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And now he punishes the heart of steel
And her own iron rod he makes oppression feel.
Fated to heave sad Disappointment's sigh,
To feel the hope now raised and now deprest,
With all the burnings of an injured breast.
Lo! from thy dark Fate's sorrow keen
In vain, O youth, I turn th' affrighted eye.

For busy Fancy ever nigh
The hateful picture forces on my sight!

There, death of every dear delight,

Frowns Poverty of giant mien !
In vain I seek the charms of youthful grace,
Thy sunken eye, thy haggard cheek she shows,
The quick emotions struggling in thy face

Faint index of thy mental throes,
When each strong passion spurn'd control,
And not a friend was nigh to calm thy stormy soul.

Such was the sad and gloomy hour

When anguish'd Care of sullen brow
Prepared the poison's death-cold power.
Already to thy lips was raised the bowl
When filial Pity stood thee by,
The fixed eye she bade thee roll
On scenes which well might melt thy soul-

Thy native cot she held to view,
Thy native cot, where Peace ere long

Had listen'd to thy evening song.
Thy sister's shrieks she bade thee hear,
And mark thy mother's thrilling tear.
She bade thee feel her deep-drawn sigh,

And all her silent agony of woe.

And from thy fate shall such distress ensue?
“Ah, dash the poison'd chalice from thy hand.”
And thou hadst dash'd it, at her soft command,
But that Despair and Indignation rose,
And told again the story of thy woes,
Told the keen insult of the unfeeling heart.
The dread dependence on the low-born mind,
Told every woe, for which thy breast might smart,
Neglect and grinning Scorn and Want combined-
Recoiling back thou badest the friend of Pain
Quick roll a tide of Death through every icening

O Spirit blest!
Whether the Eternal's throne around,
Amidst the blaze of Seraphim,
Thou pourest forth the grateful hymn
Or soaring through the blest Domain
Enrapturest Angels with thy strain,
Grant me, like thee, the lyre to sound,
Like thee with fire divine to glow,
Like thee, when rage the waves of woe,
To leave behind contempt and want and state
And seek in other worlds an happier fate.*

* It seems that the Author considered the sentiment in these last three lines "so improper," that he soon altered them to those that now stand in the text. (See vol. i. pp. 60-61.) The first foot-note on p. 61 should be deleted.



O MEEK attendant of Sol's setting blaze,

I hail, sweet star, thy chaste effulgent glow;
On thee full oft with fixed eye I gaze

Till I, methinks, all spirit seem to grow.
O first and fairest of the starry choir,

O loveliest ’mid the daughters of the night,
Must not the maid I love like thee inspire

Pure joy and calm Delight?
Must she not be, as is thy placid sphere

Serenely brilliant? Whilst to gaze a while
Be all my wish ʼmid Fancy's high career

E’en till she quit this scene of earthly toil;
Then Hope perchance might fondly sigh to join
Her spirit in thy kindred orb, O star benign!


WITHIN these wilds was Anna wont to rove

While Harland told his love in many a sigh, But stern on Harland rolled her brother's eye, They fought, they fell-her brother and her love!

* Now first printed from the late Sir J. T. Coleridge's MS. book.

† Now first printed from the late Sir J. T. Coleridge's MS note-book.

To Death's dark house did grief-worn Anna haste,

Yet here her pensive ghost delights to stay;

Oft pouring on the winds the broken layAnd hark, I hear her—'twas the passing blast.

I love to sit upon her tomb's dark grass,

Then Memory backward rolls Time's shadowy


The tales of other days before me glide : With eager thought I seize them as they pass; For fair, though faint, the forms of Memory gleam, Like Heaven's bright beauteous bow reflected in

the stream.*


Hendecasyllabi ad Bruntonam e Granta Exituram.t

MAID of unboastful charms ! whom white-robed

Truth Right onward guiding through the maze of youth, Forbade the Circe Praise to witch thy soul; And dash'd to earth th' intoxicating bowl :

* The last two lines were transferred to another poem printed in The Watchman. (See Vol. i. pp. 66-67.)

† Printed in a small volume of “Poems by Francis Wrangham, M.A., Member of Trinity College, Cambridge, Lond. 1795, pp. 79-83, where the original Hendecasyllables will be found. This translation was sent to Miss Brunton,

or of the Lady (Mrs. Merry) who was the subject of the nal verses, with the lines that follow it in the text.

The meek-eyed Pity, eloquently fair,
Clasp'd to a bosom with a mother's care;
And, as she loved thy kindred form to trace,
The slow smile wander'd o'er her pallid face.

For never yet did mortal voice impart
Tones more congenial to the sadden'd heart :
Whether, to rouse the sympathetic glow,
Thou pourest lone Monimia's tale of woe;
Or haply clothest with funereal vest
The bridal loves that wept in Juliet's breast.
O’er our chill limbs the thrilling Terrors creep,
Th’entranced Passions their still vigil keep;
While the deep sighs, responsive to the song,
Sound through the silence of the trembling throng.

But purer raptures lighten'd from thy face, And spread o'er all thy form an holier grace, When from the daughter's breast the father drew The life he gave, and mix'd the big tear's dew. Nor was it thine th' heroic strain to roll With mimic feelings foreign from the soul : Bright in thy parent's eye we mark'd the tear; Methought he said, “ Thou art no Actress here ! “A semblance of thyself the Grecian dame, And Brunton and Euphrasia still the same !"

O soon to seek the city's busier scene, Pause thee a while, thou chaste-eyed maid serene, Till Granta's sons from all her sacred bowers With grateful hand shall weave Pierian flowers To twine a fragrant chaplet round thy brow, Enchanting ministress of virtuous woe!

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