With strains of triumph on thy tongue,
Such as to dying saints are sung;
Such as in Paradise the ear
Of God himself delights to hear;
-Come, all unseen; be only known
By Zion's harp of higher tone,
Warbling to thy mysterious voice;
Bid my desponding powers rejoice;
And I will listen to thy lay,
Till night and sorrow flee away,
Till gladness o'er my bosom rise,
And morning kindle round the skies.

If thus to me, sweet saint, be given

To learn from thee the hymns of Heaven,
Thine inspiration will impart
Seraphic ardors to my heart;
My voice thy music shall prolong,
And echo thy entrancing song;
My lyre, with sympathy divine,
Shall answer every chord of thine,
Till their consenting tones give birth
To harmonies unknown on earth.
Then shall my thoughts, in living fire
Sent down from heaven, to heaven aspire,
My verse through lofty measures rise,
A scale of glory to the skies,
Resembling, on each hallow'd theme,
The ladder of the Patriarch's dream,
O'er which descending angels shone,
On earthly missions from the throne,
Returning by the steps they trod,
Up to the Paradise of God.

THE PEAK MOUNTAINS,

WRITTEN AT BUXTON, IN AUGUST, 1812.

It may be useful to remark, that the scenery in the neighborhood of Buxton, when surveyed from any of the surrounding eminences, consists chiefly of numerous and naked hills, of which many are yet uninclosed, and the rest poorly cultivated; the whole district, except in the immediate precincts of the Baths and the village of Fairfield, being miserably bare of both trees and houses.

PART I.

Health on these open hills I seek,
By these delicious springs in vain ;
The rose on this deserted cheek
Shall never bloom again;

For youth is fled;-and less by time

Than sorrow torn away,

The pride, the strength of manhood's prime, Falls to decay.

Restless and fluttering to expire,

Life's vapor sheds a cold dim light,
Frail as the evanescent fire
Amidst the murky night,

That tempts the traveller from afar

To follow, o'er the heath,

Its baleful and bewildering star
To snares of death

A dreary torpor numbs my brain;

Now shivering pale,-now flush'd with heat;
Hurried, then slow, from vein to vein
Unequal pulses beat;

Quick palpitations heave my heart,
Anon it seems to sink;

Alarm'd at sudden sounds I start,
From shadows shrink.

Bear me, my failing limbs! O! bear
A melancholy sufferer forth,

To breathe abroad the mountain air
Fresh from the vigorous north;
To view the prospect, waste and wild,
Tempestuous or serene,

Still dear to me, as to the child
The mother's mien.

Ah! who can look on Nature's face,
And feel unholy passions move?
Her forms of majesty and grace

I cannot choose but love:

Her frowns or smiles my woes disarm,
Care and repining cease;

Her terrors awe, her beauties charm
My thoughts to peace.

Already through mine inmost soul,
A deep tranquillity I feel,

O'er every nerve, with mild control,
Her consolations steal;

This fever'd frame and fretful mind,

Jarring 'midst doubts and fears,
Are soothed to harmony:-I find
Delight in tears.

I quit the path, and track with toil
The mountain's unfrequented maze;
Deep moss and heather clothe the soil,
And many a springlet plays,

That welling from its secret source
Down rugged dells is tost,

Or spreads through rushy fens its course,
Silently lost.

With rude diversity of form,

The insulated mountains tower:

-Oft o'er these cliffs the transient storm And partial darkness lower,

While yonder summits far away
Shine sweetly through the gloom,
Like glimpses of eternal day
Beyond the tomb.

Hither, of old, the Almighty came;

Clouds were his car, his steeds the wind;
Before Him went devouring flame,
And thunder roll'd behind;

At His approach the mountains reel'd
Like vessels to and fro:

Earth, heaving like a sea, reveal'd
The gulfs below.

Borne through the wilderness in wrath,
He seem'd in power alone a God;
But blessings follow'd in his path,
For Mercy seized his rod;

She smote the rock,-and as he pass'd
Forth gush'd a living stream;

The fire, the earthquake, and the blast
Fled as a dream.

