Like fairy groupes beneath the forest shade,

With moonlight faintly scatter’d o’er the scene,

In long perspective stretching to the view,

The shadowy forms of memory convene.

With mimic art they past events pourtray,

Act every scene of pain and pleasure o’er,

They touch the secret springs of grief and joy,

And make us feel whate’er we felt before.

But still retreating further into shade,

Imperfect forms the dim-seen visions wear,

Faint and more faint is each impression still,

’Till quite dissolv’d they vanish into air.

Some whose strong features ne’er can be eras’d

By time or distance, undefac’d remain,

And while surrounding objects disappear,

They stand alone amid the dusky plain.

Whoe’er forgets his early first remove

From the dear haunts of infancy and home,

Now home no more, (since from their lov’d abode

The tenants of the humble cot must roam).

The new awaken’d love of novelty,

A love so powerful in the human mind,

Regret at leaving each familiar face,

And each accustom’d object far behind,

By turns impress’d the youthful wand’rer’s breast

With new emotions never felt before,

As with slow march the rustic cavalcade

Retreated from the peaceful cottage door,

With lingering looks they bid a long farewell

To every well known object as they pass,

Each shelt’ring tree which screen’d them from the sun,

Each little hillock crown’d with verdant grass;

And oft their vagrant feet would turn aside,

To bid some long-lov’d fav’rite haunt adieu,

Some spot where ev’ning’s latest sunbeams play’d,

Some flow’ry dell where spring’s first blossoms grew.

And as they trac’d the daisy-dappl’d meads,

Perhaps unconscious fell one glist’ning tear,

While towards their future home they turn’d their eye,

And thought, will such delightful scenes be there.

But when at last the narrow bounds were pass’d

Beyond whose limits they had never stray’d,

When to their wond’ring and admiring eyes

They saw a new and lovelier world display’d—

Fir’d by the joy which novelty bestows,

Each transient thought of sorrow soon was o’er,

Hope beam’d again in every smiling eye,

And fond regrets and fears were felt no more.

Long in rememb’rance live events like these,

The scenes of childhood which will ever charm,

Fresh through succeeding years these pictures glow,

And e’en in age th’ imagination warm.

On the warm heart long imag’d will remain,

That form that mien which taught it first to love;

Th’ impression, rolling years can ne’er efface,

Nor will succeeding friendship that remove.

The scenes of past affection long survive;

Each courteous action, each expression kind,

The well remember’d tones of tenderness,

And looks which spoke the feelings of the mind.

The last farewell of a departing friend,

While with forebodings that you meet no more,

The hand belov’d desponding you resign,

And see him go for ever from your door.

The last expiring words of those we love,

The silent anguish of that mournful hour,

When death, dissolving nature’s dearest ties,

Proves the whole force of his resistless power.

Could after ages of unmingled joy,

(If human life had joy unmix’d with pain,)

Efface strong characters of grief like these

From memory’s mute, but ever busy train?

The wretch obnoxious to his country’s laws

May ’scape the vengeance which awaits his crimes;

Th’ uplifted sword of justice may evade,

And flee for safety into foreign climes—

But cannot flee from memory’s bosom foes—

The dreadful phantoms, where he flies, pursue,

Each deed of horror faithful they pourtray,

And hold th’ unwelcome picture in his view.

The shipwreck’d mariner on some wild strand,

Some desart isle amid the boundless deep,

Who through the dangers of the dreadful wreck,

Surviv’d alone his comrade’s fate to weep;

Tho’ his dear country from his longing view,

Unmeasur’d lengths of countless leagues divide;

The burning tropic, and the frigid zone,

Vast continents, and ocean’s mighty tide—

Yet still that dearest spot of all the earth,

His native vale, in ev’ry scene will rise;

Its woods, its streams, his own paternal cot,

Glide in perpetual view before his eyes;

And each lov’d inmate of that lowly roof,

Each voice, each feature, of the friends so dear,

Each parting look, lives imag’d in his mind;

Each sigh, each sad adieu, he seems to hear.

The hardy Swiss, who, from his rock-girt vale,

His mountain lake and snow-crown’d hills afar,

From all th’ attachments of his youth remov’d,

Pursues the desolating steps of war—

Not the dread scenes of the eventful field,

Not martial pomp, nor shouts of victory,

Not promises of honour, wealth, and fame,

Can banish thoughts of home or check the sigh.

And if that simple air so sweet and wild,

That once along his own paternal vale,

The goatherds to the list’ning echo sung,

Which gave its wild notes to the morning gale—

If these transporting sounds arrest his ear,

Instant what groupes of images arise—

The haunts, the loves, the pleasures of his youth,

In life’s warm colours pass before his eyes.

A powerful impulse seizes on his mind,

Fearless of death, of danger, and of toil,

That air a talisman which danger charms—

He seeks with dauntless heart his native soil.

The varied scenes which on her canvas rise,

The gay descriptive muse to memory owes,

Her pencil paints them, and her magic light

O’er the bright views a vivid lustre throws.

Each lovely groupe of images she forms,

Receives its beauty from that pow’rful light,

Whose mild reflected radiance sweetly plays

O’er recollected scenes of past delight.

How pleasant is the memory

Of those who die in early youth,

With minds from guilt and error free,

The shrines of innocence and truth.

Long shall affection’s bosom swell

At the remembrance of their name:

And oft with warm emotions dwell

On their untainted virtuous fame.

Oh! they are blest, belov’d of heaven;

How soon their mortal race is run!

How few their sins to be forgiv’n,

How quickly virtue’s prize they won!

Remov’d from all the snares of life,

Ere strong temptations try the heart,

Escap’d the warfare and the strife

Betwixt the worse and better part.

Their humble hope unaw’d by fear,

When on the bed of death they lie:

The happiest lot of mortals here,

Is, thus to live—thus soon to die.

Alcanor bids me hail the welcome morn,

Seven times return’d, since, when in youthful pride,

While hope’s sweet sunshine on the future smil’d,

He took the fair Narcissa for his bride.

Revolving seasons since have roll’d away,

Seven happy years of harmony and peace,

Ne’er interupted by domestic jars,

And with increasing years their joy increase.

Their blooming children smile around their board,

Or gaily sport upon the verdant plain;

And try by ev’ry fond endearing wile,

Th’ exulting parents’ partial eye to gain.

Say, would Alcanor those delights resign,

Those happy hours of heart-felt bliss forego,

For all the boasted pleasures of the world,

For all the joys that freedom could bestow?

No, to the heart with tender feelings blest,

Dear are the ties of social life, which bind

The heart to virtue, family, and home—

Ties most congenial to the human mind.

