Or hie me to some ruin'd tower Faintly shown by moonlight gleam, Where the lone wand'rer owns my power In shadows dire that substance seem; In thrilling sounds that murmur woe, Sad, solemn strains, that wake the dead. Unseen I move-unknown am fear'd! ODE. THOMSON. TELL me, thou soul of her I love, Or dost thou, free, at pleasure roam, Oh! if thou hover'st round my walk, I to thy fancied shadow talk, And ev'ry tear is full of thee; Should then the weary eye of grief, O visit thou my soothing dream! SONG. GOLDSMITH. O MEMORY! thou fond deceiver, And turning all the past to pain; Thou, like the world, th' opprest oppressing, TELL ME, ELIZA. DIBDIN. TELL me, Eliza, must I yield That lovely hand, that heart refin'd; To rivals wanting sense and mind? Forbid it, Fate! forbid it, Love! HS Tell me, Eliza, on that breast, Which gently heaves with feeling's glow, Unconscious shall a clown be blest, Who half your worth can never know? What though his heart be just and true, Will manners rude suffice for you? Such union shall Eliza prove? Forbid it, Fate! forbid it, Love! FISHERMAN'S SONG. JOANNA BAILLIE. No fish stir in our heaving net, For the tide is ebbing from the shore; And sad are they whose faggots burn, Our boat is small, and the tempest raves, Push bravely, Mates! our guiding star THOUGHTS. WORDSWORTH. HAST thou seen, with flash incessant, No one knows by what device? Such are thoughts;-a wind-swept meadow Such is life;-and death a shadow THE VAGRANT. CRABBE. TAKE, take away thy barbarous hand, My crime-this sick'ning child to feed, Know'st thou, to Nature's great command All human laws are frail and weak? Nay! frown not-stay this eager hand, And hear me, or my heart will break. In this, th' adopted babe I hold More dear than life, when life was blest; I saw the tempting food, and seiz'd- But I have griefs of other kind, Troubles and sorrows more severe; Give me to ease my tortur'd mind, Lend to my woes a patient ear; And let me if I may not find A friend to help-find one to hear. My mother dead, my father lost, I wander'd with a vagrant crew; A common care, a common cost, Their sorrows and their sins I knew; With them, on want and error forc'd, Like them I base and guilty grew. Few are my years, not so my crimes; Is sorrow's work, it is not time's, And I am old in shame and care. Taught to believe the world a place Or live as virtue dictates? No! |