Behold the everlasting hills,

In that convulsion scatter'd round;
Hark! from their caves the issuing rills
With sweetest music sound.

Ye lame and impotent! draw near;
With healing on her wing,

The cherub Mercy watches here
Her ancient spring.

TO ANN AND JANE,

WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF IN THE SMALL VOLUME
OF HYMNS FOR INFANT MINDS.
WHEN the shades of night retire
From the morn's advancing beams,
Ere the hills are tipt with fire,
And the radiance lights the streams,
Lo, the lark begins her song,
Early on the wing and long.

Summon'd by the signal notes,
Soon her sisters quit the lawn,
With their wildly warbling throats,
Soaring in the dappled dawn;
Brighter, warmer spread the rays,
Louder, sweeter swell their lays.

Nestlings, in their grassy beds,
Hearkening to the joyful sound,
Heavenward point their little heads,
Lowly twittering from the ground,
Ere their wings are fledged to fly,
To the chorus in the sky.

Thus, fair Minstrels, while ye sing,
Teaching infant minds to raise
To the universal King
Humble hymns of prayer and praise.
O may all who hear your voice
Look, and listen, and rejoice!

Faltering like the skylark's young,
While your numbers they record,
Soon may every heart and tongue
Learn to magnify the Lord;

329

And your strains, divinely sweet,
Unborn millions thus repeat.
Minstrels! what reward is due
For this labor of your love?
-Through eternity may You,
In the Paradise above,

Round the dear Redeemer's feet,
All your infant readers meet.

OCCASIONAL ODE,

FOR THE ANNIVERSARY OF THE ROYAL BRITISH SYSTEM
OF EDUCATION, held at freEMASONS' HALL,
MAY 16, 1812.

THE lion, o'er his wild domains,
Rules with the terror of his eye;
The eagle of the rock maintains
By force his empire in the sky;
The shark, the tyrant of the flood,

Reigns through the deep with quenchless rage;
Parent and young, unwean'd from blood,
Are still the same from age to age.

Of all that live, and move, and breathe,
Man only rises o'er his birth;
He looks above, around, beneath,
At once the heir of heaven and earth:
Force, cunning, speed, which Nature gave
The various tribes throughout her plan,
Life to enjoy, from death to save,—
These are the lowest powers of Man.
From strength to strength he travels on:
He leaves the lingering brute behind :
And when a few short years are gone,
He soars, a disembodied mind:
Beyond the grave, his course sublime
Destined through nobler paths to run,
In his career the end of Time
Is but Eternity begun.

What guides him in his high pursuit,
Opens, illumines, cheers his way,
Discerns the immortal from the brute,
God's image from the mould of clay?
"Tis Knowledge :-Knowledge to the soul
Is power, and liberty, and peace;
And while celestial ages roll,
The joys of Knowledge shall increase.

Hail to the glorious plan, that spread
The light with universal beams,
And through the human desert led
Truth's living, pure, perpetual streams.
-Behold a new creation rise,
New spirit breathed into the clod,
Where'er the voice of Wisdom cries,
"Man, know thyself, and fear thy God."

A DAUGHTER TO HER MOTHER, ON HER BIRTH-DAY, NOVEMBER 25, 1811. THIS the day to me most dear In the changes of the year; Spring, the fields and woods adorning, Spring may boast a gayer morning;

Summer noon, with brighter beams,
Gild the mountains and the streams;
Autumn, through the twilight vale,
Breathe a more delicious gale:
Yet though stern November reigns,
Wild and wintry o'er the plains,
Never does the morning rise
Half so welcome to mine eyes;
Noontide glories never shed
Rays so beauteous round my head;
Never looks the evening-scene
So enchantingly serene
As on this returning day,
When, in spirit rapt away,

Joys and sorrows I have known,
In the years for ever flown,
Wake at every sound and sight.
Reminiscence of delight,
All around me, all above,
Witnessing a Mother's love.

