A MOUNT, not wearisome and bare and steep,
But a green mountain variously up-piled,
Where o'er the jutting rocks soft mosses creep,
Or colour'd lichens with slow oozing weep;

Where cypress and the darker yew start wild;
And 'mid the summer torrent's gentle dash
Dance brighten'd the red clusters of the ash;
Beneath whose boughs, by those still sounds be-
guiled,

Calm pensiveness might muse herself to sleep;
Till haply startled by some fleecy dam,
That rustling on the bushy clift above,
With melancholy bleat of anxious love,

Made meek inquiry for her wandering lamb. Such a green mountain 'twere most sweet to climb,

E'en while the bosom ached with lonelinessHow more than sweet, if some dear friend should bless

Th' adventurous toil, and up the path sublime

Now lead, now follow: the glad landscape round, Wide and more wide, increasing without bound!

O then 'twere loveliest sympathy, to mark The berries of the half uprooted ash Dripping and bright; and list the torrent's dash,Beneath the cypress, or the yew more dark, Seated at ease, on some smooth mossy rock; In social silence now, and now t' unlock The treasured heart; arm link'd in friendly arm, Save if the one, his muse's witching charm Muttering brow-bent, at unwatch'd distance lag; Till high o'erhead his beckoning friend appears And from the forehead of the topmost crag Shouts eagerly: for haply there uprears That shadowing pine its old romantic limbs, Which latest shall detain th' enamour'd sight Seen from below, when eve the valley dims, Tinged yellow with the rich departing light; And haply, basin'd in some unsunn'd cleft, A beauteous spring, the rock's collected tears, Sleeps shelter'd there, scarce wrinkled by the gale! Together thus, the world's vain turmoil left, Stretch'd on the crag, and shadow'd by the pine, And bending o'er the clear delicious fount, Ah! dearest youth! it were a lot divine To cheat our noons in moralizing mood, While west winds fann'd our temples toil-bedew'd: Then downwards slope, oft pausing, from the mount,

To some lone mansion, in some woody dale, Where smiling with blue eye, domestic bliss Gives this the husband's, that the brother's kiss!

Thus rudely versed in allegoric lore, The hill of knowledge I essay'd to trace; That verdurous hill with many a resting-place, And many a stream, whose warbling waters pour To glad and fertilize the subject plains; That hill with secret springs, and nooks untrod, And many a fancy-blest and holy sod,

Where inspiration, his diviner strains Low murmuring, lay; and starting from the rocks Stiff evergreens, whose spreading foliage mocks Want's barren soil, and the bleak frosts of age, And bigotry's mad fire-invoking rage!

O meek retiring spirit! we will climb,
Cheering and cheer'd, this lovely hill sublime;
And from the stirring world uplifted high,
(Whose noises, faintly wafted on the wind,
To quiet musings shall attune the mind,

And oft the melancholy theme supply,)
There, while the prospect through the gazing

eye

Pours all its healthful greenness on the soul, We'll smile at wealth, and learn to smile at fame, Our hopes, our knowledge, and our joys the same,

As neighbouring fountains image, each the

whole:

Then, when the mind hath drunk its fill of truth,
We'll discipline the heart to pure delight,
Rekindling sober joy's domestic flame.
They whom I love shall love thee. Honour'd
youth!

Now may Heaven realize this vision bright!

LINES TO W. L., ESQ.,

WHILE HE SANG A SONG TO PURCELL'S MUSIC.

WHILE my young cheek retains its healthful hues,
And I have many friends who hold me dear;
L! methinks, I would not often hear
Such melodies as thine, lest I should lose
All memory of the wrongs and sore distress,
For which my miserable brethren weep!
But should uncomforted misfortunes steep
My daily bread in tears and bitterness;
And if at death's dread moment I should lie
With no beloved face at my bed-side,
To fix the last glance of my closing eye,
Methinks, such strains, breathed by my angel-
guide,

Would make me pass the cup of anguish by,

Mix with the blest, nor know that I had died!

ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG MAN OF FORTUNE,

WHO ABANDONED HIMSELF TO AN INDOLENT AND CAUSELESS MELANCHOLY.

HENCE that fantastic wantonness of wo

O youth to partial fortune vainly dear! To plunder'd want's half-shelter'd hovel go, Go, and some hunger-bitten infant hear Moan haply in a dying mother's ear: Or when the cold and dismal fog-damps brood O'er the rank churchyard with sere elm leaves strew'd,

Pace round some widow's grave, whose dearer part Was slaughter'd, where o'er his uncoffin'd limbs The flocking flesh-birds scream'd! Then, while thy heart

Groans, and thine eye a fiercer sorrow dims, Know (and the truth shall kindle thy young mind) What nature makes thee mourn, she bids thee heal! O abject! if, to sickly dreams resign'd, All effortless thou leave life's commonweal A prey to tyrants, murderers of mankind.

