Of hir array the form gif I fal write, Edwin, (he said, with looks of kind dismay)

Toward her golden haire, and rich atyre, Earth's meteor hopes but glitter to betray, In fretwise couchit wt perlis qubite,

Thou canst not fly from God's all-chaft’ning hand, And grete balas lemyng as the fyre,

Storms sweep the ocean, discord blasts the land: Wt mony ané emerant and faire saphire, No change of climate can reverse our doom,

And on hir hede a chaplet fresch of hewe, Life's various roads all center in the tomb! Of plumys partit rede,; and qubite, and blewe. Thus the meek sage my salh resolve represt, Full of quaking spangis bryt as gold,

While tears of pity bath'd his hpary breaft, Forgit of schap like to the amorettisg.

Oh! had I liften'd to his wife alarmsy So now, so fretch, so pleasant to behold, Then had I died at home in friendship's arms.

The plumys eke like to the floure jonettis, Twelve tedious weeks we plough'd the wintry And other of schap, like to the floure jonettis;

main, And, above all this, there was, wele I wote,

And hop'd the port; but hop'd, alas! ¡n vain; Beautee eneuch to mak a world to dote. Till, left of heaven, and press’d for daily bread, About hir rieck, quhite as the fyre amaille,

Each gaz'd at each, and hung the fickly head: A gudlie cheyne of small orfeverye,

Two little sons, my hope, my humble pride,

Too weak to combat, languish'd, wail'd, and died; Quhare by there hang a ruby, wtout faille Like to ane hert schapin verily,

Stretch'd on the deck the breathless cherubs lay,

As buds put forth in April's stormy day., That, as a spark of lowe fo wantonly

Not Emma's self remain'd my woes to cheer, Semyt birnyng upon hir quhite throte,

Borne with her babes upon a watery bier: Now gif there was gud pertye, God it wote.

Five days she struggled with the fever's fire; And for to walk that fresche Mayes morowe, : The fixth sad morn beheld my faint expire.

Ane buke Me had upon her tiķew quhite, These'trembling lips her lips convulsive prest, That gudelaire had not bene sene to forowe,

These tremblinghands sustain d her linking breast; As I suppose, and girt sche was alyte;

These trembling hands discharg'd each mournful Thus halflyng lowse for haste, to suich delyte

rite, i It was to see her zouth in gudelihed,

Sooth'd her last pang, and seal'd her dying fight, That for rudenes to speke thereof I drede.? To the same deep their dear remains were given;

Their mingled spirits wing'd their flight to heaven. Art. IX. The Peasant of Auburn; Surviv'd the wreck that whelm d my all belide,

One only daughter, in life's vernal pride, ar, the Emigrant. A Poem. Inscribed Snatch'd from the peace of death, and loathingday, to the Earl

of Carlisle. By T. Coombe, On bleak Henlopen's coast the mourner lay. : D.D. 15. 4to. Elmfly:

These aged arms her languid body bore

Through the rude breakers to that ruder shore. *HIS little poem is a sort of con. Mercy; sweet Heaven! and did the pitying ftoring

Spare but' for deeper ills that angel form! Deserted Village, and seems intend. And mine and Lucy's been one common grave. ed to diffuade our countrymen from But I am loft, a worn-out, ruin'd man, emigrating to America: a very lauda. And fiends compleat what tyranny began.

Much had I heard, from men unus'd to feign, ble intention, and well worthy every of this new world, and Freedom's gentle reign: effort of every benevolent divine.

'Twasfam'd that

here, by no proud master fpurn'd, With respect to the poeti cal mețit The poor man ate secure the bread he earn'd; of the present performance, evident- That verdant vales were fed by brighter streams ly the production of a sensible and Fields without bounds spontaneous fruitage bore,

Than my own Medway, or the filver Thames; feeling heart, little can be said in

And peace and virtue bless'd the favour'd shore. it's favour; the versification is in ge- Such were the hopes which once beguild my care, neral smooth, but there are very few Hopes formd in dreams, and baseless as the air.' marks of great genius or originality, Indeed, though the whole poem is Here, as I trace my melancholy way, comprized in about two hundred The prowling Indian snuffs his wonted prey; lines, we question much if we could Ha! Thould I meet him in his dusky round not select at least twenty evidently Still the deep war-whoop vibrates on ming cas;

Late in these woods I heard his murderous foundung borrowed from Dr. Goldsmith's De. And still I hear his tread, or seem to hear. serted Village or Traveller,and other Hark! the leaves rustle! what a shriek was there! modern poems:

'Tis he! 'tis he! his triumphs rend the air. Few of these instances, however, Hold, coward heart! I'll answer to the yell,

And chase the murderer to his gory çell. appear in the following extracts.

