and cots more dear to me,
Elm-shadow'd fields, and prospect-bounding sea!
Deep sighs my lonely heart: I drop the tear:
Enchanting spot! O were my Sara here!

LINES

IN THE MANNER OF SPENSER.

O PEACE, that on a lilied bank dost love
To rest thine head beneath an olive tree,
I would, that from the pinions of thy dove
One quill withouten pain yplucked might be!
For O! I wish my Sara's frowns to flee,
And fain to her some soothing song would write,
Lest she resent my rude discourtesy,

Who vowed to meet her ere the morning light,

But broke my plighted word-ah! false and recreant wight!

Last night as I my weary head did pillow

With thoughts of my dissevered Fair engrost,

Chill Fancy drooped wreathing herself with willow,

As though my breast entombed a pining ghost.

"From some blest couch, young Rapture's bridal boast, Rejected Slumber! hither wing thy way;

But leave me with the matin hour, at most!

As night-closed floweret to the orient ray,

My sad heart will expand, when I the Maid survey.”

But Love, who heard the silence of my thought,
Contrived a too successful wile, I ween:
And whispered to himself, with malice fraught-

Too long our Slave the Damsel's smiles hath seen :
To-morrow shall he ken her altered mien !"

He spake, and ambushed lay, till on my bed
The morning shot her dewy glances keen,

When as I 'gan to lift my drowsy head

Now, Bard! I'll work thee woe!" the laughing Elfin said.

Sleep, softly-breathing God! his downy wing

Was fluttering now, as quickly to depart;

When twanged an arrow from Love's mystic string,
With pathless wound it pierced him to the heart.
Was there some magic in the Elfin's dart?

Or did he strike my couch with wizard lance?
For straight so fair a Form did upwards start

(No fairer decked the bowers of old Romance)

That Sleep enamored grew, nor moved from his sweet trance!

My Sara came, with gentlest look divine;

Bright shone her eye, yet tender was its beam:

I felt the pressure of her lip to mine!

Whispering we went, and Love was all our theme

Love pure and spotless, as at first, I deem,

He sprang from Heaven! Such joys with Sleep did 'bide

That I the living image of my dream,

Fondly forgot. Too late I woke, and sigh'd

"O! how shall I behold my Love at even-tide ""

IMITATED FROM OSSIAN.

THE steam with languid murmur creeps,

In Lun's flowery vale:

Beneath the dew the Lily weeps

With eager gaze and wetted cheek
My wonted haunts along,

Thus, faithful Maiden! thou shalt seek
The Youth of simplest song.

But I along the breeze shall roll
The voice of feeble power;

And dwell, the Moon-beam of thy soul,
In Slumber's nightly hour.

THE COMPLAINT OF NINATHOMA.

How long will ye round me be swelling,
O ye blue-tumbling waves of the sea?
Not always in caves was my dwelling,

Nor beneath the cold blast of the tree.
Through the high-sounding halls of Cathlóma
In the steps of my beauty I strayed ;
The warriors beheld Ninathóma,

And they blessed the white-bosomed Maid!

A Ghost! by my cavern it darted!
In moon-beams the Spirit was drest-
For lovely appear the departed

When they visit the dreams of my rest!
But disturbed by the tempest's commotion
Fleet the shadowy forms of delight-
Ah cease, thou shrill blast of the Ocean!
To howl through my cavern by night.

IMITATED FROM THE WELSH.

IF, while my passion I impart,
You deem my words untrue,
O place your hand upon my heart
Feel how it throbs for you!

Ah no! reject the thoughtless claim
In pity to your Lover!

That thrilling touch would aid the flame,
It wishes to discover.

TO AN INFANT.

АH! cease thy tears and sobs, my little Life!
I did but snatch away the unclasped knife :
Some safer toy will soon arrest thine eye,
And to quick laughter change this peevish cry!
Poor stumbler on the rocky coast of woe,
Tutored by pain each source of pain to know!
Alike the foodful fruit and scorching fire
Awake thy eager grasp and young desire ;
Alike the Good, the Ill offend thy sight,
And rouse the stormy sense of shrill affright!
Untaught, yet wise! mid all thy brief alarms
Thou closely clingest to thy mother's arms,
Nestling thy little face in that fond breast
Whose anxious heavings lull thee to thy rest!
Man's breathing Miniature! thou mak'st me sigh—
A Babe art thou-and such a Thing am I!

To anger rapid and as soon appeased,

For trifles mourning and by trifles pleased,

Break Friendship's mirror with a tetchy blow,

Yet snatch what coals of fire on Pleasure's altar glow!

O thou that rearest with celestial aim

The future Seraph in my mortal frame,
Thrice holy Faith! whatever thorns I meet

As on I totter with unpractised feet,

Still let me stretch my arms and cling to thee,
Meek nurse of souls through their long infancy!

LINES

WRITTEN AT SHURTON BARS, NEAR BRIDGEWATER, SEPTEMBER, 1795, IN ANSWER TO A LETTER FROM BRISTOL.

Good verse most good, and bad verse then seems better
Received from absent friend by way of Letter.

For what so sweet can labored lays impart

As one rude rhyme warm from a friendly heart ?—ANON.

NOR travels my meandering eye
The starry wilderness on high;