But, ah, the soothing scene is o'er! On middle flight we cease to soar, For now the Muse assumes a bolder sweep, Now, now the rising fire thrills high, Now, now to heav'n's high realms we fly, every throne explore; And The soul entranc'd, on mighty wings Till all alarmed at the giddy height, And lulls the wearied soul to soft repose. TO THE MUSE. WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN. I. ILL-FATED maid, in whose unhappy train Chill poverty and misery are seen, Anguish and discontent, the unhappy bane Of life, and blackener of each brighter scene. Why to thy votaries dost thou give to feel So keenly all the scorns- the jeers of life? Why not endow them to endure the strife With apathy's invulnerable steel, Or self-content and ease, each torturing wound to heal? II. Ah! who would taste your self-deluding joys, That bid fair views and flattering hopes arise, III. Yet can I ask what charms in thee are found; I, who have drank from thine etherial rill, And tasted all the pleasures that abound Upon Parnassus, lov'd Aonian hill? aye thrill! I, through whose soul the Muses' strains TO LOVE. I. WHY should I blush to own I love? 'Tis Love that rules the realms above. Why should I blush to say to all, That Virtue holds my heart in thrall? II. Why should I seek the thickest shade, Lest Love's dear secret be betrayed? Why the stern brow deceitful move, When I am languishing with love? III. Is it weakness thus to dwell On passion that I dare not tell? 'Tis painful, though 'tis sweet, to love. THE WANDERING BOY, A SONG. 1. WHEN the winter wind whistles along the wild moor, And the cottager shuts on the beggar his door; When the chilling tear stands in my comfortless eye, Oh, how hard is the lot of the Wandering Boy! II. The winter is cold, and I have no vest, And my heart it is cold as it beats in my breast; For I am a parentless Wandering Boy. III. Yet I had a home, and I once had a sire, A mother who granted each infant desire; IV. But my father and mother were summon'd away, And they left me to hard-hearted strangers a prey; I fled from their rigour with many a sigh, -And now I'm a poor little Wandering Boy. V. The wind it is keen, and the snow loads the gale, And no one will list to my innocent tale; I'll go to the grave where my parents both lie, And death shall befriend the poor wandering boy. FRAGMENT. THE western gale, Mild as the kisses of connubial love, Plays round my languid limbs, as all dissolv'd, I lie, exhausted with the noontide heat: Dispensing coolness. On the fringed marge Or gaudy daffodil. - 'Tis here, at noon, The buskin'd wood-nymphs from the heat retire, |