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When sinking low the Sufferer wan
Beholds no hand outstretched to save,
Fair, as the bosom of the Swan
That rises graceful o'er the wave,
I've seen your breast with pity heave,
And therefore love I you, sweet Genevieve!




UNDERNEATH an old oak tree
There was of swine a huge company,
That grunted as they crunched the mast:
For that was ripe, and fell full fast.
Then they trotted away, for the wind grew high :
One acorn they left, and no more might you spy.
Next came a Raven, that liked not such folly :
He belonged, they did say, to the witch Melancholy!
Blacker was he than blackest jet,
Flew low in the rain, and his feathers not wet.
He picked up the acorn and buried it straight
By the side of a river both deep and great.

Where then did the Raven go ?

He went high and low,
Over hill, over dale, did the black Raven go.

Many Autumns, many Springs
Travelled he with wandering wings:
Many Summers, many Winters-
I can't tell half his adventures.

At length he came back, and with him a She,
And the acorn was grown to a tall oak tree.
They built them a nest in the topmost bough,
And young ones they had, and were happy enow.
But soon came a woodman in leathern guise,
His brow, like a pent-house, hung over his eyes.
He'd an axe in his hand, not a word he spoke,
But with many a hem! and a sturdy stroke,
At length he brought down the


Raven's own oak. His

young ones were killed; for they could not depart, And their mother did die of a broken heart. The boughs from the trunk the Woodman did sever; And they floated it down on the course of the river. They sawed it in planks, and its bark they did strip, And with this tree and others they made a good ship. The ship, it was launched; but in sight of the land Such a storm there did rise as no ship could withstand. It bulged on a rock, and the waves rushed in fast: Round and round flew the Raven, and cawed to the

blast. He heard the last shriek of the perishing souls-See ! See! o'er the topmast the mad water rolls !

Right glad was the Raven, and off he went fleet, And Death riding home on a cloud he did meet, And he thank'd him again and again for this treat:

They had taken his all, and Revenge it was sweet!



On the wide level of a mountain's head,
(I knew not where, but 'twas some faery place)
Their pinions, ostrich-like, for sails outspread,
Two lovely children run an endless race,

A sister and a brother !

That far outstripp'd the other;
Yet ever runs she with reverted face,
And looks and listens for the boy behind:

For he, alas! is blind !
O’er rough and smooth with even step he pass’d,
And knows not whether he be first or last.




WHERE graced with many a classic spoil
Cam rolls his reverend stream along,
I haste to urge the learned toil
That sternly chides my love-lorn song:
Ah me! too mindful of the days
Illumed by Passion's orient rays,
When Peace, and Cheerfulness, and Health
Enriched me with the best of wealth.

Ah fair Delights ! that o'er my soul
On Memory's wing, like shadows, fly!
Ah Flowers! which Joy from Eden stole
While Innocence stood smiling by!-
But cease, fond Heart! this bootless moan:
Those Hours on rapid Pinions flown
Shall yet return, by Absence crowned,
And scatter livelier roses round.
The Sun who ne'er remits his fires
On heedless eyes may pour the day :
The Moon, that oft from Heaven retires,
Endears her renovated ray.
What though she leave the sky unblest
To mourn awhile in murky vest ?
When she relumes her lovely Light,
We bless the Wanderer of the Night,


Ere Sin could blight or Sorrow fade,

Death came with friendly care ;
The opening bud to Heaven conveyed,

And bade it blossom there.


The Pixies, in the superstition of Devonshire, are a race of beings invisibly small, and harmless or friendly to man. At a small distance from a village in that county, half way up a wood-covered hill, is an excavation called the Pixies' Parlour. The roots of old trees form its ceiling; and on its sides are innumerable cyphers, among which the Author discovered his own and those of his brothers, cut by the hand of their childhood. At the foot of the hill flows the river Otter.

To this place the Author, during the summer months of the year 1793, conducted a party of young ladies; one of whom, of stature elegantly small, and of complexion colourless yet clear, was pro. claimed the Faery Queen. On which occasion the following Irregular Ode was written.


Whom the untaught Shepherds call

Pixies in their madrigal, Fancy's children, here we dwell :

Welcome, Ladies ! to our cell. Here the wren of softest note

Builds its nest and warbles well; Here the blackbird strains his throat;

Welcome, Ladies ! to our cell.


When fades the moon to shadowy-palo,
And scuds the cloud before the gale,
Ere the Morn, all gem-bedight,
Hath streak'd the East with rosy light,
We sip the furze-flower's fragrant dews
Clad in robes of rainbow hues :
Or sport amid the shooting gleams
To the tune of distant-tinkling teams,

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