Love, that watch'd my early years
With conflicting hopes and fears;
Love, that through life's flowery May
Led my childhood, prone to stray;
Love, that still directs my youth
With the constancy of Truth,
Heightens every bliss it shares,
Softens and divides the cares,
Smiles away my light distress,
Weeps for joy, or tenderness:
-May that love, to latest age,
Cheer my earthly pilgrimage;
May that love, or death victorious,
Rise beyond the grave more glorious;
Souls, united here, would be
One to all eternity.

When these eyes, from native night,
First unfolded to the light,
On what object, fair and new,
Did they fix their fondest view?
On my Mother's smiling mien;
All the mother there was seen.
When their weary lids would close,
And she sung me to repose,
Found I not the sweetest rest

On my Mother's peaceful breast?
When my tongue from hers had caught
Sounds to utter infant thought,
Readiest then what accents came?
Those that meant my Mother's name.
When my timid feet begun
Strangely pleased, to stand or run,
"T was my Mother's voice and eye
Most encouraged me to try,
Safe to run, and strong to stand,
Holding by her gentle hand.

Time since then hath deeper made Lines, where youthful dimples play'd; Yet to me my Mother's face Wears a more angelic grace: And her tresses thin and hoary, Are they not a crown of glory? -Cruel griefs have wrung that breast, Once my Paradise of rest;

While in these I bear a part,
Warmer grows my Mother's heart,
Closer our affections twine,

Mine with hers, and hers with mine.
-Many a name, since hers I knew,
Have I loved with honor due,
But no name shall be more dear
Than my Mother's to mine ear.

-Many a hand that Friendship plighted
Have I clasp'd, with all delighted,
But more faithful none can be
Than my Mother's hand to me.

Thus by every tie endear'd,
Thus with filial reverence fear'd,
Mother! on this day, 'tis meet
That, with salutation sweet,
I should wish you years of health,
Worldly happiness and wealth,
And when good old age is past,
Heaven's eternal peace at last!
But with these I frame a vow
For a double blessing now;
One, that richly shall combine
Your felicity with mine;

One, in which, with soul and voice,
Both together may rejoice;
O what shall that blessing be?
-Dearest Mother! may you see
All your prayers fulfill'd for me!

A DYING Swan of Pindus sings

In wildly-mournful strains;

As Death's cold fingers snap the strings,
His suffering lyre complains.

Soft as the mist of evening wends
Along the shadowy vale;

Sad as in storms the moon ascends,
Ard turns the darkness pale:

So soft the melting numbers flow
From his harmonious lips;
So sad his woe-wan features show,
Just fading in eclipse.

The Bard, to dark despair resign'd,
With his expiring art,

Sings, 'midst the tempest of his mind,
The shipwreck of his heart.

If Hope still seem to linger nigh,

And hover o'er his head,

Her pinions are too weak to fly,

Or Hope ere now had fled.

Rash Minstrel! who can hear thy songs, Nor long to share thy fire?

Who read thine errors and thy wrongs, Nor execrate the lyre?

And strews their annual garments on the plain Awaking from repose,

Thy Fairy lids unclose.

Feeble, evanescent flower,

Smile away thy sunless hour;
Every daisy, in my walk,

Scorns thee from its humbler stalk
Nothing but thy form discloses
Thy descent from royal roses;
How thine ancestors would blush
To behold thee on their bush,
Drooping thy dejected head

Where their bolder blossoms spread,
Withering in the frosty gale,

Where their fragrance fill'd the vale!

Last and meanest of thy race,
Void of beauty, color, grace!
No bee delighted sips
Ambrosia from thy lips;

No spangling dew-drops gem
Thy fine elastic stem;

No living lustre glistens o'er thy bloom,
Thy sprigs no verdant leaves adorn,
Thy bosom breathes no exquisite perfume:
But pale thy countenance as snow,
While, unconceal'd below,

All naked glares the threatening thorn.
Around thy bell, o'er mildew'd leaves,
His ample web a spider weaves;
A wily ruffian, gaunt and grim,
His labyrinthine toils he spreads
Pensile and light;-his glossy threads
Bestrew'd with many a wing and limb;
Even in thy chalice he prepares
His deadly poison and delusive snares.
While I pause, a vagrant fly
Giddily comes buzzing by;
Round and round, on viewless wings,
Lo! the insect wheels and sings;
Closely couch'd, the fiend discovers,
Sets him with his sevenfold eyes,
And while o'er the verge he hovers,
Seems to fascinate his prize,

As the snake's magnetic glare
Charms the flitting tribes of air,
Till the dire enchantment draws
Destined victims to his jaws.