Savage! but, oh! I raveimo?er yonder wild,

E'en at this hour, he drives my only child; Ah, me! the words our pious Preacher spoke, She, the dear source and soother of my pain, When first to him my mournful mind I broker. My tender daughter, drags the captive chain."









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Y wounded heart for Mira grieves,

And no fond hope my soul relieves! Ah, no! abandon’d to defpair, And suffering with the hapless fair, To Heaven I raise my streaming eyes, But no kind angel hears my cries, Methinks I fee the lovely maid, On the dire bed of fickness laid; I fee her fix her languid eye, And now I hear her faintly figh; I see her robb’d of every grace, And death triumphant in her face; I view her frantic mother's fright, While tears obscure her fifter's fight. Ye gods! if Virtue be your care, The trueft of her votaries spare; Have pity on her blooming youth, Her innocence, her spo:less truth; Restore her to a mother's care, Hear a distracted lover's prayer; Oh! give her to a fifter's love, And let the tears of thousands move; For she to every heart was dear, And all partook her parent's fear! Will no kind angel intercede; None stop the shaft that is decreed To fall on her devoted head, And number Mira with the dead? Upon the wicked turn it's rage, But spare the wonder of the age!

Ah, me! undone, too late I find
A dupe to these, by passion blind,
I built my peace inert on clay,
Enliven'd scarcely by a ray
Of love, to prompt the dear return,
Or fee with what a flame I burn!
She, quicker than the nitrous grain,
Exploded. on the hostile plain;
Unequal to the slightest harm,
Though distant, trembles at alarma.
Her eyes with liquid pearl can flow,
And melt at every tale of woe:
Though fitted in each part to prove
The raptures of refined love,
A stranger to the very name,
She suffers, not enjoys, the flame!
Though souls congenial, wrapt in blissg
Immingle at th' extatic kiss;
Those feelings, here of 'edge obtufe,
The envied mutual part refuse.
Me, hapless, though a prey to care,
Condemn'd inferior joys to share;
To droop. unfeen, unheard complain,
And hug the dear, the galling chain,
No thought, or distant with, to be
Intensely bless'd, or wholly free,
Can tempt-for e’en the poignant smart,
Deep piercing through each vital part,
Though keener than the viper's sting,
More peace can with it's ruin bring,
Than aħ the sweets which poets feigt
Belong to Cytherea's train.
Come, then, seraphic Ardour, comes
Secluded from a happier dome!
Again resume thy native seat,
And glow with new-acquir'd heat:
Let me, like Afric's bird, expire
In my own encircling fire.
Perhaps, my humble urn to grace,
Ere time the melting thought efface,
Meek Sophia, conscious of my fate,
In pity, though, alas! too late,
With others will not scorn to lend

The feebler tribute of a friend!







IS true she is divinely fair,

A finish'd shape, and easy air;
Tresses lovelier than the beam
Of Dian on the trembling stream:
Fitted hardest hearts to win;
Eyes betraying, Heaven within!
On happy flope, and easy bend,
The rofe, the spotless lily, blend;
Impassion’d, teach her cheeks to glow,
Or fright congeal to driven-snow:
As velvet soft, of vermil hue,
Moisten'd with ambrofial dew,
Her pouting lips their sweets enhance,
And flyly feign the kind advance!
These beauties, and a thousand more,
Concealed from the vulgar lore,
Assemblage sweet of potent charms,
Bright Sophia yielded to my arms.

Ye gods! poffess’d of these, can ought
Be wanting! --Can the boundlefs thought,
The nicest taste, though hard to please,
book farthes, when policss'd of these?

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Thro' reverend elms a gleam of light Rise the winds, and rock the cottage;

Illum'd a fragrant bower; Thaws the roof, and wets the path;

Where Delia sat, in pensive mood, Dorcas cooks the savoury pottage;

To spend the midnight hour.
Smoaks the cake upon the hearth.

