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The morn, the noon in play he pass'd,

In all the pomp of eastern state, But when the shades of evening came,

In all the eastern glory gay, No parent brought the due repast,

He bade, with native pride elate, And faintness seiz'd his little frame.

Each flower of humbler birth obey. By nature urg’d, by instinct led,

0, that the child unborn might hear, The bosom of a flower he sought,

Nor hold it strange in distant time, Where streams mourn'd round a mossy bed, That freedom e'en to flowers was dear, And violets all the bank enwrought.

To flowers that bloom'd in Britain's clime! Of kindred race, but brighter dies,

Through purple meads, and spicy gales, On that fair bank a Pansy grew,

Where Strymon's' silver waters play, That borrow'd froin indulgent skies

While far from hence their goddess dwells, A velvet shade and purple hue.

She rules with delegated sway.
The tints that stream'd with glossy gold, That sway the Crown Imperial sought,
The velvet shade, the purple hue,

With bigh demand and haughty mien: The stranger wonder'd to behold,

But equal claim a rival brought, And to its bounteous Losom flew,

A rival call’d the Meadow's Queen. Not fonder haste the lover speeds,

" Iv climes of orient glory born, At evening's fall, his fair to meet;

Where beauty first and empire grew; When o'er the hardly-bending meads

Where first unfolds the golden morn, He springs on more than mortal feet.

Where richer falls the fragrant dew: Nor glows his eyes with brighter glee,

“ In light's ethereal beauty drest, When stealing near her orient breast,

Behold,” he cried, “ the farour'd flower, Than felt the fond enamour'd bee,

Which Flora's high commands invest When first the golden bloom he prest.

With ensigns of imperial power ! Ah! pity much his youth untry'd,

“ Where prostrate vales, and blushing meads, His heart in beauty's magic spell !

And bending mountains own his sway, So never passion thee betide,

While Persia's lord his empire leads, But where the genial virtues dwell.

And bids the trembling world obey ; In vain he seeks those virtnes there;

“ While blood bedews the straining bow, No soul-sustaining charms abound :

And conquest rends the scatter'd air, No honey'd sweetness to repair

'Tis mine to bind the victor's brow, The languid waste of life is found.

And reign in envy'd glory there. Ao aged bee, whose labours led

“ Then lowly bow, ye British flowers! Thro' those fair springs, and meads of gold,

Confess your monarch's mighty sway, His feeble wing, bis drooping bead

And own the only glory yours, Beheld, and pitied to behold.

When fear flies trembling to obey." “ Fly, fond adventurer, fly the art

He said, and sudden o'er the plain, That courts thine eye with fair attire;

From flower to flower a murmur ran, Who smiles to win the heedless heart,

With modest air, and milder strain, Will smile to see that heart expire.

When thus the Meadow's Queen began : " This modest flower of humbler hue,

" If vain of birth, of glory vain, That boasts no depth of glowing dyes,

Or fond to bear a regal name, Array'd in unbespangled blue,

The pride of folly brings disdain, The simple clothing of the skies

And bids me urge a tyrant's claim : " This power, with balmy sweetness blest, “ If war my peaceful realms assail, May yet thy languid life renew:"

And then, unmov'd by pity's call, He sail, and to the Violet's breast

I smile to see the bleeding vale,
The little vagrant faintly flew.

Or feel one joy in Nature's fall,
“ Then may each justly vengeful flower

Pursue her queen with gen'rous strife,

Nor leave the hand of lawless power

Such compass on the scale of life. THE QUEEN OF THE MEADOW “ One simple virtue all my pride! AND THE CROWN IMPERIAL. The wish that flies to inis'ry's aid;

The balm that stops the crimson tide, From Bactria's vales, where beauty blows

And heals the wounds that war has made." Luxuriant in the genial rar; Where Aowers a bolder gem disclose,

Their free consent by zeplıyrs borne, And deeper drink the golden day.

The flowers their Meadow's Queen obey;

And fairer blushes crown'd the morn,
From Pactria's vales to Britain's shore

And sweeter fragrance fill'd the day.
What time the Crown Imperial came,
Full bigh the stately stranger bore

The Ionian Strymon."
The honours of bis birth and name.

? The property of that flower.

