ON KING ARTHUR'S ROUND TABLE,
WHERE Venta's Norman castle still uprears & Its raftered hall, that o'er the
And scattered flinty fragments clad in moss, On yonder steep in naked state appears ;
High-hung remains, the pride of warlike years, Old Arthur's Board: on the capacious round
Some British pen has sketched the names renowned, In marks obscure, of his immortal peers.
Though joined by magic skill, with many a rime, c The Druid frame, unhonoured, falls a prey
To the slow vengeance of the wizard Time, And fade the British characters away;
Yet Spenser's page, that chaunts in verse sublime Those chiefs, shall live, unconscious of decay.
TO THE RIVER LODON.
AH! what a weary race my feet have run,
Since first I trod thy banks with alders crowned, And thought my way was all through fairy ground, Beneath thy azure sky and golden sun:
Where first my Muse to lisp her notes begun! While pensive Memory traces back the round Which fills the varied interval between;
Much pleasure, more of sorrow, marks the scene. Sweet native stream! those skies and suns so pure No more return, to cheer my evening road! Yet still one joy remains,-that not obscure, Nor useless, all my vacant days have flowed,
From youth's gay dawn to manhood's prime mature; Nor with the Muse's laurel unbestowed.
MARY! I want a lyre with other strings,
Such aid from heaven as some have feigned they drew,
An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new And undebased by praise of meaner things;
That, ere through age or woe I shed my wings, may record thy worth with honour due, In verse as musical as thou art true,
And that immortalizes whom it sings.
But thou hast little need. There is a Book By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light, On which the eyes of God not rarely look, A chronicle of actions just and bright;— There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine; And since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine.
DECEMBER MORNING.
LOVE to rise ere gleams the tardy light,
Winter's pale dawn; and as warm fires illume, And cheerful tapers shine around the room, Through misty windows bend my musing sight, Where, round the dusky lawn, the mansions white, With shutters closed, peer faintly through the gloom That slow recedes; while yon grey spires assume, Rising from their dark pile, an added height By indistinctness given.-Then to decree The grateful thoughts to God, ere they unfold To friendship or the Muse, or seek with glee Wisdom's rich page. O hours more worth than gold, By whose blest use we lengthen life, and, free From drear decays of age, outlive the old !
WRITTEN AT THE CLOSE OF SPRING.
HE garlands fade that Spring so lately wove,
Each simple flower, which she had nursed in dew, Anemonies, that spangled every grove,
The primrose wan, and harebell mildly blue.
No more shall violets linger in the dell,
Or purple orchis variegate the plain,
Till Spring again shall call forth every bell,
And dress with humid hands her wreaths again. A Ah, poor humanity! so frail, so fair
Are the fond visions of thy early day,
Till tyrant passion and corrosive care, Bid all thy fairy colours fade away.
Another May new buds and flowers shall bring:.. Ah! why has happiness no second Spring?
HOULD the lone wanderer, fainting on his way, Rest for a moment of the sultry hours,
And though his path through thorns and roughness lay, Pluck the wild rose or woodbine's gadding flowers, Weaving gay wreaths beneath some sheltering tree, The sense of sorrow he awhile may lose : So have I sought thy flowers, fair Poesy!
So charmed my way with friendship and the Muse. But darker now grows life's unhappy day, Dark with new clouds of evil yet to come; Her pencil sickening Fancy throws away, And weary Hope reclines upon the tomb, And points my wishes to that tranquil shore, Where the pale spectre Care pursues no more.
TO MY BOOKS ON PARTING WITH THEM.
S one who, destined from his friends to part, Regrets his loss, yet hopes again erewhile To share their converse and enjoy their smile, And tempers as he may affliction's dart,- Thus, loved associates! chiefs of elder Art! Teachers of wisdom! who could once beguile My tedious hours, and lighten every toil, I now resign you: nor with fainting heart; For pass a few short years, or days, or hours, And happier seasons may their dawn unfold, And all your sacred fellowship restore; When, freed from earth, unlimited its powers, Mind shall with mind direct communion hold, And kindred spirits meet to part no more.
EVER skilled to wear the form we love!
To bid the shapes of fear and grief depart; Come, gentle Hope! with one gay smile remove The lasting sadness of an aching heart. Thy voice, benign enchantress ! let me hear; Say that for me some pleasures yet shall bloom,— That fancy's radiance, friendship's precious tear, Shall soften, or shall chase, misfortune's gloom. But come not glowing in the dazzling ray Which once with dear illusions charmed my eye; O, strew no more, sweet flatterer! on my way The flowers I fondly thought too bright to die: Visions less fair will soothe my pensive breast, That asks not happiness, but longs for rest.
N eddying course when leaves began to fly, And Autumn in her lap the store to strew, As 'mid wild scenes I chanced the Muse to woo, Through glens untrod and woods that frowned on high, Two sleeping nymphs with wonder mute I spy !— And lo, she's gone !-in robe of dark green hue, s 'Twas Echo from her sister Silence flew :
For quick the hunter's horn resounded to the sky! In shade affrighted Silence melts away.
Not so her sister!-hark, for onward still With far-heard step she takes her listening way, Bounding from rock to rock, and hill to hill! Ah, mark the merry maid in mockful play With thousand mimic tones the laughing forest fill.
TIME! who know'st a lenient hand to lay Softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly thence,
Lulling to sad repose the weary sense, The faint pang stealest unperceived away; On thee I rest my only hope at last,
And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tear
That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear,
may look back on every sorrow past,
And meet life's peaceful evening with a smile ;- As some lone bird, at day's departing hour, Sings in the sunbeam, of the transient shower Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while :- Yet ah! how much must that poor heart endure, Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure!
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