Then listen, shepherds, to the voice of love:

Do jarring passions dwell within your breast,

Or vain desires, that lead from peace astray,

That gentle voice may lull them all to rest.

But where shall love’s all-powerful voice be heard,

In sweetest accents most persuasive tone?

Where one lov’d fair the bosom inmate reigns,

And the fond heart is given to her alone.

Where worth, not int’rest, the affections guides,

And kindles in the breast a generous flame,

Which neither time nor absence can destroy:

The only love that’s worthy of the name.

Its voice will whisper where true peace is found;

In the calm pleasures of domestic life;

The happy home where cheerful comfort smiles,

And the sweet converse of a lovely wife.

The gentle maid, who, heedless of the world,

Can all its flatt’ry and applause resign

For one alone, the husband of her choice,

And wishes only in his eyes to shine;

The voice of love in all her actions speaks,

In each warm blush that o’er her features strays,

Speaks in the beaming lustre of her eyes,

In each expressive smile that sweetly plays.

To charm his heart and win his constant love,

And firmer draw affection’s gentle chain,

Is all the care and study of her life;

Nor shall her wise endeavours prove in vain.

Let Bacchus’ giddy sons exulting tell

The pleasures of th’ intoxicating bowl,

Strange joys which banish reason from the mind,

Which drown the senses, stupify the soul.

Let misers boast their heaps of hoarded gold,

The only object which their hearts can move,

A parent’s greatest wealth his children are,

His richest treasure is his fair one’s love.

Blow lovely rose—the breath of Zephyr

Softly fans thy glowing breast:

Blow, lovely rose, the bush adorning,

Till by Chloe’s hand carest.

She place thee in her gentle bosom,

To bloom beneath her smiling eye.

But court not that exalted station,

Thou would’st languish there and die.

Then, thy native bush adorning,

Lovely rose-bud, longer stay;

And yonder see the sun advancing

Ardent pours his fervid ray.

Soon shall thy dewy leaves unfolding,

With inviting fragrance blow;

And by his noontide beams expanded,

With unrivall’d lustre glow.

Then, thy full-blown charms disclosing,

Matchless Rose, sweet Queen of flowers!

A while may ev’ry eye admire thee,

Pride of these delightful bowers.

But ah! how transient thy existence,

Short thy longest reign will be;

Not many mornings shall I greet thee,

Smiling on thy prickly tree.

See where, their languid heads reclining,

Thy companions droop around,

Ah! see where, faded all and wither’d,

Scatter’d leaves bestrew the ground.

Ah! lovely rose that fate awaits thee,

Thou their lowly bed must share;

Soon will a ruder gale assailing,

Spread thy blushing honours there.

And I perhaps not many summers

May hail the Rose’s beauteous bloom,

And sigh to think how soon ’twill perish,

Ere I too drop into the tomb.

What muse will then in strains of sorrow,

Pour the simple dirge for me?

What kindred mind inspir’d by pity

Frame one plaintive elegy?

I, like the wild flowers of the mountains,

That unknown unheeded die,

Like them shall leave a name unhonour’d,

And like them forgotten lie.

Sweet Child of Sensibility!

Haste thee from mirth and noise and folly,

And o’er sad scenes of melancholy,

Come, and muse, and mourn with me.

The early spring say hast thou seen,

All nature smiling at her birth,

Bestrew the moisten’d lap of earth

With fairest flowers and herbage green:

And o’er the branches late so bare,

The swelling buds profusely spread,

And clust’ring blossoms gaily shed,

Fair promise of a fruitful year—

Then from the dark o’er-loaded skies

Hast seen the heavy showers descend,

Where snow and rattling hailstones blend,

And sudden gusts tempestuous rise—

Then comes a keen destroying frost;

Earth’s vernal mantle faded lies,

The wither’d foliage droops and dies,

The blossom and the fruit are lost.

This hast thou seen, and sigh’d to see?

Then come, and teach thy tears to flow

O’er deepest scenes of human woe,

Sweet Child of Sensibility!

Say hast thou known some gen’rous youth,

Of blameless manners, ardent mind,

Where native sense and learning join’d,

Possest of talents, virtue, truth,

The hope of many a future year

Then, seen disease’s fatal dart

Fix its deep venom in his heart,

And ruthless stop his bright career—

Let love and friendship weep with thee,

T’ embalm the turf, where low is laid

The youth who virtue’s charms display’d,

Oh Child of Sensibility;

Hast thou with admiration seen

Some beauteous maid, the village toast,

Her aged parents’ hope and boast,

Good-humour in her smiling mien,

With female loveliness of form,

Each mental excellence combin’d,

Then, hast thou seen that gentle mind

Despairing sink beneath the storm;

Her hopes, her charms, her reason gone;

By some strong secret grief distrest,

Some overwhelming woe opprest,

Her gentle manners left alone;

A harmless maniac, sad and wild,

Regardless of her mother’s tears,

Unconscious what she feels or fears,

For her poor wand’ring wayward child.

This proof of instability

In reason, well might fill with woe

Thy mind, and bid thy tears o’erflow,

Sweet Child of Sensibility!

Say, hast thou known in blooming grace,

A lovely active ardent boy,

His happy father’s dearest joy,

Expression in his artless face,

His dawning faculties of mind

Expanding like the buds of spring,

His fancy ever on the wing

New scenes of knowledge still to find;

But when strong passions gain’d the sway,

When reason ’gainst th’ impetuous train,

And conscience pleaded, but in vain—

While vice he only would obey—

Till of that once ingenuous mind,

In virtue’s sacred precepts train’d,

No semblance and no trace remain’d,

Nor even a hope was left behind;

If such sad ruin doom’d to see—

Then may thy throbbing bosom heave,

Then weep, for thou hast cause to grieve,

Oh Child of Sensibility!

Heard you November’s howling blast,

Herald of winter’s stormy reign,

As through the leafless grove it rush’d,

And swept with sullen sound the plain?

I heard and sigh’d—quick to my view,

What pensive images arise;

Brown faded woods and wither’d plains,

And heavy lowering skies

My fav’rite summer haunts farewell!

Ah! scenes belov’d a long adieu—

How many a dreary month must roll,

Ere I again revisit you:

Where late the river banks above,

High wav’d the overhanging wood,

And soft reflected verdure threw

On the smooth bosom of the flood;

Now struggling with th’ impetuous blast,

And stript of all their leafy pride,

The trees their naked branches bend

O’er the deep swol’n discolour’d tide

Where once a pleasing prospect rose

Along the undulating vale,

Green woody lawns and flow’ry meads,

And corn-fields waving in the gale,

’Tis now an undistinguish’d waste,

Each lingering beauty swept away,

All mark’d by one unvary’d hue,

The cheerless livery of decay.

