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COMPOSED WHILE CLIMBING THE LEFT ASCENT OF BROCKLEY COOMB, SOMERSETSHIRE,
With many a pause and oft reverted eye
boughs ('Mid which the May-thorn blends its blossoms
white) Where broad smooth stones jut out in mossy seats, I rest :—and now have gained the topmost site. Ah! what a luxury of landscape meets My gaze! Proud towers, and cots more dear to me, Elm-shadow'd fields, and prospect-bounding sea! Deep sighs my lonely heart: I drop the tear : Enchanting spot! O were my Sara here!
IN THE MANNER OF SPENSER.
O PEACE, that on a lilied bank dost love
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
But Love, who heard the silence of my thought,
Sleep, softly-breathing God! his downy wing
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
themeLove 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!”
TO THE AUTHOR OF POEMS
PUBLISHED ANONYMOUSLY AT BRISTOL, IN
UNBOASTFUL Bard! whose verse concise yet clear Tunes to smooth melody unconquered sense,
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
gaze undazzled there, and love the softened sky.
Circling the base of the Poetic mount
The vapour-poisoned Birds, that fly too low,
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
* War, a Fragment. † John the Baptist, a Poem. | Monody on John Henderson.