When, lo! before her wondering eyes,

Arose a fpectre pale;
Sunshine intermits with ardour,

And, in a hollow tone of voice,
Shades fly swiftly o'er the fields;

Thus told it's plaintive tale
Showers revive the drooping verdure,
Sweets the funny upland yields.

Know, Delia, from the dead I come,

To tell thee Edwin's fate;

Who, wounded by imperious fcorn,
Pearly beams the eye of morning:

Has sought the grove of late:
Child! forbear the deed unblets'd!
Hawthorn every hedge adorning,

Where, now,

enshrin'd with thousands morey Pluck the flowers but fpare the neft!

He sleeps in hallow'd ease;

While keen remorse, and anxious fear,

By turns thy bofom seize.
School-boys in the brook difporting,

For thee alone, whild here on earth, Spend the sultry hour of play;

All other nymphs he fled; While the nymphs and fwains are courting,

Or, forc'd to join the social crowd,
Seated on the new-made hay.

Still droop'd his penfive head:
Maids, with each a guardian lover,

And when from busy scenes retir'da

He breath'd his fate anew;
While the vivid lightning fies;

And bade the gentle zephyrs bear
Hastening to the nearest cover,
Clasp their hands before their eyese

The plaintive notes to you.

But, ah! that cruel heart of thing
See the reapers, gleaners, dining,

Despis'd the humble swain;

And, when he ask'd a kind return,
Seated on the inady grass;
D'er the gate the squire reclining,

You triumph'd in his pain...
Wanton eyes cach ruddy lafs.

Now, Delia, cease! nor bence pretend

To boast of beauty's fway;

For know, that damask'd cheek will foon
Hark! a found like diftant thunder

Grow wrinkled, and decay.
Murderer, may thy malice fail!
Torn from all they love afunder,

Improve a moral turn of thought,
Widow'd birds around us wait.

As Henryt oft advis'd;

And let thy native charms appear,

By folly undisguis'd.
Now Pomona pours her treasure,

Leaves autumnal strew the ground; The wretched foothe, with pity's hand, Plenty crowns the market measure,

And cherish virtue's birth;
While the mill runs briskly round, Yet, mark, 'tis modesty alone,

That ftamps a female's worth
Now the giddy rites of Comus

The spectre ceas'd, and disappear’d;
Crown the hunter's dear delight:

And Delia thus began, Ah! the year is fitting from us,

While, down her pallid face, the tears Bleak the day, and drear the night! In glistening torrents ran DECEMBER

Happy for me, if I had ne'er
Bring more wood, and set the glasses;

My Edwin's fuit denied!
Join, my friends, our Christmas cheer: But, ah! too oft my feelings fell
Come, a catch! and kiss the laffes

A sacrifice to pride.
Christmas comes but once a year.

Then fay, fhall I, with wanton airy

Exult in life's gay bloom;

While Edwin, loft to ev'ry joy,

Lies withering in the tomb.

No, oft as night furrounds this globe,
HÉN Sal had left the weftern skies, I'll seek his peaceful grave;
And fable night appear'd;

And learn to pity, tho' too late,
Pale Cynthia, o'er a distant hill,

The youth I cannot save, Her filver crescent rear'd.

AMINTON * See, Edwin's Farewel Epifle to Delia, page 210 Delia's father.




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Her soul was gentle as the summer's breeze, TO TNE MEMORY OF

Pure as the virgin snow, or downy fleece;

Her manners traught with dignity and ease; THE HONOURABLE MRS. HENEAGE,

Her ways were pleasant and ber packas were

peace. TXE RIGHT HONOURABLE LORD PETRE. Bright was the fleeting tenor of her day;

But, ah! too soon the heavenly charm is o'er! 11$ SALTEM ACCUMULIM DOXIS IT FUN.

Enough--lince all that Sympathy can say, GAR IN ANO


But wakes the heart to keen regret the more.
TOULD Virtue's power 'repel the hand of

Could Gooduers chase the fickly fiend away;

ADDRESS TO THE MUSE. Still might Ophelia draw unsullied breath;

Nor claim che fad, the heart-diffolving lay. 10,
But, ah! stern Fate not Virtue's pow'r can move,

That e'er was heard in leafy bower or dale; Nor Goodnesssoothe the fiend with ghaftly mien'Thy plaintive founds her listening ear shall fill. The friend we cherish, and the maid we love,

Blow soft, ye zephyrs; and, ye winds, be ftill!

