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To Death's dark house did grief-worn Anna haste,

Yet here her pensive ghost delights to stay;

Oft pouring on the winds the broken layAnd hark, I hear her—'twas the passing blast.

I love to sit upon her tomb's dark grass,
Then Memory backward rolls Time's shadowy

The tales of other days before me glide :
With eager thought I seize them as they pass;
For fair, though faint, the forms of Memory gleam,
Like Heaven's bright beauteous bow reflected in

the stream.*


Hendecasyllabi ad Bruntonam e Granta Exituram.t

MAID of unboastful charms ! whom white-robed

Truth Right onward guiding through the maze of youth, Forbade the Circe Praise to witch thy soul; And dash'd to earth th' intoxicating bowl :

* The last two lines were transferred to another poem printed in The Watchman. (See Vol. i. pp. 66-67.)

† Printed in a small volume of Poems by Francis Wrangham, M.A., Member of Trinity College, Cambridge, Lond. 1795, pp. 79-83, where the original Hendecasyllables will be found. This translation was sent to Miss Brunton, sister of the Lady (Mrs. Merry) who was the subject of the original verses, with the lines that follow it in the text,

The meek-eyed Pity, eloquently fair,
Clasp'd to a bosom with a mother's care;
And, as she loved thy kindred form to trace,
The slow smile wander'd o'er her pallid face.

For never yet did mortal voice impart
Tones more congenial to the sadden'd heart :
Whether, to rouse the sympathetic glow,
Thou pourest lone Monimia's tale of woe;
Or haply clothest with funereal vest
The bridal loves that wept in Juliet's breast.
O’er our chill limbs the thrilling Terrors creep,
Th’entranced Passions their still vigil keep;
While the deep sighs, responsive to the song,
Sound through the silence of the trembling throng.

But purer raptures lighten'd from thy face, And spread o'er all thy form an holier grace, When from the daughter's breast the father drew The life he gave, and mix'd the big tear's dew. Nor was it thine th' heroic strain to roll With mimic feelings foreign from the soul : Bright in thy parent's eye we mark’d the tear; Methought he said, “ Thou art no Actress here ! “A semblance of thyself the Grecian dame, “And Brunton and Euphrasia still the same !"

O soon to seek the city's busier scene, Pause thee a while, thou chaste-eyed maid serene, Till Granta's sons from all her sacred bowers With grateful hand shall weave Pierian flowers To twine a fragrant chaplet round thy brow, Enchanting ministress of virtuous woe!



THAT darling of the Tragic Muse

When Wrangham sung her praise,
Thalia lost her rosy hues

And sicken'd at his lays :
But transient was th’ unwonted sigh ;

For soon the Goddess spied
A sister form of mirthful eye

And danced for joy and cried :
“Meek Pity's sweetest child, proud dame,

The fates have given to you !
Still bid your Poet boast her name ;

I have my Brunton too."


I HEARD a voice from Etna's side ;

Where, o'er a cavern's mouth

That fronted to the south
A chestnut spread its umbrage wide :
A hermit, or a monk, the man might be;

But him I could not see :
And thus the music flow'd along,

In melody most like to old Sicilian song : * Printed in Wrangham's Poems, 1795, p. 83, note.

† Printed in The Wild Wreath, edited by M, E. Robinson. Lond. Rich. Phillips, 1804, 8vo, pp. 142-144.

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“ There was a time when earth, and sea, and skies,

The bright green vale, and forest's dark recess, With all things, lay before mine eyes

In steady loveliness :
But now I feel, on earth's uneasy scene,

Such sorrows as will never cease;

I only ask for peace; If I must live to know that such a time has been!”

A silence then ensued :

Till from the cavern came

A voice; it was the same ! And thus, in mournful tone, its dreary plaint re

newed :“Last night, as o'er the sloping turf I trod,

The smooth green turf, to me a vision gave Beneath mine eyes, the sod

The roof of Rosa's grave ! My heart has need with dreams like these to strive,

For, when I woke, beneath mine eyes I found

The plot of mossy ground, On which we oft have sat when Rosa was alive.

Why must the rock, and margin of the flood,

Why must the hills so many flowerets bear, Whose colours to a murder'd maiden's blood

Such sad resemblance wear ?

I struck the wound,—this hand of mine !
For oh, thou maid divine,

I loved to agony !
The youth whom thou call’d'st thine

Did never love like me?

“Is it the stormy clouds above

That flashed so red a gleam ?

On yonder downward trickling stream ?'Tis not the blood of her I love.The sun torments me from his western bed :

Oh, let him cease for ever to diffuse

Those crimson spectre hues ! Oh, let me lie in peace, and be for ever dead ! ” Here ceased the voice. In deep dismay, Down thro' the forest I pursued my way.

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