Be you as dull as e'er you could
(And by the bye 'tis understood,
You're not so pleasant as you're good),
Yet, knowing well your worth and place,
I'll welcome you with cheerful face;
And though you stay'd a week or more,
Were ten times duller than before;
Yet with kind heart, and right good will,
I'll sit and listen to you still;

Nor should you go away, dear Rain !
Uninvited to remain.

But only now, for this one day,
Do go, dear Rain! do go away.

ELEGY,

IMITATED FROM ONE OF AKENSIDE'S BLANK-VERSE

INSCRIPTIONS.

NEAR the lone pile with ivy overspread,

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

66

bed

O humbly press that consecrated ground!

For there does Edmund rest, the learned swain ! And there his spirit most delights to rove: Young Edmund! famed for each harmonious strain, And the sore wounds of ill-requited love.

Like some tall tree that spreads its branches wide, And loads the west-wind with its soft perfume, His manhood blossom'd; till the faithless pride Of fair Matilda sank him to the tomb.

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

Still Edmund's voice accused her in each gale.

With keen regret, and conscious guilt's alarms,
Amid the pomp of affluence she pined;
Nor all that lured her faith from Edmund's arms
Could lull the wakeful horror of her mind.

Go, Traveller! tell the tale with sorrow fraught:
Some tearful maid perchance, or blooming youth,
May hold it in remembrance; and be taught
That Riches cannot pay for Love or Truth.

SEPARATION.

A SWORDED man whose trade is blood,

In grief, in anger, and in fear,

Thro' jungle, swamp, and torrent flood,
I seek the wealth you hold so dear!

The dazzling charm of outward form,

The power of gold, the pride of birth, Have taken Woman's heart by stormUsurp'd the place of inward worth.

Is not true Love of higher price
Than outward form, though fair to see,
Wealth's glittering fairy-dome of ice,
Or echo of proud ancestry?—

O! Asra, Asra! couldst thou see
Into the bottom of my heart,
There's such a mine of Love for thee,
As almost might supply desert!

(This separation is, alas !

Too great a punishment to bear; O! take my life, or let me pass

That life, that happy life, with her!)

The perils, erst with steadfast eye
Encounter'd, now I shrink to see-
Oh! I have heart enough to die-
Not half enough to part from Thee!

ITS

EPITAPH ON AN INFANT. TS 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.

TELL'S BIRTH-PLACE..

IMITATED FROM STOLBERG.

I.

ARK this holy chapel well!

MA

The birthplace, this, of William Tell. Here, where stands God's altar dread, Stood his parents' marriage-bed.

II.

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 use to pray.

III.

"Vouchsafe him health, O God! and give

The child thy servant still to live!"

But God had destined to do more
Through him, than through an armed power.

IV.

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 !

V.

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 !

VI.

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!

VII.

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.

A FRAGMENT.

F 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 even 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 !