Go, plaintive Mule, to lovely **'s ear, When these command, muk quit the vital sceae.

• Heave the warm ligh, and shed the tender tear:", Awhile these samples of th' Eternal Mind There, to the lovely nymph, in softest train,

(SoHeaven ordains )oncarth with pacience roam; Go, gently whisper all thy master's pain! To leave regret and melting fighs behind, lo choicelt words, which streams of sweetness fill, When kindred angels cali a fifter home. Call Heaven to witness how I love her ftill!

(Oh! had some power endued thy faltering tongue, Such was Optrelia-a(from our fcene retird) - With pleasing accents soft persuasion hung;

Let truth, let worth, revere the facred pame: Then might I hope to win the lovely maid, Her least ambition was to be admir'd;.

And softly call her to the rural fade!) And all that pomp can give, her least of fame. Tell her, for me, in vain the wanton gales

Shed scented odours o'er the blooming vales; No pride, save noble, generous pride, the knew;

From tree to tree the vocal warblers play, Patient the heard the tale of virtuous woe;

Bewail their little loves in tuneful lay; The rooted thorn from Sorrow's bosom drew,

To hear sweet Philomel in song complain, And bade the rear of Anguilh cease to flow,

And trembling Echo warble back the strain: Ne'er dia Dejection Thun her pure abode,

Ah! these no more my troubled soul delight, Nor Misery fly insulted from her door;

But each gay fcene is wrapp'd in gloomy night; Her stream of wealth in Bounty's channel flow'd, Forever, now, I'm bath'd in falling tears; And pour'd the side of plenty on the Poor.

Nojoy enlivens, and no pleasure chears,

Hope Alatter'd once-alas! 'tis now consumid; These fhall the tear of grateful mem'ry give, Like flowers that wither ere they well have Sincere and felt as is the Muse's strain:

bloom'd! Long in the breast of Anguish thatt fhe live, Thus oft, emerging from the fhades of night, But ne'er to thed a healing balm again! Laughs rofy Morn, and spreads a glittering light;

When darken'd clouds foon fhade the flattering Yet, O! ye Poor, wbo streaming sorrows blend,

frene, Ar. equal hope in generous Petre view;

And lightnings dart along th' enamell'd green. To him her fame, her virtues all defcend; And all her tender charities to you.

Ah, fatal day! that day of Port delight,

When first her charmsentranc'd my ravish'd fight! For him no more can Pleasure find a charm;

Such charms mine eyes had ne'er beheld before, Nor Peace allure him to her flowery seats:

Which maids may envy, but mankind adøre! Heart-piercing woes ftern Reafon's power disarm, Say, gentle Muse, what beauty did unfold And life's red tide in wild diforder beats. That lovely form, by language yet untold!

Those piercingeyes, which fweetly oft you'vefung; Deep groves alone receive his figh profound, Those rofy lips, and that enchanting tongue;

Where dew-drops mingle with the falling tear; Those lovely treffes, and that dimpled (mile; Where poplars strew their yellow leaves around, Thole fyren looks, thatmight the heavens beguile, As if to grace Ophelia's filent bier.

That robb'd my heart of eafe, my eyes of Deep;

Firft taught me how to love, but now to weep. The gentle partner of his fond embrace In mournful cadence answers every figh:

No trees o'er hade the lily-bofom'd vale,

No roses wanton to tbc breathing gale, His faithful dog, that led him to the chace,

No flow'rets open to the morning rays, Explores the grief that trembles in his eye.

No bubbling fountain through the valley plays; Opbelia's name is whisper*d through the shade, · But knows the torments of my troubl'd breast,

Where fluwerets droop, or all unheeded bloom; What cares confume me, and what pains infest! While the fad swain, to many a pentive mait, Oft, when I' feep, and in the darkiome night, Repeats the verfe that's gravid upon ber tomb. Her beauteouis image glides before my tight


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Why flow those tears? (the lovely phantom cries;) Thou ample room didft find
Why break soft soothing rest with endless fighs ? In Yorick's liberal mind;
Complaint is vain--thy hopeless with confine; That mind, moft exquisitively fraught
The much-lov'd ** never must be thine!