“ 'Tis Nature pleading in the breast,

Fair memory of her works to find;
And when to fate she yields the rest,

She claims the monumental mind.
“ Why, else, the o'ergrown paths of time

Would thus the letter'd sage explore,
With pain these crumbling ruins climb,

And on the doubtful sculpture pore?
“Why seeks he with unwearied toil

Through death's dim walks to urge his way,
Reclaim his long-asserted spoil,

And lead oblivion into day?
“'Tis Nature prompts, by toil or fear

Unmov'd, to range through death's domain :
The tender parent loves to hear

Her children's story told again.
" Treat not with scorn his thoughtful hours,

If haply near these haunts he stray;
Nor take the fair enlivening flowers

That bloom to cheer his lonely way."


THE WALL-FLOWER. ** Why loves my flower, the sweetest flower

That swells the golden breast of May, Thrown rudely o'er this ruin'd tower,

To waste her solitary day? " Why, when the mead, the spicy vale,

The grove and genial garden call, Will she ber fragrant soul exhale,

Unheeded on the lonely wall? * For never suure was beauty born

To live in death's deserted shade! Come, lovely flower, my banks adorn,

My banks for life and beauty made." Thus Pity wak'd the tender thonght,

And by ber sweet persuasion led, To seize the hermit-flower I sought,

And bear her from her stony bed. I sought-but sudden on mine ear

A voice in hollow murmurs broke, And smute my heart with holy fear

The Genius of the Ruin spoke. “ From thee be far th’ungentle deed,

The honours of the dead to spoil, Or take the sole remaining meed,

The flower that crowns their foriner toil! " Nor deem that flower the garden's foe,

Or fond to grace this barren shade; "ris Nature tells her to bestow

Her honours on the lonely dead. « For this, obedient zephyrs bear

Her light seeds round yon turret's mould, And undispers’d by tempests there,

They rise in vegetable gold. " Nor shall thy wonder wake to see

Such desert scenes distinction crave; Oft hare they been, and oft shall be

Truth's, Honour's, Valour's, Beauty's grave. “Where longs to fall that rifted spire,

As weary of th' insulting air;
The poet's thought, the warrior'sfire,

The lover's sighs are sleeping there.
“ When that too shakes the trembling ground,

Borne dowo by some tempestuous sky, And many a slumbering cottage round

Startles-how still their hearts will lie! “ Of them who, wrapt in earth so cold,

No more the smiling day shall view, Should many a tender tale be told;

For many a ter.der thought is due. “ Hast thou not seen some lover pale,

When evening brought the pensive hour, Step slowly o'er the shadowy vale,

And stop to pluck the frequent flower ? “ Those flowers he surely meant to strew

On lost affection's lowly cell;
Tho' there, as fond remembrance grew,

Forgotten, from his hand they fell. “ Has not for thee the fragrant thorn

Been taught her first rose to resign? With rain but pious fondness borne

To deck thy Nancy's honour'd shrine !

'Twas on the border of a stream

A gaily-painted Tulip stood,
And, gilded by the morning beam,

Survey'd her beauties in the flood.
And sare, more lovely to behold,

Might nothing meet the wistful eye,
Than crimson fading into gold,

In streaks of fairest symmetry.
The beauteous flower, with pride elate,

Ah me! that pride with beauty dwells !
Vainly affects superior state,

And thus in empty fancy swells :
“O lustre of unrivall’d bloom!

Fair painting of a hand divine !
Superior far to mortal doom,

The hues of Heav'n alone are mine!
Away, ye worthless, formless race!

Ye weeds, that boast the name of flowers ?
No more my native bed disgrace,

Unmeet for tribes so mean as yours !
“ Shall the bright daughter of the Sun

Associate with the shrubs of Earth?
Ye slaves, your sovereign's presence shun!

Respect her beauties and her birth.
" And thou, dull, sullen ever-green!

Shalt thou my shining sphere invade?
My noon-day beauties beam unseen,

Obscur'd beneath thy dusky shade !”
“ Deluded flower !” the Myrtle cries,

Shall we thy moment's bloom adore?
The mean'st shrub that you despise,

The meanest flower bas merit more.
“ That daisy, in its simple bloom,

Shall last along the changing year;
Blush on the snow of Winter's gloom,

And bid the smiling Spring appear.

“ The violet, that, those banks beneath,

Through those fair scenes we'll wander wild, Hides from thy scorn its modest head,

And on yon pastur'd mountains rest; Shall fill the air with fragrant breath,

Come, brother dear! come, Nature's child ! When thou art in thy dusty bed.