SONNET.

COMPOSED ON A JOURNEY HOMEWARD; THE AUTENG HAVING RECEIVED INTELLIGENCE OF THE EL OF A SON, SEPTEMBER 20, 1796.

OFT o'er my brain does that strange fancy roll Which makes the present (while the flash d last)

Seem a mere semblance of some unknown pas, Mix'd with such feelings, as perplex the soul Self-question'd in her sleep; and some have sal”

We lived ere yet this robe of flesh we ware. O my sweet baby! when I reach my door, If heavy looks shall tell me thou art dead, (As sometimes, through excess of hope, I fear, I think that I should struggle to believe Thou wert a spirit, to this nether sphere Sentenced for some more venial crime to gneve: Didst scream, then spring to meet Heaven's qui reprieve,

While we wept idly o'er thy little bier!

SONNET.

TO A FRIEND WHO ASKED, HOW I FELT WHEN THE
NURSE FIRST PRESENTED MY INFANT TO KL

CHARLES! my slow heart was only sad, when first
I scann'd that face of feeble infancy:
For dimly on my thoughtful spirit burst

All I had been, and all my child might be!
But when I saw it on its mother's arm,

And hanging at her bosom (she the while Bent o'er its features with a tearful smile,) Then I was thrill'd and melted, and most wum Impress'd a father's kiss: and all beguiled Of dark remembrance and presageful fear, I seem'd to see an angel form appear'Twas even thine, beloved woman mild!

So for the mother's sake the child was dear, And dearer was the mother for the child.

SONNET TO THE RIVER OTTER.

DEAR native brook! wild streamlet of the west!
How many various-fated years have past,
What happy, and what mournful hours, since last
I skimm'd the smooth thin stone along thy breast,
Numbering its light leaps! yet so deep imprest
Sink the sweet scenes of childhood, that mine eyes
I never shut amid the sunny ray,

But straight with all their tints thy waters rise, Thy crossing plank, thy marge with willows gray,

And bedded sand that vein'd with various dyes Gleam'd through thy bright transparence! On my way,

Visions of childhood! oft have ye beguiled Lone manhood's cares, yet waking fondest sighs: Ah! that once more I were a careless child!

THE VIRGIN'S CRADLE HYMN.

COPIED FROM A PRINT OF THE VIRGIN
CATHOLIC VILLAGE IN GERMANY.

DORMI, Jesu! Mater ridet,
Quæ tam dulcem somnum videt,
Dormi, Jesu blandule!

Si non dormis, Mater plorat,
Inter fila cantans orat
Blande, veni, somnule.

ENGLISH.

Sleep, sweet babe! my cares beguiling,
Mother sits beside thee smiling:

Sleep, my darling, tenderly!
If thou sleep not, mother mourneth,
Singing as her wheel she turneth:
Come, soft slumber, balmily!

* Ην που ημων η ψυχή πριν εν τωξε το ανθρωπικών είδει γενέσθαι. PLAT. in P

ON THE CHRISTENING OF A FRIEND'S CHILD.

THIS day among the faithful placed,

And fed with fontal manna;

O with maternal title graced

Dear Anna's dearest Anna!

While others wish thee wise and fair,

A maid of spotless fame,

I'll breathe this more compendious prayerMayst thou deserve thy name!

Thy mother's name, a potent spell,

That bids the virtues hie From mystic grove and living cell Confest to fancy's eye;

Meek quietness, without offence;

Content, in homespun kirtle; True love; and true love's innocence, White blossom of the myrtle!

Associates of thy name, sweet child!
These virtues mayst thou win;
With face as eloquently mild
To say, they lodge within.

So when, her tale of days all flown,

Thy mother shall be miss'd here; When Heaven at length shall claim its own, And angels snatch their sister;

Some hoary-headed friend, perchance,

May gaze with stifled breath, And oft, in momentary trance, Forget the waste of death.

E'en thus a lovely rose I view'd

In summer-swelling pride;

Nor mark'd the bud, that green and rude Peep'd at the rose's side.

It chanced, I pass'd again that way

In autumn's latest hour,

And wondering saw the selfsame spray Rich with the selfsame flower.

Ah fond deceit! the rude green bud
Alike in shape, place, name,

Had bloom'd, where bloom'd its parent stud,
Another and the same!

EPITAPH ON AN INFANT.

Irs balmy lips the infant blest Relaxing from its mother's breast, How sweet it heaves the happy sigh Of innocent satiety !

And such my infant's latest sigh! O tell, rude stone! the passer by, That here the pretty babe doth lie, Death sang to sleep with lullaby.

THE shepherds went their hasty way,
And found the lowly stable-shed
Where the virgin mother lay:

And now they check'd their eager tread,
For to the babe, that at her bosom clung,
A mother's song the virgin-mother sung.