Farewell thou light-dispensing sun

For many a melancholy day;

Curtain’d in vapours shalt thou rise,

And clouds obscure thy setting ray,

Around the mountain’s dusky brow

The hov’ring mists for ever creep;

And hail-showers load th’ impetuous gale,

Or ceaseless rains the valleys steep.

Haste winter from thy native wilds—

The frozen regions of the north,

With all thy fierce destructive train

Of storms and tempests issue forth.

Come, o’er expiring nature’s tomb

Thy throne of desolation rear;

And rule with sole unrivall’d sway.

O’er the sad ruins of the year.

Yet know that nature shall survive

The utmost rigours of thy reign,

Shall from her tomb exulting rise,

And spring adorn the earth again.

Round Sizergh’s antique, massy walls,

Full frequent swept the whistling blast;

It sigh’d along the spacious halls,

And through the tap’stried chambers past.

The clock, with solemn-sounding knell,

Proclaim’d the dreary midnight hour;

And loud the deep-ton’d magic bell

Slow answer’d from the lonely tower.

But wherefore, at this silent hour,

When every eye is clos’d in sleep,

In yonder lonely desert tower,

Why tolls the midnight bell so deep?

Immur’d within these gloomy walls,

Here long a gentle lady lay;

Far from her dear paternal halls,

She wept her bloom of life away.

Far from the noble youth she lov’d,

A youth for matchless constancy,

For worth and valour, long approv’d,

For generous deeds and courtesy.

When Albert clasp’d her trembling hand,

And press’d it to his throbbing heart,

Sighing, that honour’s stern command,

Compell’d such faithful friends to part;

And whisper’d vows of endless truth,

To soothe the parting sense of pain,

Ah! little thought the gentle youth,

They never were to meet again.

Hither, allur’d by treach’rous art,

Deceiv’d by friendship’s specious name,

Hither, with unsuspecting heart,

In evil hour, fair Marg’ret came.

When first these fatal doors she pass’d,

On heavy wing the bat flew by;

And hollow moaning rush’d the blast;

The owlet gave a boding cry.

Then first that sullen peal was rung,

Loud bursting on the night’s dark gloom;

That bell by unseen spirits swung,

Foretold fair Hamilton’s sad doom.

But guileless, nor suspecting harm,

These with no terrors struck her mind,

Soon she forgot the slight alarm,

Which left no lasting fears behind.

A few short days within these walls

Were heard the festive notes of joy;

Music’s sweet strains and sprightly balls

Conspir’d to please the ear and eye.

Soon those delusive visions past;

Her few last days of pleasure o’er,

(She little dreamt they were her last,)

Fair Hamilton was seen no more.

But when the chill autumnal breeze

Swept briskly o’er the curling flood—

Shook the high towering forest trees,

And of its foliage stript the wood—

O’er all the neighb’ring hamlet round,

Was heard once more that wizard bell;

And those who heard the dreadful sound,

Said that it toll’d fair Margaret’s knell.

E’er since, when o’er this ancient pile

The deep’ning shades of ev’ning fell,

And lingering day-light’s latest smile

Seem’d loath to bid the world farewell—

Amid the melancholy glooms,

Her spirit oft was seen to walk,

Through gall’ries long, and spacious rooms,

And to herself would whisp’ring talk.

In sorrow’s sable weeds array’d,

She mov’d with pensive, solemn grace;

Slow was her step, noiseless her tread,

A sable veil conceal’d her face.

Sometimes she seem’d in thought profound,

Her head reclining on her arm;

Her eyes still fixt upon the ground,

As spell-bound by some powerful charm.

When the dim taper’s feeble beam

Around the lone apartment shed,

Of partial light, a sudden gleam—

Instant the shadowy form was fled.

Still as that woful night returns

Which seal’d the lovely Margaret’s doom;

That bell her cruel exit mourns,

In solemn dirges o’er her tomb.

Yon sun, who runs his annual course

About earth’s varied bound,

While slow revolving seasons roll,

Their never-ceasing round—

Yon rising sun, whose early beams,

Returning beauty spreads,

And o’er those lonely convent walls

A golden lustre sheds—

Adorns a long forsaken world,

Which I no more must see;

Yet that forsaken world contains

One object dear to me.

The play-mate of my early years,

Companion of my youth,

In whose mild eye expressive shone

Intelligence and truth.

Like two fair rose-buds on one stem,

We grew, nor wish’d to part;

Our hopes, our fears, our joys the same,

We only had one heart.

Oh! days of innocent delight!

Oh! youth so dear to me!

How soon I bade a last adieu

To social life and thee.

A dying mother claim’d my vow,

My parting vow I gave,

That here I’d pass my future days,

And here should be my grave.

But ah! no language can describe

The anguish of my heart,

From thee, dear brother of my soul,

To be compell’d to part.

It griev’d me not to leave a world

Whose charms were yet unknown—

That world with all its gay delights,

I lov’d for thee alone.

Nor other joys I wish’d to prove,

Nor other pleasures know,

Than those thy converse and thy smile,

Thy friendship could bestow.

And when my trembling lips pronounc’d

The irrevocable vow—

That vow which ne’er can be recall’d,

Which seal’d my doom below.

That from my thoughts, all earthly things.

Henceforth should banish’d be,

I in my bosom’s secret shrine

Reserv’d one thought for thee.

And still in youthful beauty there

Does thy lov’d image dwell,

Its inmate in this lone abode,

This solitary cell.

Each daily orison enjoin’d,

Perform’d with duteous care;

Still ere I close my eyes, for thee

I breathe a secret pray’r.

And sure a love so pure as mine,

May hope to be forgiv’n,

Should harsh ungenerous mortals blame,

Sweet pity dwells in heav’n.

Perhaps ev’n saints from earth remov’d,

Some tender thoughts bestow,

And some fond recollections feel

Of those they left below.

In that blest world may faithful friends,

By kindred minds allied,

Meet where no rigid vows forbid,

No convent walls divide.

Nigh to where Grayrigg’sOpen note fu02-rota
The ancient seat of the Duckets, which was purchased by Sir John
Lowther, about the year 1680. ancient hall

Yet stands, as country legends tell,

And hoary-headed swains have heard,

The fairy people lov’d to dwell:

There oft their midnight feats they held,

In stately domes beneath the ground,

And by the glow-worm’s paly lamp

They push’d the sparkling goblets round.

The savoury mushrooms were their food,

Pluck’d the same night on which they grew,

And from their tiny silver cups,

They sipp’d the pure ambrosial dew;

And where beneath the greenwood shade,

Their light feet nimbly tripp’d the ground,

Small circles of a deeper green

Full oft the wondering peasant found.