With all her simple virtues blest. “ E'en I, who boast no golden shade,

The Sun far-seen on distant towers, Am of no shining tints possess'd,

And clouding groves and peopled seas, When low thy lucid form is laid,

And ruins pale of princely bowers Shall bloom on many a lovely breast.

On Beachb'rough's airy heights shall please. " And he, whose kind and fostering care

Nor lifeless there the lonely scene; To thee, to me, our beings gave,

The little labourer of the hive, Shall near his breast my flowrets wear,

From fower to flower, from green to green, And walk regardless o'er thy grave.

Murmurs and makes the wild alive, “ Deluded flower, the friendly screen

See, on that flowret's velvet breast That hides thee from the noon-tide ray,

How close the busy vagrant lies ! And mocks thy passion to be seen,

His thin-wrought plume, his downy breast, Prolongs thy transitory day.

Th'ambrosial gold that swells his thighs ! " But kindly deeds with scorn repaid,

Regardless, while we wander near, No more by virtue need be done:

Thrifty of time, his task be plies ; I now withdraw my dusky shade.

Or sees he no intruder near? And yield thee to thy darling Sun.”

And rest in sleep bis weary eyes? Fierce on the flower the scorching beam

Perhaps his fragrant load may bind With all its weight of glory feil;

His limbs ;-we'll set the captive free-The Rower exulting caught the gleam,

I sought the living Bee to bind, And lent its leaves a bolder swell.

And found the picture of a Bee. Expanded by the searching fire,

Attentive to our tribing selves, The curliog leaves the breast disclos'd;

From thence we plan the rule of all; The mantling bloom was painted higher,

Thus Nature with the fabled elves And every latent charm expos’d.

We rank, and these her sports we call. But when the Sun was sliding low

Be far, my friend, from you, from me, And ev'ning came, with dews so cold;

Th’uvhallow'd term, the thought profane, The wanton beauty ceas'd to blow,

That life's majestic source may be And sought her bending leaves to fold.

idle fancy's triping vein. Those leaves, alas! no more would close; Remember still, 'tis Nature's plan Relax'd, exhausted, sick’ning, pale,

Religion in your love to find; They left her to a parent's woes,

And know, for this, she first in man
And Aed before the rising gale.

Inspir'd the imitative mind.
As conscious that affection grows,

Pleas'd with the pencil's mimic power,

That power with leading hand she shows,

And paints a Bee upon a flower.

Mark, how that rooted mandrake wears
Come, let us leave this painted plain;

His human feet, his human hauds ! This waste of flowers that palls the eye ;

Oft, as his shapely form ho rears, The walks of Nature's wilder reign

Aghast the frighted ploughman stands. Shall please in plainer majesty.

See where, in yonder orient stone,

She seems e'en with herself at strife,
Through those fair scenes, where yet she owes

While fairer from her hand is shown
Superior charms to Brockman's art,
Where, crown'd with elegant repose,

The pictur'd, than the native life.
He cherishes the social heart-

Helvetia's rocks, Sabrina's wares,

Still many a shining pebble bear,

Where oft her studious band engraves " This is a species of the orchis, which is found

The perfect form, and leaves it there. in the barreu and mountainous parts of Lincolushire, Worcestershire, Kent, and Herefordshire. O long, my Paxton), boast ber art; Nature has formed a bee apparently feeding on And long her laws of love fulfil: the breast of a flower with so much exactness, To thee she gave her hand and heart, that it is impossible at a very small distance to To thee, her kindness and her skill! distinguish the imposition. For this purpose she has observerl an economy different from what is The well-known fables of the Painter aod the found in most other flowers, and bas laid the Statuary that fell in love with objects of tbeir petals horizontally. The genius of the orchis, or own creation, plainly arose from the idea of that satyrion,she seems professedly to have madeuse of attachment, which follows the imitation of for her paintings, and on the different species has agreeable objects, to the objects imitated. drawn the perfect forms of different insects, such 3 Au ingenious portrait-painter in Rathbone as vees, lies, butterflies, &c.



Whatever charms the ear or eye,

All beauty and all harmony; THE WILDING AND THE BROOM. If sweet sensations these produce, Ix yonder green wood blows the broom; I know they have their moral use; Shepherds we'll trust our flocks to stray.