Now 'midst kindred corses mangled,
On his feet alights the fly;
Ah! he feels himself entangled,
Hark! he pours a piteous cry.
Swift as Death's own arrows dart,
On his prey the spider springs,
Wounds his side,-with dexterous art
Winds the web about his wings;
Quick as he came, recoiling then,
The villain vanishes into his den.
The desperate fly perceives too late
The hastening crisis of his fate;
Disaster crowds upon disaster,
And every struggle to get free
Snaps the hopes of liberty,

And draws the knots of bondage faster.
Again the spider glides along the line;
Hold, murderer! hold;-the game is mine.
-Captive! unwarn'd by danger, go,
Frolic awhile in light and air;
Thy fate 't is easy to foreshow,
Preserved to perish in a safer snare!
Spider, thy worthless life I spare;
Advice on thee 't were vain to spend,
Thy wicked ways thou wilt not mend,-
Then haste thee, spoiler, mend thy net:
Wiser than I

Must be yon fly,

If he escapes thy trammels yet;
Most eagerly the trap is sought

In which a fool has once been caught.

And thou, poor Rose! whose livid leaves expand,
Cold to the sun, untempting to the hand,
Bloom unadmired,-uninjured die;
Thine aspect, squalid and forlorn,
Insures thy peaceful, dull decay;
Hadst thou with blushes hid thy thorn,

Grown "sweet to sense and lovely to the eye,"

I might have pluck'd thy flower,
Worn it an hour,

"Then cast it like a loathsome weed away."

ON FINDING THE FEATHERS OF A LINNET

SCATTERED ON THE GROUND, IN A SOLITARY WALK.

THESE little relics, hapless bird!

That strew the lonely vale,

With silent eloquence record
Thy melancholy tale.

Like autumn's leaves, that rustle round
From every withering tree,

These plumes, dishevell'd o'er the ground,
Alone remain of thee.

Some hovering kite's rapacious maw
Hath been thy timeless grave;
No pitying eye thy murder saw,
No friend appeared to save.

1 Otway's Orphan.

Heaven's thunder smite the guilty foe!
No-spare the tyrant's breath,
Till wintry winds, and famine slow,
Avenge thy cruel death!

But every feather of thy wing

Be quicken'd where it lies,
And at the soft return of spring,
A fragrant cowslip rise!

Few were thy days, thy pleasures few,
Simple and unconfined;

On sunbeams every moment flew,
Nor left a care behind.

In spring to build thy curious nest,
And woo thy merry bride,
Carol and fly, and sport and rest,
Was all thy humble pride.

Happy beyond the lot of kings,

Thy bosom knew no smart,

Till the last pang, that tore the strings From thy dissever'd heart.

When late to secret griefs a prey,

I wander'd slowly here,

Wild from the copse an artless lay, Like magic, won mine ear.

Perhaps 't was thy last evening song,
That exquisitely stole
In sweetest melody along,
And harmonized my soul.

Now, blithe musician! now no more Thy mellow pipe resounds,

But jarring drums at distance roar, And yonder howl the hounds:

The hounds, that through the echoing wood
The panting hare pursue:

The drums, that wake the cry of blood,
-The voice of Glory too!

Here at my feet thy frail remains,

Unwept, unburied, lie,

Like victims on embattled plains, Forsaken where they die.

Yet could the Muse, whose strains rehearse Thine unregarded doom,

Enshrine thee in immortal verse,

Kings should not scorn thy tomb.

Though brief as thine my tuneful date,
When wandering near this spot,

The sad memorials of thy fate
Shall never be forgot.

While doom'd the lingering pangs to feel
Of many a nameless fear,

One truant sigh from these I'll steal,
And drop one willing tear.