I know, I know, what this silence means; I know what the raven saith- III. Behold, how along the twilight air The shades of our fathers glide! There Morven fled, with the blood-drench'd hair, And Colma with grey side. No gale around its coolness flings, Yet sadly sigh the gloomy trees; And, hark! how the harp's unvisited strings Sound sweet, as if swept by a whispering breeze! "T is done! the sun he has set in blood! He will never set more to the brave; Let us pour to the hero the dirge of death- THANATOS. OH! who would cherish life, And cling unto this heavy clog of clay, Where glooms and tempests cloud the fairest day; And where, 'neath outward smiles, Conceal'd, the snake lies feeding on its prey, Where pit-falls lie in ev'ry flowery way, And syrens lure the wanderer to their wiles! Hateful it is to me, Its riotous railings and revengefui strife; I'm tired with all its screams and brutal shouts And welcome, oh! thou silent maid, And there amid unwholesome damps dost sleep, Sleepy Death, I welcome thee! Death is the best, the only cure, With all the grandeur of the great: Carve a stately monument: And angels serve to hold my head, Let the pealing organ play; And while the harmonious thunders roll, Thus how sweet my sleep will be, Shut out from thoughtful misery! ATHANATOS. AWAY with Death!--away With all her sluggish sleeps and chilling damps, Where Nature sinks into inanity. How can the soul desire Yet mortal life is sad, Eternal storms molest its sullen sky; But, hail the calm reality, The seraph Immortality! Hail the heavenly bowers of peace! The friends whose graves received our tear The daughter loved, the wife adored, To our widow'd arms restored; And all the joys which death did sever, Who would cling to wretched life, And hug the poison'd thorn of strife; MUSIC. WRITTEN BETWEEN THE AGES OF FOURTEEN AND MUSIC, all-powerful o'er the human mind, Can still each mental storm, each tumult calm, Soothe anxious Care on sleepless couch reclined, And e'en fierce Anger's furious rage disarm. At her command, the various passions lie Her martial sounds can fainting troops inspire Far better she, when with her soothing lyre Looses the bloody breast-plate's iron clasp. With her in pensive mood I long to roam, At midnight's hour, or evening's calm decline, Whilst mellow sounds from distant copse arise, Romantic sounds! such is the bliss ye give, That heaven's bright scenes seem bursting on the With joy I'd yield each sensual wish to live Oh! surely melody from heaven was sent, To cheer the soul when tired with human strife, ODE TO THE HARVEST MOON. -Cum ruit imbriferum ver: Spicea jam campis cum messis inhorruit, et cum Cuncta tibi Cererem pubes agrestis adoret. Virgil. MOON of Harvest, herald mild Tis thou that glad'st with joy the rustic throng, Moon of Harvest, I do love In the blue vault of the sky, Where no thin vapor intercepts thy ray, But in unclouded majesty thou walkest on thy way. Pleasing 't is, oh! modest Moon! When boundless plenty greets his eye, The last dear load of harvest home! Storms and tempests, floods and rains, May no winds careering high, But may all nature smile with aspect boon, 'Neath yon lowly roof he lies, The husbandman, with sleep-seal'd eyes; Oh! may no hurricane destroy His visionary views of joy! God of the Winds! oh, hear his humble prayer, And while the Moon of Harvest shines, thy blustering whirlwind spare. Alas! he is dead, He has chose his death-bed All along where the salt waves sigh. Is it, is it so, my Edwy? Will thy slumbers never fly? Could'st thou think I would survive thee? No, my love, thou bid'st me die. Thou bid'st me seek Thy death-bed bleak All along where the salt waves sigh. I will gently kiss thy cold lips, On thy breast I'll lay my head, And the winds shall sing our death-dirge, And our shroud the waters spread; The moon will smile sweet, And the wild wave will beat, Oh so softly, o'er our lonely bed. And when the blust'ring winter winds Howl in the woods that clothe my cave, I lay me on my lonely mat, And pleasant are my dreams. And Fancy gives me back my wife; And Fancy gives me back my child; She gives me back my little home, And all its placid joys. Then hateful is the morning hour, That calls me from the dream of bliss To find myself still lone, and hear The same dull sounds again. The deep-toned winds, the moaning sea, THE SHIPWRECKED SOLITARY'S SONG THOU, spirit of the spangled night! Of lonely mariner. The winds are whistling o'er the wolds, Sweet is the scented gale of morn, That marks thy mournful reign. I've pass'd here many a lonely year, And I have linger'd in the shade, To sing my evening song. And I have hail'd the grey morn high But never could I tune my reed, I hail'd thy star-beam mild The day-spring brings not joy to me, And then I talk, and often think And oh! I am not then alone- ELEGY Occasioned by the Death of Mr. Gill, who was drowned in the river Trent, while bathing, 9th August, 1802. HE sunk-the impetuous river roll'd along, The gale of evening touch'd the chords of death. Nymph of the Trent! why did'st not thou appear, Triumphant, riding o'er its tumid prey, Rolls the red stream in sanguinary pride; While anxious crowds, in vain, expectant stay, And ask the swoln corse from the murdering tide. The stealing tear-drop stagnates in the eye, The sudden sigh by friendship's bosom proved, I mark them rise-I mark the gen'ral sigh; Unhappy youth! and wert thou so beloved? On thee, as lone I trace the Trent's green brink, When the dim twilight slumbers on the glade, On thee my thoughts shall dwell, nor Fancy shrink To hold mysterious converse with thy shade. Of thee, as early I, with vagrant feet, Hail the grey-sandal'd morn in Colwick's vale, Of thee my sylvan reed shall warble sweet, And wild-wood echoes shall repeat the tale. And oh! ye nymphs of Peon! who preside 1 This line may appear somewhat obscure. It alludes to the last bubbling of the water, after a person has sunk, caused by the final expiration of the air from the lungs inhalation, by introducing the water, produces suffocation. Clifton Grove,' and other Poems. the Odes, that "To an early Primrose" was written at thirteen-the others are of a later date.