It chanc’d one beauteous moonlight night,

The loveliest night of autumn’s reign,

The fairy people had arrang’d

Their silver cups, a glittering train.

Beneath a shelt’ring bank which rose

Expos’d too near the highway side,

A horseman as he pass’d that way,

The shining treasure quickly spied.

Long pausing on the tempting spoil,

He gaz’d with wond’ring, longing, eyes;

Then fearless leapt the fence and seiz’d,

With daring hands, the curious prize.

O’er hedge and ditch away he rode,

With speed that almost match’d the wind;

The elfin bands with hue and cry.

Still kept pursuing close behind.

Ere he had reach’d the massy gate

Which led to Grayrigg’s aged hall,

The elves had quite outsripp’d his speed,

And stood around him one and all.

Whilst with their wands they struck his steed,

With stern and threat’ning voice they said,

“Fail thou thy master in his need,

Our vengeance he shall learn to dread.”

One night when rain in torrents fell,

And each swol’n rivulet’s furious tide

Rush’d wildly roaring down its glen,

And pour’d its foam on every side.

The pilferer, who’d a ford to cross,

Of fairy vengeance nought did dream,

But urg’d his slow, unwilling, steed,

To plunge into the rapid stream.

But fairy vengeance now was nigh,

Unheard, unseen, they hover’d round,

When the rash man the stream essay’d,

His steed an unsafe footing found;

It fell alas to rise no more,

Its master call’d for aid in vain;

Long, long, he struggled with the waves,

Fearful the brink {Handwritten addition: bank} end of handwritten addition he ne’er should gain.

When faint he reach’d the further side,

His perils and his dangers o’er.

He vow’d he’d ne’er tread fairy ground

Nor touch their glitt’ring trifles more.

Hope, blest, and dearest gift of heaven,

Thy smile can all our griefs assuage;

To man by kind indulgence given,

To cheer his mortal pilgrimage.

Thou blest companion! but for thee,

And thy delightful visions warm,

The world a desart wild would be,

And life itself without a charm.

While journeying through the weary waste,

Before some brighter prospect lies,

Some fairer land of promis’d rest,

For which our ardent wishes rise.

With flowers of never-fading hue,

Thy pencil paints the distant scene;

And there directs our constant view,

To smooth the rugged paths between.

Ask him condemn’d in dreary mines,

To toil through slow revolving years,

On whom the light of heaven ne’er shines,

Nor sounds of joy salute his ears,—

Ask him what arms his manly mind

Against the horrors of despair;

What makes him with a soul resign’d,

His heavy load of misery bear.

He’ll tell thee ’t is the cheering hope

Of better, happier days to be,

That bears his sinking spirits up,

And bids him live for liberty.

The Russian exile forced to roam,

Far, far from all the scenes he lov’d;

From wife, and children, and from home

By power’s despotic arm remov’d.

While the strong feelings of his soul,

Not yet by slavery supprest,

Too keen, too powerful for controul,

Indignant struggle in his breast—

What prompts him to endure his wrongs,

Sharp hunger, wretchedness, and pain;

And wounded honour’s keener pangs,

And recollection’s cruel train.

’T is the fond hope his mind sustains,

That his long term of suffering past,

He yet may tread his native plains,

And see his long lost home at last.

He’ll bless once more his infant train,

And meet his Cath’rine’s beaming eye,

And clasp her to his breast again,

With all the joy of extacy.

Even when, like Noah’s wearied dove,

Hope finds no place of rest on earth,

She looks to happier worlds above,

For pleasures of superior birth.

Her fairest, loveliest prospects there,

In bright, immortal beauty bloom:

And permanent as they are fair,

There sad reverses cannot come.

Alas my friend, how quickly pleasure flies!

Life’s brightest hours the swiftest fade away:

Hope’s distant prospects glad our longing eyes;

We reach them—soon the lovely scenes decay.

Blithe o’er our valleys trips the youthful Spring,

And strews the choicest flow’rets in each glade,

Ere half admir’d, again she’s on the wing,

Her blossoms wither, and her sweet flowers fade.

In rich luxuriant beauty Summer comes,

To scatter plenty round—but short her stay;

The mower level lays her varied blooms,

And fast she rolls her fervid car away.

Adorn’d with every milder, softer grace,

(The Muse of Melancholy in her train,)

With sweet, yet pensive smile, and sober pace,

In waning beauty, Autumn treads the plain.

In lonely glens where murmuring riv’lets glide,

With lingering steps she long delights to rove;

Or seeks some fav’rite valley’s sunny side;

And last the fading venerable grove.

Soon must she fly from this her last retreat,

Through the thinn’d grove the sweeping north-wind sighs

And ceaseless showers her leafy covert beat;

On every side the wither’d foliage flies.

Soon must she yield the empire of the year

To the all-conquering tyrant Winter’s sway;

He comes, and life and beauty disappear;

He comes, and devastation marks his way.

Even now, beyond yon misty mountain’s brow,

Imagination sees his dreadful form,

Arming his furious gales with frost and snow,

And gathering all his demons of the storm.

My drooping spirits sadden at the view;

To joy and pleasure now a long farewell!

To thee, enchanting Poesy, adieu!

Can dreary Winter e’er attune thy shell?

And yet, Maria, there are other joys,

Pleasures, beyond the reach of Winter’s reign;

Pleasures, which all his tempests can’t destroy;

The charms of friendship still unchang’d remain.

The smiling circle, innocently gay,

Conven’d at eve around the blazing hearth,

To pass the long and tedious hours away,

In friendly intercourse and social mirth.

In joys like these we still a solace find,

Though Winter’s chilling blasts around us howl,

They cannot freeze the feelings of the mind,

They cannot chain th’ affections of the soul.

Come then, Maria, with your cheerful smiles,

With sprightly wit, and many a pleasant song,

A few dull months assist me to beguile;

The weary season still will be too long.

Thou dear delightful vale adieu!

Sweet spot, from early years belov’d,

Enraptur’d still thy charms I view,

Nor leave thee with a heart unmov’d.

To Crossdale’s wildly-winding stream,

Its hanging woods and hollow dell,

(Where wand’ring bards might love to dream,)

Reluctantly I bid farewell.

No more the cuckoo’s evening song,

The thrush or linnet’s matin clear,

Echoing these lonely woods among,

Will sooth a musing list’ner’s ear.

No more where Lune’s transparent flood

O’er shelving rocks swift rolls away,

Through verdant meads and tangled wood,

Or yellow broom-clad heights I’ll stray.

