LINES

IN THE MANNER OF SPENSER.

O PEACE, that on a lilied bank dost love
To rest thine head beneath an olive tree,
I would that from the pinions of thy dove
One quill withouten pain yplucked might be!
For O! I wish my Sara's frowns to flee,
And fain to her some soothing song would write,
Lest she resent my rude discourtesy,

Who vowed to meet her ere the morning light, But broke my plighted word-ah! false and recreant wight!

Last night as I my weary head did pillow With thoughts of my dissevered Fair engrost, Chill Fancy drooped wreathing herself with willow,

As though my breast entombed a pining ghost. "From some blest couch, young Rapture's bridal

boast,

Rejected Slumber! hither wing thy way;
But leave me with the matin hour, at most!

As night-closed floweret to the orient ray,

My sad heart will expand, when I the Maid survey."

But Love, who heard the silence of my thought, Contrived a too successful wile, I ween:

And whispered to himself, with malice fraught"Too long our Slave the Damsel's smiles hath

seen:

To-morrow shall he ken her altered mien!"
He spake, and ambushed lay, till on my bed
The morning shot her dewy glances keen,
When as I'gan to lift my drowsy head—
"Now, Bard! I'll work thee woe!" the laughing
Elfin said.

Sleep, softly-breathing God! his downy wing.
Was fluttering now, as quickly to depart;
When twanged an arrow from Love's mystic
string,

With pathless wound it pierced him to the heart.
Was there some magic in the Elfin's dart?

Or did he strike my couch with wizard lance? For straight so fair a Form did upwards start (No fairer decked the bowers of old Romance) That Sleep enamoured grew, nor moved from his sweet trance!

My Sara came, with gentlest look divine;
Bright shone her eye, yet tender was its beam.
I felt the pressure of her lip to mine!
Whispering we went, and Love was all our
theme-

Love pure and spotless, as at first, I deem,

He sprang

from Heaven! Such joys with Sleep

did 'bide,

That I the living image of my dream

Fondly forgot. Too late I woke, and sigh'd"O! how shall I behold my Love at even-tide!"

July, 1795.

TO THE AUTHOR OF POEMS

PUBLISHED ANONYMOUSLY AT BRISTOL, IN
SEPTEMBER, 1795.

66

UNBOASTFUL Bard! whose verse concise yet clear
Tunes to smooth melody unconquered sense,
May your fame fadeless live, as never-sere"
The Ivy wreathes yon Oak, whose broad defence
Embowers me from Noon's sultry influence!
For like that nameless Rivulet stealing by,
Your modest verse to musing quiet dear,

Is rich with tints heaven-borrowed; the charmed

eye

Shall gaze undazzled there, and love the softened sky.

Circling the base of the Poetic mount

A stream there is, which rolls in lazy flow
Its coal-black waters from Oblivion's fount;

The vapour-poisoned Birds, that fly too low,
Fall with dead swoop, and to the bottom go.
Escaped that heavy stream on pinion fleet.
Beneath the Mountain's lofty frowning brow,
Ere aught of perilous ascent you meet,

A mead of mildest charm delays the unlabouring feet.

Not there the cloud-climbed rock, sublime and

vast,

That like some giant king o'erglooms the hill;
Nor there the Pine-grove to the midnight blast
Makes solemn music! But the unceasing rill
To the soft Wren or Lark's descending trill
Murmurs sweet under-song mid jasmine bowers.
In this same pleasant medow, at your will
I ween, you wandered-there collecting flowers
Of sober tint, and herbs of med'cinable powers!

There for the monarch-murdered Soldier's tomb You wove the unfinished wreath of saddest hues ; * And to that holier chaplet added bloom, Besprinkling it with Jordan's cleansing dews.† But lo! your Henderson awakes the Muse-‡ His Spirit beckoned from the Mountain's height! You left the plain and soared 'mid richer views!

* War, a Fragment.

† John the Baptist, a l'oem.
Monody on John Henderson.

So Nature mourned, when sunk the First Day's

light,

With stars, unseen before, spangling her robe of night.

Still soar, my Friend, those richer views among,
Strong, rapid, fervent, flashing Fancy's beam!
Virtue and Truth shall love your gentler song,
But Poesy demands the impassioned theme;
Waked by Heaven's silent dews at Eve's mild
gleam

What balmy sweets Pomona breathes around!
But if the vext air rush a stormy stream,

Or Autumn's shrill gust moan in plaintive sound, With fruits and flowers she loads the tempesthonoured ground.