Yet still thro' all his strains would flow A tone of uncomplaining woe,
Kind as the tear in Pity's eye,
Soft as the slumbering infant's sigh,
So sweetly exquisitely wild,
It spake the Muse of Sorrow's child.
O Pillow! then, when light withdrew,
To thee the fond enthusiast flew;
On thee, in pensive mood reclined,
He pour'd his contemplative mind,
Till o'er his eyes, with mild controul,
Sleep like a soft enchantment stole,
Charmed into life his airy schemes,
And realized his waking dreams.
Soon from those waking dreams he woke,
The fairy spell of fancy broke ;
In vain he breathed a soul of fire,
Thro' ev'ry chord that strung his lyre,
No friendly echo cheer'd his tongue,
Amidst the wilderness he sung;
Louder and bolder bards were crown'd,'
Whose dissonance his music drown'd:
The public ear, the public voice,
Despised his song, denied his choice,
Denied a name,-a life in death,
Denied a bubble and a breath.
Stript of his fondest, dearest claim,
And disinherited of fame,
To thee, O Pillow! thee alone,
He made his silent anguish known;
His haughty spirit scorn'd the blow,
That laid his high ambition low;
But ah! his looks assumed in vain
A cold ineffable disdain,
While deep he cherish'd in his breast
The scorpion that consum'd his rest.
Yet other secret griefs had he,
O Pillow! only told to thee:
Say, did not hopeless love intrude
On his poor bosom's solitude?
Perhaps on thy soft lap reclined,
In dreams the cruel Fair was kind,
That he might more intensely know
The bitterness of waking woe?
Whate'er those pangs from me conceal'd
To thee in midnight groans reveal'd;
They stung remembrance to despair;
"A wounded spirit who can bear!"
Meanwhile disease, with slow decay,
Moulder'd his feeble frame away;
And as his evening sun declined
The shadows deepen'd o'er his mind.
What doubts and terrors then possess'd
The dark dominion of his breast!
How did delirious fancy dwell,
On madness, suicide, and hell!
There was on earth no power to save:
But as he shudder'd o'er the grave,
He saw from realms of light descend
The friend of him who has no friend,
Religion!Her almighty breath
Rebuked the winds and waves of death;
She bade the storm of frenzy cease,
And smiled a calm and whisper'd peace;
Amidst that calm of sweet repose,
To Heaven his gentle spirit rose.
On reading Mr. Surr's Poem of Christ's Hospital.
My Surr, if yet thy faithful breast retain
Any kind mem'ry of a youthful friend,
" In school-days lov'd, I shall not much offend ;
When, in no flattering, no injurious. strain,
I tell how much I love thy honest rhymes;
Which to my mind so sweetly have restor❜d,
Faint and nigh-faded images of times
Long past; of haunts our footsteps have explor'd
So oft together; and that happy age,
When after Learning's pleasant labours done,
And school-tasks ended with the setting sun,
We trod, in puny majesty, the stage,
In boyish tones delighting to rehearse
Southern's (perchance) or gentler Otway's verse.
On receiving, as a posthumous memorial, a pair of greenglass spectacles, which had belonged to the author of "The Task."
NOT that there needed, venerable bard!
Aught more impressive than the gifted page
To guard thy memory, or to latest age
Rivet the fond remembrance that I shar'd
Thy friendly thought; and thy benign regard
Unshaken held. More could not need, meek sage!
My life-long glow of revérence to engage,
Or leave thy lov'd idea unimpair'd.
Yet precious is the relique which did shade
Thy living temples from excess of light,'
While Fancy round each emerald circlet play'd,
While Genius flash'd beneath the mimic night,
And Hope, star-crested, shot a lucent ray,
To light earth's pilgrim on his heaven-ward way.
* The gifted page alludes to a copy of Mr. Cowper's Poems, received from the author.
"SAD is thy verse," you cry; " yet on thy cheek,
The rose appears, still tearless are thine eyes:
Thy converse gay, thy sorrow's truth denies;
All seems thy soul's serenity to speak."
Mistaken maid! say, must the heart that bleeds,
Obtrusive, tell its agony aloud,
And ask the pity of the careless crowd ?
Believe me, no; it silently recedes,
And sacred seeks within itself to close
From the world's prying eye, its cureless woes.
Diffusing fragrance, many a flower unfolds,
Fair to the summer sun, its vivid bloom;
Yet in its bosom the fell canker holds,
That, mining, gives it to untimely doom.
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