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That sense of promise every where?

Beloved ! flew your spirit by?

IV.

As when a mother doth explore

The rose-mark on her long-lost child,

I met, I loved you, maiden mild ! As whom I long had loved before

So deeply had I been beguiled.

V.
You stood before me like a thought,

A dream remember'd in a dream.

But when those meek eyes first did seem To tell me, Love within you wrought

O Greta, dear domestic stream !

VI.

Has not, since then, Love's prompture deep,

Has not Love's whisper evermore
Been ceaseless, as thy gentle roar

? Sole voice, when other voices sleep,

Dear undersong in Clamour's hour.

AN ODE TO THE RAIN.

COMPOSED BEFORE DAYLIGHT, ON THE MORNING APPOINTED FOR THE DEPARTURE

OF

A VERY WORTHY, BUT NOT VERY PLEASANT VISITOR, WHOM IT WAS FEARED THE RAIN MIGHT DETAIN.

I.

I KNOW it is dark; and though I have lain,

Awake, as I guess, an hour or twain,

I have not once open'd the lids of my eyes,
But I lie in the dark, as a blind man lies.
O Rain ! that I lie listening to,
You're but a doleful sound at best:
I owe you little thanks, 'tis true,
For breaking thus my needful rest !
Yet if, as soon as it is light,
O Rain! you will but take your flight,
I'll neither rail, nor malice keep,
Though sick and sore for want of sleep.
But only now, for this one day,
Do go, dear Rain ! do go away!

II.

O Rain! with your dull two-fold sound,
The clash hard by, and the murmur all round !
You know, if you know aught, that we,
Both night and day, but ill agree :
For days and months, and almost years,
Have limp'd on through this vale of tears,
Since body of mine, and rainy weather,
Have lived on easy terms together.
Yet if, as soon as it is light,
O Rain ! you will but take your flight,
Though you should come again to-morrow,
And bring with you both pain and sorrow;
Though stomach should sicken and knees should

swell-
I'll nothing speak of you but well.
But only now for this one day,
Do go, dear Rain ! do go away!

Dear Rain! I neer refused to say
You're a good creature in your way;
Nay, I could write a book myself,
Would fit a parson's lower shelf,
Showing how very good you are.-
What then? sometimes it must be fair!
And if sometimes, why not to day?
Do go, dear Rain! do go away!

IV.
Dear Rain ! if I've been cold and shy,
Take no offence! I'll tell you why.
A dear old Friend e'en now is here,
And with him came my sister dear;
After long absence now first met,
Long months by pain and grief beset-
We three dear friends ! in truth, we groan
Impatiently to be alone.
We three, you mark ! and not one more !
The strong wish makes my spirit sore.
We have so much to talk about,
So many sad things to let out;
So many tears in our eye-corners,
Sitting like little Jacky Horners-
In short, as soon as it is day,
Do go, dear Rain ! do go away.

v. And this I'll swear to you, dear Rain ! Whenever you shall come again,

Be you as dull as e'er you could
(And by the bye 'tis understood,
You're not so pleasant as you're good),
Yet, knowing well your worth and place,
I'll welcome you with cheerful face ;
And though you stay'd a week or more,
Were ten times duller than before ;
Yet with kind heart, and right good will,
I'll sit and listen to you still ;
Nor should you go away, dear Rain !
Uninvited to remain.
But only now, for this one day,
Do go, dear Rain ! do go away.

ELEGY,

IMITATED FROM ONE OF AKENSIDE'S BLANK-VERSE

INSCRIPTIONS.

NEAR the lone pile with ivy overspread,

Fast by the rivulet's sleep-persuading sound, Where “sleeps the moonlight" on yon verdant

bedO humbly press that consecrated ground!

For there does Edmund rest, the learned swain !

And there his spirit most delights to rove : Young Edmund! famed for each harmonious strain,

And the sore wounds of ill-requited love.

Like some tall tree that spreads its branches wide,

And loads the west-wind with its soft perfume, His manhood blossom'd ; till the faithless pride

Of fair Matilda sank him to the tomb.

But soon did righteous Heaven her guilt pursue !

Where'er with wilder'd step she wander'd pale, Still Edmund's image rose to blast her view,

Still Edmund's voice accused her in each gale.

With keen regret, and conscious guilt's alarms,

Amid the pomp of affluence she pined; Nor all that lured her faith from Edmund's arms

Could lull the wakeful horror of her mind.

Go, Traveller ! tell the tale with sorrow fraught :

Some tearful maid perchance, or blooming youth, May hold it in remembrance; and be taught

That Riches cannot pay for Love or Truth.

SEPARATION.
A SWORDED man whose trade is blood,

In grief, in anger, and in fear,
Thro' jungle, swamp, and torrent flood,

I seek the wealth you hold so dear !

The dazzling charm of outward form,

The power of gold, the pride of birth, Have taken Woman's heart by storm

Usurp'd the place of inward worth.

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