JOULD then the Babes from yon unsheltered cot
Implore thy passing charity in vain ?

Too thoughtless Youth! what tho' thy happier

lot

Insult their life of poverty and pain!

What tho' their Maker doomed them thus forlorn

To brook the mockery of the taunting throng, Beneath th' oppressor's iron scourge to mourn, To mourn, but not to murmur at his wrong! Yet when their last late evening shall decline,

Their evening cheerful, though their day distress'd, A Hope perhaps more heavenly-bright than thine, A Grace by thee unsought, and unpossess'd,

A Faith more fixed, a Rapture more divine

Shall gild their passage to eternal Rest.

IT is a beauteous evening, calm and free;
The holy time is quiet as a nun

Breathless with adoration; the broad sun

Is sinking down in its tranquillity;

The gentleness of heaven is on the sea:
Listen! the mighty Being is awake,

And doth with his eternal motion make
A sound like thunder-everlastingly.

Dear child! dear girl! that walkest with me here,
If thou appear untouched by solemn thought,
Thy nature is not therefore less divine:
Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year,
And worship'st at the Temple's inner shrine,
God being with thee when we know it not.

COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE.

ARTH has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by

A sight so touching in its majesty :

This city now doth like a garment wear

The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,

Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields and to the sky,

All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep

In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Never saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!

The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still!

ENGLAND AND SWITZERLAND, 1802.

WO Voices are there; one is of the sea,

One of the mountains; each a mighty Voice:
In both from age to age thou didst rejoice,

They were thy chosen music, Liberty!

There came a Tyrant, and with holy glee

Thou fought'st against him; but hast vainly striven: Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven, Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee. Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft : Then cleave, O cleave, to that which still is left; For, high-souled Maid, what sorrow would it be That Mountain floods should thunder as before, And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore,

And neither awful Voice be heard by thee!

URPRISED by joy-impatient as the wind
I turned to share the transport-Oh, with whon.
But thee, deep-buried in the silent tomb,

That spot which no vicissitude can find?

Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind

But how could I forget thee? Through what power,

Even for the least division of an hour,

Have I been so beguiled as to be blind

To my most grievous loss? That thought's return
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,

Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;
That neither present time, nor years unborn,
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.