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And there in black soul-jaundiced fit
A sad gloom-pampered Man to sit,
And listen to the roar:
When mountain Surges bellowing deep
With an uncouth monster leap
Plunged foaming on the shore.

Then by the Lightning's blaze to mark
Some toiling tempest-shattered bark;
Her vain distress-guns hear;
And when a second sheet of light
Flashed o'er the blackness of the night—
To see no Wessel there !

But Fancy now more gaily sings;
Or if awhile she droop her wings,
As sky-larks 'mid the corn,
On summer fields she grounds her breast:
The oblivious Poppy o'er her nest
Nods, till returning morn.

O mark those smiling tears, that swell
The opened Rose From heaven they fell,
And with the sun-beam blend.

Blessed visitations from above,
Such are the tender woes of Love
Fostering the heart, they bend!

When stormy Midnight howling round
Beats on our roof with clattering sound,
To me your arms you'll stretch:
Great God! you'll say—To us so kind,
O shelter from this loud bleak wind
The houseless, friendless wretch

The tears that tremble down your cheek,
Shall bathe my kisses chaste and meek
In Pity's dew divine;
And from your heart the sighs that steal
Shall make your rising bosom feel
The answering swell of mine!

How oft, my Love! with shapings sweet
I paint the moment, we shall meet!
With eager speed I dart—
I seize you in the vacant air,
And fancy, with a Husband's care
I press you to my heart!

'Tis said, on Summer's evening hour
Flashes the golden-coloured flower
A fair electric flame:
And so shall flash my love-charged eye
When all the heart's big ecstacy
Shoots rapid through the frame!

VOL. I. G

LINES

TO A FRIEND IN ANSWER TO A MELAN CHOLY LETTER.

Away, those cloudy looks, that labouring sigh,
The peevish offspring of a sickly hour !
Nor meanly thus complain of Fortune's power,
When the blind Gamester throws a luckless die.

Yon setting Sun flashes a mournful gleam
Behind those broken clouds, his stormy train:
To-morrow shall the many-coloured main
In brightness roll beneath his orient beam |

Wild, as the autumnal gust, the hand of TIME
Flies o'er his mystic lyre: in shadowy dance
The alternate groupes of Joy and Grief advance
Responsive to his varying strains sublime !

Bears on its wing each hour a load of Fate,
The swain, who, lulled by Seine's mild murmurs, led
His weary oxen to their nightly shed,
To-day may rule a tempest-troubled State.

Nor shall not Fortune with a vengeful smile
Survey the sanguinary Despot's might,
And haply hurl the Pageant from his height
Unwept to wander in some savage isle.

There shiv'ring sad beneath the tempest's frown Round his tired limbs to wrap the purple vest; And mixed with nails and beads, an equal jest Barter for food, the jewels of his crown.

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