-The Sonnets are chiefly irregular; they have, perhaps, no other claim to that specific denomination, than that they consist only of fourteen lines. Such are the Poems towards which I entreat the lenity of the Public. The Critic will doubtless find in them much to condemn; he may likewise possibly discover something to commend. Let him scan my faults with an indulgent eye, and in the work of that correction which I invite, let him remember he is holding the iron Mace of Criticism over the flimsy superstructure of a youth of seventeen; and, re THE following attempts in verse are laid before membering that, may he forbear from crushing, by the Public with extreme diffidence. The author is too much rigor, the painted butterfly whose transient very conscious that the juvenile efforts of a youth, colors may otherwise be capable of affording a mowho has not received the polish of Academical dis- ment's innocent amusement. cipline, and who has been but sparingly blessed with opportunities for the prosecution of scholastic pursuits, must necessarily be defective in the accuracy and finished elegance which mark the works of the man who has passed his life in the retirement of his study, furnishing his mind with images, and at the same time attaining the power of disposing those images to the best advantage. The unpremeditated effusions of a Boy, from his thirteenth year, employed, not in the acquisition of literary information, but in the more active business of life, must not be expected to exhibit any considerable portion of the correctness of a Virgil, or the vigorous compression of a Horace. Men are not, I believe, frequently known to bestow much labor on their amusements: and these Poems were, most of them, written merely to beguile a leisure hour, or to fill up the languid intervals of studies of a severer nature. Πας το οικείος εργον αγαπαω, " Every one loves his own work," says the Stagyrite; but it was no overweening affection of this kind which induced this publication. Had the Author relied on his own judgment only, these Poems would not, in all probability, ever have seen the light. Perhaps it may be asked of him, what are his motives for this publication? He answers-simply these: The facilitation, through its means, of those studies which, from his earliest infancy, have been the principal objects of his ambition; and the increase of the capacity to pursue those inclinations which may one day place him in an honorable station in the scale of society. The principal Poem in this little collection (Clifton Grove) is, he fears, deficient in numbers and harmonious coherency of parts. It is, however, merely to be regarded as a description of a nocturnal ramble in that charming retreat, accompanied with such reflections as the scene naturally suggested. It was written twelve months ago, when the Author was in his sixteenth year:-The Miscellanies are some of them the productions of a very early age.-Of 1 This, and the following Poems, are reprinted from the little Volume which the author published in 1803. TO MY LYRE. AN ODE. THOU simple Lyre;-Thy music wild Has served to charm the weary hour, And many a lonely night has 'guiled, When even pain has own'd, and smiled, Its fascinating power. Yet, oh my Lyre! the busy crowd Will little heed thy simple tones: Them mightier minstrels harping loud Engross, and thou and I must shroud Where dark oblivion 'thrones. No hand, thy diapason o'er, Well skill'd, I throw with sweep sublime; For me, no academic lore Has taught the solemn strain to pour, Or build the polish'd rhyme. Yet thou to Sylvan themes can'st soar; Thou know'st to charm the woodland train: The rustic swains believe thy power Can hush the wild winds when they roar, And still the billowy main. These honors, Lyre, we yet may keep, I, still unknown, may live with thee, And gentle Zephyr's wing will sweep Thy solemn string, where low I sleep, Beneath the alder-tree. This little dirge will please me more Than the full requiem's swelling peal; I'd rather than that crowds should sigh For me, that from some kindred eye The trickling tear should steal. Yet dear to me the wreath of bay, And dear to me the classic zone. And O! if yet 't were mine to dwell Where Cam or Isis winds along, Oh! then, my little friend, thy style Oh! then, the cloister'd glooms should smile, CLIFTON GROVE. A SKETCH IN VERSE. Lo! in the west, fast fades the lingering light, Now, when the rustic wears the social smile, This gloomy alcove, darkling to the sight, Of When the hoarse tempest shook the vaulted sky, And listen to the stream that murmurs by, And draws his household round their evening fire, Congenial calms, more welcome to my breast And tells the oft-told tales that never tire; To bid awhile the strife of passion cease, Thou wavest thy wand, and lo! what forms appear! Than maddening joy in dazzling lustre drest. No more above the embracing branches meet, Say, why does Man, while to his opening sight |