They told her how a glorious light,
Streaming from a heavenly throng,
Around them shone, suspending night!

While, sweeter than a mother's song,
Blest angels heralded the Saviour's birth,
Glory to God on high ! and peace on earth.

She listen'd to the tale divine,

And closer still the babe she press'd;
And while she cried, the babe is mine!
The milk rush'd faster to her breast:
Joy rose within her, like a summer morn;
Peace, peace on earth! the Prince of peace is born.

Thou mother of the Prince of peace,
Poor, simple, and of low estate!
That strife should vanish, battle cease,

O why should this thy soul elate?

Sweet music's loudest note, the poet's story,-
Didst thou ne'er love to hear of fame and glory?

And is not war a youthful king,

A stately hero clad in mail?
Beneath his footsteps laurels spring;

Him earth's majestic monarchs hail
Their friend, their playmate! and his bold bright eye
Compels the maiden's love-confessing sigh.

"Tell this in some more courtly scene,
To maids and youths in robes of state!
I am a woman poor and mean,
And therefore is my soul elate.

War is a ruffian, all with guilt defiled,
That from the aged father tears his child!

A botanical mistake. The plant which the poet here describes is called the hart's tongue,

TELL'S BIRTHPLACE.

IMITATED FROM STOLBERG.

MARK this holy chapel well!
The birthplace, this, of William Tell.
Here, where stands God's altar dread,
Stood his parents' marriage bed.

Here first, an infant to her breast,
Him his loving mother prest;
And kiss'd the babe, and bless'd the day,
And pray'd as mothers used to pray:
"Vouchsafe him health, O God, and give
The child, thy servant, still to live!"
But God has destined to do more
Through him, than through an armed power.

God gave him reverence of laws,
Yet stirring blood in freedom's cause-
A spirit to his rocks akin,

The eye of the hawk, and the fire therein!

To nature and to holy writ
Alone did God the boy commit:
Where flash'd and roar'd the torrent, oft
His soul found wings, and soar'd aloft!

The straining oar and chamois chase
Had form'd his limbs to strength and grace:
On wave and wind the boy would toss,
Was great, nor knew how great he was!
He knew not that his chosen hand,
Made strong by God, his native land
Would rescue from the shameful yoke
Of slavery the which he broke !

HUMAN LIFE.

ON THE DENIAL OF IMMORTALITY.

Ir dead, we cease to be; if total gloom Swallow up life's brief flash for aye, we fare As summer gusts, of sudden birth and doom, Whose sound and motion not alone declare, But are their whole of being! If the breath

Be life itself, and not its task and tent, If e'en a soul like Milton's can know death, O man! thou vessel, purposeless, unmeant, Yet drone-hive strange of phantom purposes ! Surplus of nature's dread activity,

Which, as she gazed on some nigh-finish'd vase, Retreating slow, with meditative pause,

She form'd with restless hands unconsciously! Blank accident! nothing's anomaly!

If rootless thus, thus substanceless thy state, Go, weigh thy dreams, and be thy hopes, thy fears, The counter-weights!-Thy laughter and thy tran Mean but themselves, each fittest to create, And to repay the other! Why rejoices

Thy heart with hollow joy for hollow goed? Why cowl thy face beneath the mourner's hool Why waste thy sighs, and thy lamenting votes,

Image of image, ghost of ghostly elf, That such a thing as thou feel'st warm or cold! Yet what and whence thy gain if thou withheld These costless shadows of thy shadowy self? Be sad! be glad! be neither! seek, or shon! Thou hast no reason why! Thou canst have to Thy being's being is a contradiction.

ELEGY,

IMITATED FROM ONE OF AKENSIDE'S BLANK TERS INSCRIPTIONS.

NEAR the lone pile with ivy overspread,

Fast by the rivulet's sleep-persuading sound, Where " sleeps the moonlight" on yon ver

bed

O humbly press that consecrated ground!

For there does Edmund rest, the learned wa

And there his spirit most delights to rove:
Young Edmund! famed for each harmonious st

And the sore wounds of ill-requited love.

Like some tall tree that spreads its branches

And loads the west wind with its soft peri
His manhood blossom'd: till the faithless pride
Of fair Matilda sank him to the tomb.

But soon did righteous Heaven her guilt pare
Where'er with wilder'd steps she wander
Still Edmund's image rose to blast her view,

Still Edmund's voice accused her in each giầ

With keen regret, and conscious guilt's alarms

Amid the pomp of affluence she pined:
Nor all that lured her faith from Edmund's
Could lull the wakeful horror of her mind.

Go, traveller! tell the tale with sorrow fraught
Some tearful maid, perchance, or blooming
May hold it in remembrance; and be taught
That riches cannot pay for love or truth.