Ye dusky mountains crown’d with heath,

With dark and rugged glens between,

And mossy pastures spread beneath,

A wild, yet varied pleasing scene:

For ever o’er whose chequer’d sides

Sun-beams and clouds each other chase;

Fast as the fleeting splendour glides

The gath’ring storm supplies its place:

No more your shadowy glens along

I’ll watch the sun’s declining ray,

Your crags, your fern, and heath among,

With setting lustre mildly play.

Farewell ye riv’lets of the hills,

That down your narrow channels sweep,

Collected from surrounding rills,

With rapid sounding currents sweep.

Ye tufts of clust’ring flow’rets sweet,

Array’d in summer’s varied pride,

Long wont my partial eyes to greet,

By ev’ry verdant hedge-row’s side—

Now peeping through the dewy grass,

And glistening in the morning beam,

As by your smiling groupes I pass,

To court my longer stay you seem.

But court in vain, for fate denies,

I to my distant home return,

You’ll bloom as fair for other eyes,

Nor ever for my absence mourn.

Hills, woods, and streams, and meadows green,

To you, and to my friends, farewell!

Those generous friends, and each lov’d scene,

Shall long in my rememb’rance dwell.

Here let Compassion bend her head,

And tears of tender sorrow shed,

And warm enthusiasm musing tread,

To pour his sighs.

Let gay Prosperity forego

Awhile the scenes of pomp and show,

To view this last retreat from woe,

Where Genius lies

Let the fond youth of humble name,

Inspir’d by fancy’s kindling flame,

Whose heart beats high with hopes of fame,

Seek this lone tomb;

Here let him firmly learn to bear

Stern disappointment’s blow severe,

And all the evils life can fear,

Lest such his doom.

Let those who unreflecting stray,

Where ardent feelings lead the way,

Neglecting reason’s cooler sway,

Come here to mourn.

Let Sculpture teach the stone to breathe

O’er the unconscious dust beneath,

Let Genius twine her brightest wreath

Round this sad urn.

But ah! can all this vain parade,

This useless show of honour paid

Departed talents, soothe his shade,

For former woes?

For the deep anguish of his heart,

Pierc’d by affliction’s keenest dart,

Which, with intolerable smart,

To madness rose;

And, in an hour of dark despair,

Made him the unknown future dare,

In hope to find oblivion there,

And calm repose.

From fertile Gallia’s peopled shore

Around what countless millions pour,

(Where’er her threat’ning eagles soar,)

To spread the reign of anarchy.

Proud Gallia’s flag triumphant spread,

Their daring troops the generals led

Through climes whence freedom long had fled,

The once fair realms of Germany.

At length arrang’d with martial pride,

Their glittering weapons gleaming wide

They cross’d the Dwina’s foaming tide,

Elate with hopes of victory.

Th’ undaunted Monarch of the North

Sent all his gallant legions forth,

To prove their prowess and their worth,

And rid the world of tyranny.

Smolensko’s Prince in patriot ire,

Inspir’d his troops with martial fire,

Compell’d th’ invaders to retire,

And Russia gain’d her liberty.

A broken and disorder’d host,

Their eagles fallen, their leaders lost,

The Dwina’s flood once more they cross’d,

Before a conquering enemy.

Struck with dismay and panic dread,

Fast o’er Volhynia’s plains they fled,

Behind, the conquering army sped,

Platoff’s intrepid cavalry.

The drifted snow was crimson’d o’er,

And many a deep-stain’d river bore

Its water to the distant shore

Of the dark rolling Vistula.

By ills of every kind distress’d,

By cold benumb’d, by hunger press’d,

Forc’d on the frozen earth to rest,

The sky their only canopy.

Subdu’d by winter’s rig’rous sway,

To famine and disease a prey,

The once Grand Army pin’d away,

On Poland’s dreary boundary.

Ambition! at thy tyrant will,

Such scenes of misery earth mnust fill;

Horrors attend thy progress still,

Such are thy deeds of cruelty.

Once more the swift wheels of old Time’s rapid chariot

Have hastily roll’d months and seasons away;

Once more we take leave of the gloom of December,

And hail brighter prospects returning to day.

Farewell to the year that is closed, for ever,

Like a dream, or a vision of fancy ’tis o’er:

Adieu to its toils, to its cares, and its pleasures;

They’ll return to perplex or delight us no more.

But the year which is gone had one favourite pleasure,

A charm of its own, that endear’d it to me;

A source of amusement the world may call folly—

To me it was pleasure, since valued by thee.

And shall I, my dearest Eliza, relinquish

A source of enjoyment so pure and refin’d;

If I bid a reluctant adieu to the Muses,

Where shall I such pleasing society find?

Yet Prudence her maxims is ever repeating—

“That the vot’ries of song are pursuing a shade;

A phantom, whose charms are delusive and fleeting,

As a rainbow, whose brilliance a moment will fade.”

The lover, who for some insensible fair one

Still sighs, though she heed not, nor pity his pain;

If at length she relent, and with kindness reward him,

Though for years he had sigh’d, yet it was not in vain.

And those who solicit the gifts of dame Fortune,

Where blindfold she scatters her favours around,

Are rewarded, if after long constant attenda nce

She grant them a share of a ten-thousand pound.

But the sons of Thalia what madness possesses!

For year after year to write nonsense in rhyme,

Without any hope of advantage or profit,

To repay them for waste of their paper and time.

Thus Prudence, her grave, sober lectures rehearses,

But in vain—those enjoyments I cannot resign,

While the ardour of fancy still glows in my bosom,

While the feelings of joy, love, and pity are mine.

When my heart is as cold as the rocks of the ocean,

When the reign of affection and friendship is o’er,

When fancy’s bright flame is extinguish’d for ever,

And the name of Eliza can charm me no more.

When the wonders of nature no longer delight me;

When its beauties no longer my lays can inspire;

Then will I forsake the lov’d haunts of the Muses,

And bid an eternal farewell to the lyre.

O’er Esthwaite’s lake, serene and still,

At sunset’s silent peaceful hour,

Scarce mov’d the zephyr’s softest breath,

Or sigh’d along its reedy shore.

The lovely landscape on its sides,

With ev’ning’s soft’ning hues imprest,

Shar’d in the gen’ral calm, and gave

Sweet visions of repose and rest.

Inverted on the waveless flood,

A spotless mirror smooth and clear,

Each fair surrounding object shone

In softer beauty imag’d there.

Brown hills, and woods of various shades,

Orchards and sloping meadows green,

Sweet rural seats, and shelter’d farms,

Were in the bright reflector seen.

Ev’n lofty Tilberthwaite from far

His giant shadow boldly threw,

His rugged, dark, high-tow’ring head

On Esthwaite’s tranquil breast to view.