I know that Nature's charms can move
Court Nature in her sweetest bloom,

The springs that strike to virtue's love.”'
And steal from care one summer-day.
From him 'whose gay and graceful brow

Fair-handed Hume with roses binds,

THE MISLETOE AND THE PASSION. We'll learn to breathe the tender vow,

Where slow the fairy Portha winds.
And oh! that he whose gentle breast

In this dim eave a druid sleeps,
In Nature's softest mould was made,

Where stops the passing gale to moan; Who left her smiling works imprest

The rock he hollow'd o'er him weeps, In characters that cannot fade ;

And cold drops wear the fretted stone. That he might leave his lowly shrine,

In this dim cave, of diff'rent creed, Tho' softer there the seasons fall

An hermit's holy ashes rest :

The school-boy finds the frequent bead,
They come, the sons of verse divine,
They come to Fancy's magic call,

Which many a formal matin blest,
" What airy sounds invite

That truant-time full well I know,

When here I brought, in stolen hour,
My steps not unreluctant, from the depth
Of Shene's deligbtful groves ? Reposing there

The druid's magic misletoe,
No more I hear the busy voice of men

The holy hermit's passion-flower.
Far-toiling o'er the globe-save to the call The off'rings on the mystic stone
Of soul-exalting poetry, the ear

Pensive I laid, in thought profound.
Of death denies attention. Rous'd by her, When from the cave a deep'ning groan
The genius of sepulchral silence opes

Issued, and froze me to the ground. His drowsy cells, and yields us to the day.

I hear it still-dost thou not bear?
For thee, whose hand, whatever paints the

Does not thy haunted fancy start?

The sound still vibrates through mine ear,
Or swells on Summer's breast, or loads the lap

The horrour rushes on my heart, Of Autumn, gathers heedful-Thee whose rites At Nature's shrine with holy care are paid Unlike to living sounds it came, Daily and nightly, boughs of brightest green, Unmix'd, unmelodis'd with breath; And every fairest rose, the god of groves, But, grinding through some scrannel frame, The queen of flowers, shall sweeter save for thee. Creak'd from the bony lungs of death. Yet pot if beauty only claim thy lay,

I hear it still—“ Depart,” it cries; Tnpefully trifling. Fair philosophy,

" No tribute bear to shades unblest : And Nature's love, and every mortal charm

Know, here a bloody druid lies,
That leads in sweet captivity the mind

Who was not nors'd at Nature's breast,
To virtue-ever in thy nearest cares
Be these, and animate thy living page

- Associate he with demons dire, With truth resistless, beaming from the source

O'er human victims held the knife, Of perfect light immortal-Vainly boasts

And pleas'd to see the babe expire, That golden Broom its sunny robe of flowers: Smild grimly o'er its quiv’ring life. Fair are the sunny flowers; but, fading soon “Behold his crimson-streaming hand And fruitless, yield the forester's regard

Erect !-his dark, fix'd, murd'rous eye!” To the well-loaded wilding-Shepherd, there In the dim cave ) saw bim stand; Behold the fate of song, and lightly deemn

And my heart died—I felt it die. Of all but inoral beauty."

I see him still-Dost thou not see “Not in vain"

The haggard eye-ball's hallow glare? I hear my Hamilton reply.

And gleams of wild ferocity (The torch of fancy in his eye)

Dart through the sable shade of hair? " 'Tis not in vain,” I hear him say, "That Nature paints her works so gay ;

What meagre form behind bim mores,
For, fruitless though that fairy broom,

With eye that rues th' invading day;
And wrinkled aspect wan,

that Yet still we love her lavish bloom.


The mind to pale remorse a prey?
Cheer'd with that bloom, yon desert wild
Its native horrours lost, and smil'd;

What wretched-Hark--the voice replies,
And oft we mark her golden ray

Boy, bear these idle honours hence ! Along the dark wood scatter day.

For, here a guilty hermit lies, “Of moral uses take the strife;

Untrue to Nature, Virtue, Sense. Leave me the elegance of life.

“ Though Nature lent him powers to aid

The moral cause, the mutual weal ; William Hamilton of Bangour.

Those powers he sunk in this dim shade,

The desp’rate suicide of zeal. TOL, XYI.

· Thomson.

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“Go, teach the drone of saintly haunts,

Despising still, their freeborn souls unbroke, Whose cell's the sepulchre of time;

Alike the Gallic and Ligurian yoke. Though many a holy hymn he chants,

Yet while the patriot's gen'rous rage we share, His life is one continu'd crime.

