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Few are my years, and yet I feel

The world was ne'er designed for me:
Ah! why do darkening shades conceal

The hour when man must cease to be?
Once I beheld a splendid dream,

A visionary scene of bliss :
Truth! wherefore did thy hated beam

Awake me to a world like this?
I loved—but those I loved are gone;

Had friends—my early friends are fled:
How cheerless feels the heart alone,

When all its former hopes are dead !
Though gay companions o'er the bowl

Dispel awhile the sense of ill;
Though pleasure stirs the maddening soul,

The heart, the heart is lonely still.
Fain would I fly the haunts of men:

I seek to shun, not hate mankind ;
My breast requires the sullen glen

Whose gloom may suit a darkened mind.
Oh that to me the wings were given

Which bear the turtle to her nest!
Then would I cleave the vault of heaven,

To flee away, and be at rest.



Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle

Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime, Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle,

ow melt into sorrow, now madden to crime? Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine; Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppressed with perfume, Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gúl in her bloom; Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, And the voice of the nightingale never is mute; Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky, In colour though varied, in beauty may vie, And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye; Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine, And all, save the spirit of man, is divine? 'Tis the clime of the East; 'tis the land of the sunCan he smile on such deeds as his children have done? Oh! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell,

Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they tell. -Bride of Abydos.


WHEN Music, heavenly maid ! was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Thronged around her magic cell ;
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possessed beyond the Muse's painting;
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined ;

once, 'tis said, when all were fired,
Filled with fury, rapt, inspired,
From the supporting myrtles round,
They snatched her instruments of sound;
And as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each, for madness ruled the hour,

prove his own expressive power.
First Fear his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords, bewildered laid;
And back recoiled, he knew not why,
Even at the sound himself had made.

Next Anger rushed, his eyes on fire
In lightnings owned his secret stings;
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,
And swept with hurried hand the strings.
With woful measures wan Despair,
Low sullen sounds his grief beguiled;
A solemn, strange, and mingled air;
'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.
But thou, oh, Hope! with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure ?

Still it whispered promised pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail.

Still would her touch the strain prolong;

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She called on Echo still through all the song;

And where her sweetest theme she chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at every close; And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair; And longer had she sung, but with a frown

Revenge impatient rose; He threw his

blood-stained sword in thunder down,,

And, with a withering look,
The war-denouncing trumpet took,

And blew a blast so loud and dread,
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of wo;

And ever and anon he beat

The double drum with furious heat;
And though sometimes, each dreary pause between,

Dejected Pity at his side

Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild unaltered mien, While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from

his head.

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fixed;

Šad proof of thy distressful state;
Of differing themes the veering song was mixed,
And now it courted Love, now raving called on Hate.

With eyes upraised, as one inspired,
Pale Melancholy sat retired,
And from her wild sequestered seat,

In notes by distance made more sweet,
Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul :

And clashing soft from rocks around,
Bubbling runnels joined the sound;
Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole;
Or o'er some haunted streams with fond delay,

Round a holy calm diffusing,

Love of peace and lonely musing,
In hollow murmurs died away.

But oh ! how altered was its sprightly tone,
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,

Her bow across her shoulder flung,

Her buskins gemmed with morning dew,
Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung,

The hunter's call, to Fawn and Dryad known;
The oak-crowned sisters, and their chaste-eyed queen,

Satyrs and sylvan boys, were seen
Peeping from forth their alleys green;

Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear,
And Sport leaped up, and seized his beechen spear.

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial:

He, with viny crown advancing,
First to the lively pipe his hand addressed;
But soon he saw the brisk, awakening viol,
Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best.


They would have thought, who heard the strain, They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids,

Amidst the festal sounding shades,

To some unwearied minstrel dancing :
While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings,

Love framed with Mirth, a gay fantastic round,
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound :

And he, amidst his frolic play,
As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.

Oh Music! sphere-descended maid,
Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid,
Why, goddess ! why to us denied,
Layest thou thy ancient lyre aside?
As in that loved Athenian bower,
You learn an all-commanding power;
Thy mimic soul, oh nymph endeared,
Can well recall what then it heard.
Where is thy native simple heart,
Devote to virtue, fancy, art?
Arise, as in that elder time,
Warm, energetic, chaste, sublime !
Thy wonders in that godlike age
Fill thy recording sister's page;
'Tis said, and I believe the tale,
Thy humblest reed could more prevail,
Had more of strength, diviner rage,
Than all which charms this laggard age;
Even all at once together found,
Cecilia's mingled world of sound.
Oh! bid your vain endeavours cease,
Revive the just designs of Greece;
Return in all thy simple state;

Confirm the tales her sons relate.


INVIDIOUS Grave!, how dost thou rend in sunder
Whom love has knit, and sympathy made one!
A tie more stubborn far than nature's band.
Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul!
Sweetener of life! and solder of society !
I owe thee much. Thou hast deserved from me
Far, far beyond what I can ever pay.
Oft have I proved the labours of thy love,
And the warm efforts of thy gentle heart,

2 P

Anxious to please. Oh! when my friend and I
In some thick wood have wandered heedless on,
Hid from the vulgar eye, and sat us down
Upon the sloping

cowslip-covered bank,
Where the pure limpid stream has slid along
In grateful errors through the underwood,
Sweet murmuring, methought the shrill-tongued thrush
Mended his song of love; the sooty blackbird
Mellowed his pipe, and softened every note:
The eglantine smelled sweeter, and the rose
Assumed a dye more deep; whilst every flower
Vied with its fellow-plant in luxury
Of dress! Oh! then the longest summer's day
Seemed too, too much in haste: still the full heart
Had not imparted half: 'twas happiness
Too exquisite to last. Of joys departed

Not to return, how painful the remembrance!


How fine has the day been, how bright was the sun,
How lovely and joyful the course that he run,
Though he rose in a mist when his race he begun,

And there followed some droppings of rain!
But now the fair traveller's come to the west,
His rays are all gold, and his beauties are best;
He paints the sky gay as he sinks to his rest,

And foretells a bright rising again.

Just such is the Christian ; his course he begins,
Like the sun in a mist, when he mourns for his sins,
And melts into tears; then he breaks out and shines,

And travels his heavenly way :
But when he comes nearer to finish his race,
Like a fine setting sun, he looks richer in grace,
And gives a sure hope at the end of his days,

Of rising in brighter array.


Can gold calm passion, or make reason shine?
Can we dig peace or wisdom from the mine!
Wisdom to gold prefer, for 'tis much less
To make our fortune than our happiness :

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