Struck with the beauty of the scene,

I cry’d, Oh! may my yielding breast

Retain but images of peace,

Like those, sweet lake, on thine imprest.

Ne’er may it feel a ruder gale

Than that which o’er thy surface spread

When sportive zephyrs briskly play,

And whisper through thy bord’ring reeds;

When dancing in the solar beam,

Thy silv’ry waves the margin seek,

With gently undulating flow,

And there in softest murmurs break.

Vain wish! o’er Esthwaite’s tranquil lake,

A stronger gale full frequent blows,

The soothing prospect disappears,

The lovely visions of repose.

How dreary is winter to me,

Alone all its rigours I bear;

The hand that should shield me lies low;

I’ve none in my sorrows to share.

Ye trees that hang over my cot,

And tremble with each passing breeze,

The sport of the rude whistling winds,

Which bend your tall heads as they please:

For the ravage of winter you sigh,

And the loss of your verdure deplore,

But your lot’s not so wretched as mine,

My winter will never be o’er.

Thou snowdrop so sickly and sad,

That droops when the sun is gone down;

Now languid and bending thy head,

Beneath the pale light of the moon.

Fair flow’ret! too early thy birth,

Too soon hast thou left thy warm bed,

The hoar-frost will nip thy sweet bud,

And soon will thy beauty be fled.

Like thee do I languish and fade,

But my state is more sad and forlorn;

And ah! hapless me, if I die,

My loss a sweet infant will mourn.

In this lone unfrequented spot—

Amongst these dwellings of the dead,

Does spring her beauteous charms display,

And here her fragrant odours shed.

She hangs the blossoms on the trees

Which o’er the mould’ring ashes wave;

She paints the leaves with vivid green,

And strews with flowers the lowly grave.

But ah! to those who slumber here,

The simple flowers which deck the plain,

The verdant foliage of the trees,

And golden blossoms, blow in vain.

And ye gay tenants of the grove,

Sweet minstrels of the early year,

In vain ye pour the tuneful strain,

For they, alas! can never hear.

Ye dwellers in these lowly cells,

When wintry tempests round you sweep,

In death’s oblivious slumbers wrapp’d,

Ah! how securely then you sleep—

Tho’ long and loud the thunder rolls

Around the dark and troubled sky,

And bursting from the fiery cloud,

The forked light’ning flashes by;

Should whirlwinds rend the rooted trees,

And earthquakes rock the trembling ground,

The noise of elemental strife,

Can never break your rest profound.

Tho’ war’s dread tempest loudly roars,

And rages round th’ affrighted world;

Tho’ nations tremble at the sound,

And monarchs from their thrones be hurl’d,

You know it not—for quiet peace

Within the grave for ever reigns;

No hostile sounds can e’er invade

The silence of death’s still domains.

The anxious never ceasing cares,

Invaders of the human breast;

Doubt, and solicitude, and fear,

Here slumber in perpetual rest.

No more shall anguish rend the heart,

Or, sink the spirit in despair,

No more the mind shall droop beneath

Stern disappointment’s frown severe.

O’er scenes of complicated woe,

No more the feeling heart shall grieve,

Nor breathe the unavailing sigh,

For mis’ries which it can’t relieve.

Mourn not, ye living, for the dead,

Their day of toil and trouble o’er,

Sweet are their slumbers in the grave,

And they awake to grief no more.

The wintry wind blew loud and cold,

And whirl’d in drifted heaps the snow;

No moon-beam cheer’d the gloomy night,

No trembling star was seen to glow.

Poor Anna, with a sinking heart,

Sat list’ning to each sweeping blast,

Which o’er her low unshelter’d cot,

With still increasing fury past.

With fond solicitude she view’d

Her sleeping infant as it lay;

The starting tear stood in her eye,

She mourn’d its father far away.

As if to charm her griefs to rest

The little cherub sweetly smil’d:

The weeping mother in her arms,

Still closer press’d her darling child.

Ah could thy smiles, my lovely boy,

Soothe all my anxious fears to rest!

Ah me! how little dost thou know

The secret anguish of my breast.

Unconscious of impending ills,

How happy now thou seem’st to be;

Thus calmly may’st thou ever sleep,

From all thy mother’s terrors free.

Ah where o’er ocean’s mountain-waves,

Toss’d by the rough tempestuous wind,

Does thy poor father brave the storm,

While thoughts of home oppress his mind!

Perhaps upon some rocky shore,

Full many a gallant seaman’s grave,

E’en now the shatter’d vessel drives,

Or sinks beneath the stormy wave.

Yet, yet, have hope my fainting heart,

Ah sink not to despair a prey;

Sure heav’n a mother’s prayers will hear,

And spare his life who’s far away.

Oh! happy lone retreat!

Where my forefathers sleep;

Though the rough surging billows beat

Against thy woody steep,

Peace dwells for ever there,

Beneath thy lonely shade;

Where those, to pensive mem’ry dear,

My earliest friends are laid.

Oh! that my weary head

Was laid with theirs at rest;

And the green turf was lightly spread

Upon this aching breast.

Gladly I’d bid adieu,

Unpitying world, to thee;

Though pleasures thy gay paths bestrew,

They give no joy to me.

Yon solitary isle,

Where the dark alders wave,

And spring’s first wild flowers sweetly smile

On many a grass-grown grave—

Yon little isle alone

The dwelling of the dead,

Whose dark sequester’d alleys none

But weeping mourners tread,

Has far more charms for me,

Than pleasure’s gay resorts;

Than stately mansions fair to see,

And all the pomp of courts.

There shall reproaches end,

There calumnies shall cease;

And the base treachery of a friend

No more shall wound my peace.

Oh! that the boat were come

That should convey me o’er,

To yon, my last long-wish’d for home,

Thence to return no more.

Trav’ller of th’ etherial round,

Hast’ning o’er yon starry plain,

Tell us whither art thou bound,

What far distant goal to gain?

Say by what resistless force

Thus thy glowing orb is driven,

Forwards on its rapid course,

Through the azure fields of heav’n.

What is thy unerring guide,

Marking out thy devious way,

Through the trackless ether wide,

That thou wand’rest not astray?

Borne upon th’ elastic air,

Not the sweeping whirlwind’s speed,

Not the lightning’s sudden glare,

The swiftness of thy flight exceed.

Say, (for in thy ceaseless race,

Ever since the world began,

Thou hast travers’d wilds of space,

Far beyond the view of man,)

In what realm, to us unknown,

Wond’rous trav’ller hast thou been,

Passing many a torrid zone,

Many a chilling region keen?