Still civil safety calls us back to care ;

To Britain lost in either Henry's day, “ And bear them hence, the plant, the flower

Her woods her mountains one wild scene of prey ! No symbols those of systems vain !

Fair Peace from all her bounteous rallies fled, They have the duties of their hour;

And Law beneath the barbed arrow bled. Some bird, some insect to sustain."

In happier days, with more auspicious fate,
The far-fam'd Edward heal'd his wounded state ;

Dread of his foes, but to his subjects dear,
THE COUNTRY JUSTICE. These learn'd to love, as those are taught to fear,

Their laurell'd prince with British pride obey,

His glory shone their discontent away.

With care the tender flower of love to sare,

And plant the olive on Disorder's grave,
For civil storms fresh barriers to provide,

He caught the fav’riug calm and falling tide,

THE COUNTIES OF WESTMORLAND AND CUMBERLAND. The social laws from insult to protect;

To cherish peace, to cultivate respect; DEAR SIR,

The rich from wanton cruelty restrain, A roem written professedly at To smooth the bed of penury and pain ; your request, naturally addresses itself to you. The hapless vagrant to his rest restore,

The distinction you have acquired on the subject, The maze of fraud, the haunts of theft explore ; and your taste for the arts, give that address The thoughtless maiden, when subdu'd by art, every kind of propriety. If I have any particu- To aid, and bring her rover to her beart; Jar satisfaction in this publication, beside what Wild riot's voice with dignity to quell, arises from my compliance with your commands, Forbid unpeaceful passions to rebel, it must be in the idea of that testimony it bears Wrest from revenge the meditated barm, to our friendship. If you believe that I am more

For this fair Justice rais'd her sacred arm; concerned for the duration of that than of the

For this the rural magistrate, of yore,
Poem itself, you will not be mistaken; for 1 am, Thy honours, Edward, to his mansion bore.

your truly affectionate brother
and faithful humble servant,

Oft, where old Air in conscious glory sails,

On silver waves that flow thro'smiling sales,

THE AUTHOR. In Harewood's groves, where long my youth was Somersetshire,

laid, April 25, 1774.

Unseen beneath their ancient world of shade,
With many a groupe of antique columns crown'd,

In Gothic guise such mansion bave I found.

Nor lightly deem, ye apes of modern race,

Ye cits that sore bedizen Nature's face, In Richard's days, when lost his pastur'd plain,

Of the more manly structures here ye view; The wand'ring Briton sought the wild wood's

They rose for greatness that ye never knew ! With great disdain beheld the feudal bord, [reign,

Ye reptile cits, that oft have mov'd my spleen,

With Venus, and the Graces on your green ! Poor life-let vassals of a Norman lord;

Let Plutus, growling o'er his ill-got wealth,
And, what no brave man ever lost, possess'd
Himself-for Freedom bound him to her breast.

Let Mercury,the thriving god of stealth,
Lov'st thou that Freedom? By her holy shrine, Rise on your mounts, and perch upon your books!

The shopman, Janus, with his double looks,
If yet one drop of British blood be tbine,
See, I conjure thee, in the desert shade,

But, spare my Venus, spare each sister Grace,

Ye cits, that sore bedizen Nature's face. His bow upstrung, his little household laid, Some brave forefather; while his fields they would lay the realms of Sense and Nature

Ye royal architects, whose antic taste, share,

waste ; By Saxon, Dane, or Norman, banish'd there! And think he tells thee, as his soul withdraws,

Forgot, whenever from her steps ye stray, As his heart swel's against a tyrant's laws,

That folly only points each other way ;

Here, tho' your eye no courtly creature sees; The war with fate, though fruitless to maintain, To guard that liberty he lov'd in vain.

Snakes on the ground, or monkies in the trees; Were thoughts like these the dreams of ancient Yet let not too severe a censure fall, Peculiar only to some age, or clime? [time?

On the plain precincts of the ancient hall. And does not Nature thoughts like these impart, of Thibet's dogs, or China's perroquets;

For tho' no sight your childish fancy meets, Breathe in the soul, and write upon the heart? Ask on their mountain yon deserted band,

Tho' apes, asps, lizards, things without a tail, That point to Paoli with no plausire hand;

And all the tribes of foreign monsters fail;

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