With nature, fancy, wit, and thought:
Ah, stay, sweet shade! - I wake, and fondly cry

Alas! he charms no more, Once more regale my fight before I die:

« Who set the table in a roar!" Thy presence only can my grief dispel,

No more Maria's tale fhall move Or snatch my spirit from it's mortal cell!.

His tender heart with generous love; It comes no more. But now I wake to grieve; No more Le Fevre's pangs be felt Fresh flow my tears, and fighs my bosom heave. By him, who taught our kindred souls to melt.

Ye violet banks, that oft my limbs have borne; Ye winding streams, that learnt of me to mourn;

But, ah! what fairy scenes I view! Ye cooing doves, that tune your plaintive lay;

My ravish'd soul what mighty magic charms! Ye leafy shades, where love has made me stray:

To think the sweet delusion true, For her bloom fair; melodious be your strains;

My fond imagination warms. Whilft I'm condemn'd to never-ceasing pains!

'Tis Miellerie I see! Let guardian angels all their sweetness shed, St. Preuxt, and Julia, wandering Now, And shower their influence o'er her favour'd head:

Seem to tell their tale of woe. May they protect her with peculiar care;

Ah! hapless, hapless pair!
Shemall that's lovely, innocent, and fair!

Thy victims, Sensibility,
Now, plaintive Muse, go tell the mournful tale; Too exquisite to bear.
Abone to her thy master's name reveal;
Her tender heart will listen to thy strains,

Thou, in the usurer's cell,

Didst ever scorn to dwell; Nor laugh at love, nor mock the lover's pains:

Where orphan's tears, and widow's fighs, But when the nymph these artless lines shall see, She'll spare one figh, one tear, to love and me.

For ever flow, for ever rise,

But flow and rise in vain;
If at thy tale the tear of pity flows,

With adamantine dulness arm'd,
Or tender fighs a chearing ray disclose;
If groundless fears have robb’d my soul of rest,

By Conscience, nor by thee, alarm'd,
And needless fadness fill'd my fimple breast;

His every thought isagain. With eager haste my present woes destroy,

Oft have I woo'd thee, gentle power,
Dispel my fears with radiant streams of joy.

Many a solitary hour;

For who, among the tuneful train,

But has indulg'd the pleafing pain,

With energy refind;

Unknown to camps, to courts, and kings, AN IRREGULAR ODE,

Beneath the poet's roof she fings,

And loves the humble mind.

FFSPRING of the manly mind, In calm sequester'd scenes like these,
And female tenderness combin'd;

Where Contemplation fits at ease,
If e'er I bow'd beneath thy (way,

She rears her modest head;
Or felt thy animating ray,

With Gray, at evening's stillest hour,
Still thy true votary let me be,

• Near yonder ivy-mantled tower,'
Angelic Sensibility!

Oft glides with silent tread.

But far from gilded pomp she flies,
Thee, with weeping willows crown'd,

Nor e'er in princely chamber lies:
Pity, and her train, surround;

Their bofoms, arm’d with triple steel,
The Graces and the Loves are thine;

The woes of others cannot feel;
The Muse, and Music's power divine:

Absorb'd alone in public care,
At thy birth all nature smil'd,

No private thought can enter there!
For thou art Nature's favourite child.

Save, when, with infant-blood imbru'd,
The fullen Paffions yield to thee,

The tyrant Richard I trembling stood,

And heard each dying groan;
In foftest fetters thou dost bind

Pale Conscience then her femblance took,
Rage, the tempest of the wind.

His secret foul with horror fhook,
Satan* himself, in Eden's bower,

And mark'd him for her own.'
Felt remorse, and own'd thy power;
View'd our First Parents with delight,

Not fo, when on th' Atlantic maing,
Melted with pity at the fight;

Conquest crown'd Britannia's arms, Tafted awhile the joys above,

'Midit horrid shrieks and dire alarms; And almost wept with tenderness and love. And heaps of warriors fiain;

* Paradise Lost. Lib. iv. Vide Speech beginning Line 358.

Vide Rousseau's Heloise.
Shakespeare's Richard III. A&IV. Scene the Tower,
A true Story,



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