Hast thou roll’d thy lucid train

O’er yon beauteous tract of light,

Yon thickly studded, shining plain,Open note fu03-rota
The Milky way.

With countless constellations bright.

Tell us if thy circuit runs

Where other planets brighter blaze,

Where more powerful burning suns

Shed around intenser rays.

Hast thou rush’d through dreary realms,

Lost in dim obscurity,

Where no faint star’s glimmering beams

Tremble o’er the cheerless sky?

Trav’ller, wheresoever bound,

Or new regions to explore,

Or to trace a former round,

Trod a thousand years before;

Yet awhile within our sphere,

Beauteous stranger, deign to stay,

Haste not on thy vast career,

With such rapid speed away.

Will you, my absent friend, accept

The tribute of a Muse sincere?

This simple chaplet she has wove

To grace for you the new-born year.

My lov’d Eliza, never Muse

That sung of friendship’s sacred flame,

Inspir’d a warmer breast than mine,

Nor honour’d e’er a dearer name,

In early youth’s fair op’ning spring,

What pure delights from friendship flow,

When first the heart awakes to feel,

How fervent then th’ affections glow.

Blest were those early days to me,

Happy each social hour we pass’d,

While your sweet converse charm’d my soul,

Till, much too quickly, came the last.

How blest was I to find a friend

Whose heart congenial feelings warm’d,

Whose fancy, ardent as my own,

With nature’s lovely scenes was charm’d,

But ah! no sooner found than lost,

And to a distant spot remov’d,

Yet never can you be forgot,

Nor ever cease to be belov’d.

To you may each succeeding year

With pleasing hopes and prospects rise!

Your bosom may no cares invade,

No sorrow dim your beaming eyes!

And may the happy youth ordain’d

The partner of your life to be,

Of every virtue be possess’d,

From ev’ry vice and folly free!

Securely as the vessel sails

Upon the lake’s unruffled breast,

Along life’s current may you glide,

Still in each other truly blest.

Sweet babe! how peaceful is thy sleep,

That sleep which wakes to pain no more;

No more thy little eyes shall weep,

For all thy sorrows now are o’er.

As fair as is thy spotless form,

As pure was thy unsullied mind,

Sweet innocence, that never knew

The frailties of weak human kind.

When earth that spotless form shall hide,

O’er the green turf that covers thee,

May many a smiling flow’ret bloom,

Emblem of infant purity.

Oh! happy, happy child, how short

Thy pilgrimage of life has been,

Its num’rous cares thou hast not felt,

Its mis’ries thou hast never seen.

Thus in thy cradle softly laid,

On ev’ry beauteous feature fair

A placid smile still seems to play,

As death’s rude touch had not been there.

Thus the sweet snowdrop’s early bud

Reclines on earth its drooping head,

Nipp’d by some rough ungentle hand,

And withers on its native bed.

But kind and gentle was the hand

Which seal’d thy eyes in sweet repose,

E’er, ever on their opening lids

The light of morn unwelcome rose.

The drooping snowdrop’s wither’d bud

Shall die and never reach its prime;

But thou sweet flower transplanted hence,

Wilt flourish in a happier clime.

No wintry storms can ever rise

To blight thy tender blossom there,

But one unchanging season smile,

And summer gladden all the year.

From distant moor-land heights descending,

How swiftly rolls this stream away!

Say, whither, Eden, art thou hasting?

Stay, impetuous river, stay,

And hear a rural muse address thee,

Who thy steep woody banks along,

By these rude scenes once more awaken’d,

Pours again th’ unstudied song.

From other plains afar, a wand’rer,

I thy loud sounding stream have sought,

Beside thy darkly rolling waters,

T’ indulge the pensive dreams of thought.

Here, when the full-orb’d moon ascending

Sheds her radiant light serene,

And round a softer day diffuses

O’er this wild and rugged scene;

Here would I love unseen to ramble

Around this rocky lone recess,

Form’d by the windings of the river,

A sweet sequester’d wilderness;

Amid the roar of dashing waters,

That sweep on every side around,

Mingled with the hollow murmurs

Of the deep current under ground.

Sweet as the voice of sweetest music

Is the wild torrent’s roar to me;

The foam upon its broken surface,

’Mid pointed crags, I love to see.

But hear I may no longer listen

This rapid current, nor survey

Its waves down shelving rocks swift tumbling;

For ev’ning calls my steps away.

Through many a lovely vale meand’ring,

Of thee shall other poets tell;

I may perhaps no more behold thee,

Eden, to thy dark stream farewell!

That sun which rose o’er Judah’s land,

On this auspicious day,

Shall shine for ages yet to come,

With never-setting ray.

The Sun of Righteousness, whose beams

First bless’d that favour’d soil,

Has shed its life-diffusing light

O’er many a distant isle.

Where’er its cheering influence comes;

All groundless fears are o’er;

The mists of error are dispell’d;

And doubts are known no more.

See, with increasing lustre still

The tide of glory streams,

And spreads o’er regions late unknown

Its bright celestial beams.

The wond’ring nations, who so long

In shades of darkness lay,

Now hail, with gratitude and joy,

The dawn of heav’n-born day.

Soon may that Sun’s blest radiance shine,

Wide as the world extends;

And pour a flood of sacred light,

To earth’s remotest ends.

Oh sweet forgetfulness

Of earth-born care and woe,

Did ever Lethe’s silent stream

In earthly channels flow,

Soon would I taste of thee,

And from the healing spring,

An antidote for ev’ry grief,

The flowing goblet bring.

I would not ask to drink

Of pleasure’s tempting stream,

Which oft intoxicates the mind,

And cheats it with a dream.

I would not wish the flood

Of Afric’s burning plains,

Old Niger with his golden sands,

To roll thro’ my domains.

A little curling rill,

Which o’er its pebbly bed

Flows clear, a mossy bank beneath,

With shadowing trees o’erspread,

Whose winding waters creep

Within a narrow bound,

A lovely wild romantic dell,

Begirt with rocks around.

This would I ask alone

To soothe my weary mind,

With murmurings soft, as on its brink

I listless lay reclin’d.

O’er scenes of pleasure past

Nor should pale mem’ry sigh,

Nor turn to images of grief

Her backward glancing eye.

Nor thought, with anxious toil

Life’s future years explore;

Free from regret for evils past,

Or fears for those before.

In such a calm retreat,

Thou sweet Forgetfulness,

All stronger feelings far remov’d,

My happy hours should bless.

Sweet Cumbrian Bard, esteem’d and honour’d long,

In youth belov’d, respected in thy age,

Thine is each title to mankind endear’d,

The social friend, the Christian, and the sage.

And may a young and inexperienc’d Muse,

To thee a stranger, to the world unknown,

Who courts the partial favours of the Nine,

To charm her solitary hours alone,

Oh may she thus, with rash presumptuous pen,

Address sweet Yanwath’s much admired bard,

And how will he, crown’d with Parnassian wreaths,

A nameless rhymer’s uncouth lines regard,

Whose song no sprightly wit nor talents grace,

Nor hers the poet’s energetic fire,

Hers only are the feelings of the heart,

And hers the artless strains which they inspire—

Say, will he not so mean a lay despise,

Nor deign this simple eulogy to hear,

Say will he not indignant turn away,

With looks averted and a frown severe?

Oh no, he will not, for his soul is mild,

If we may judge from his harmonious lays,

Perhaps he will the bold attempt forgive,

And spare his censures, though he cannot praise.

Then may she ask if silent sleeps the lyre?

Hast thou to younger hands resign’d the shell?

Hast thou forsook the Heliconian springs?

And bade the Nine a long and last farewell?

Or haply o’er the {Handwritten addition: thy} end of handwritten addition lov’d Eliza’s tomb

Thy lyre unstrung in pensive sadness sleeps?

Or only breathes in melancholy sighs,

While o’er its chords the whisp’ring Zephyr sweeps?

Oh bid it from its slumbers wake once more,

And breathe again some soft melodious strains,

Oh bid it wake to charm the list’ning ear,

For all its sweetness, all its strength remains.

What means this little grassy mound,

Rais’d in no consecrated ground,

But in the forest dell profound,

Where waves so sad and mournfully

The mountain ash its bending head?

There sleeps th’ unknown, unhonour’d dead,

In his obscure and lowly bed,

Grac’d by no marks of heraldry.

Here the ’lorn wand’rer of the heath,

The forest’s twilight shades beneath,

Sunk silent in the arms of death,

Far from his home and family.

No holy man, with pious care,

O’er his poor relics breath’d a prayer,

No mourner grac’d them with a tear,

No funeral bell toll’d solemnly.

Yet round this undistinguish’d tomb

The violets breathe their sweet perfume,

The eglantine’s fair roses bloom

In nature’s wild simplicity.

And when the gath’ring shades of night

Have chas’d the day’s bright beams to flight,

And silver Luna’s trembling light

Sleeps on the wave so peacefully,

Then, at that silent, solemn hour,

Oft, from her close concealed bower,

Lone Philomela loves to pour

Her strains of melting harmony.

Poor pilgrim, rest, thy wand’rings o’er,

Perplex’d by ’wild’ring thoughts no more,

The dawn thy reason will restore—

The dawn of immortality.

Riv’let of the narrow valley,

Far on ev’ry side resounds

The dashing of thy roaring waters,

Now confin’d within their bounds.

Here, ev’n now, with strong sensations

I survey thy rapid flood,

Flowing in foaming waves beneath me,

Half concealed by the wood.

But when autumn’s gather’d tempests

Burst on those surrounding hills,

And the swift descending torrent

Soon thy rocky channel fills—

When, its narrow bounds disdaining,

Pent within its banks no more,

Thy stream with sudden fury rushing

Sweeps its woody margin o’er—

With what mingled joy and terror

Would I mark thy rapid course,

O’er yon crags in vain opposing,

Bounding with resistless force.

Riv’let of the narrow valley!

Swiftly rolls thy stream away;

Here though every charm surrounds thee,

Here, thou must not, canst not stay.

Go, and along yon verdant meadows

With a gentler current glide;

Then must, sweet stream, thy lucid waters

Swell a nobler river’s pride.

She comes, the poet’s fav’rite theme,

The pride of all the circling year;

She comes, but tearful is her eye,

No smiles upon her face appear.

The promis’d honours of her reign

Are blasted by a wintry storm;

The smiling azure of her skies,

Dark heavy rolling clouds deform.

She mourns the leafy chaplet green,

Which wont her forehead fair to bind,

Strew’d in disorder o’er the earth,

Torn by the rough tempestuous wind.

She mourns her painted blossoms gay,

Untimely scatter’d on the ground;

The garden and the orchard’s pride,

In beauteous ruins strew’d around.

She mourns the flowrets of the vale,

That bloom’d for her in wilds unseen,

Along the verdant streamlet’s side,

Beneath the copse’s shelt’ring screen.

They bloom in simple grace no more,

But drooping on their slender stems,

And shrinking from the northern blast,

Lie with’ring o’er the woodland gems.

Ah! stormy May, what poet’s song

Can hail thy birth in strains of joy?

Sad dirges for thy blasted charms,

May now their mournful lyres employ.

Peaceful as thy gentle spirit,

May thy lot in life still be;

And may heav’n its choicest blessings,

Shower through future years on thee.

Never may the thorns of conscience

Pierce thy yet unwounded mind,

Nor despair or hopeless anguish,

In thy breast a dwelling find;

Nor disease’s cruel tortures,

Wear thy prime of life away;

But may health and ease returning,

Cheer the morning of thy day.

Still may kind and gen’rous feelings

Fill the bosom of my friend,

Still may friendship and affection,

On his course through life attend.

What is love? a compound strange,

Made of mingled hopes and fears;

Subject to perpetual change,

Quick succeeding smiles and tears.

What is love? a sudden whim,

Like lightning, passing through the mind:

A strange capricious fickle thing,

More inconstant than the wind.

What is love? a gentle flame,

Blazing {Handwritten addition: beaming} end of handwritten addition round the youthful heart;

Prov’d by the mention of a name,

Which sweet emotions can impart.

Prov’d by the glances of the eye,

Which, what the tongue denies, reveals;

Prov’d by the half suppressed sigh,

Which from th’ unguarded bosom steals.

What is love when most refin’d?

The inmate of a gen’rous breast;

A feeling of angelic kind,

Far surpassing all the rest.

Fame, and honour, wealth, and friendship,

All are objects of desire,

Frequent sought with ceaseless trouble,

All can ardent hopes inspire.

Fame is but a tell-tale echo,

Which the passing sounds repeats,

Loudly praising each new object,

Till the next its flatt’ry greets;—

’T is a momentary bubble,

Buoy’d up by th’ unstable air;

Let censure’s busy finger touch it,

And ’t will instant disappear.

Wealth is seldom rightly valued,

Tempting e’en the wise astray:—

To the starving miser useless,

By the spendthrift thrown away.

Health and peace it cannot purchase,

But will frequent both destroy;

Who would sacrifice his comfort,

To obtain the glittering toy?

What is that distinction—honour,

If in rank alone ’tis plac’d,

Vain are sounding pompous titles

When to worthless names prefac’d—