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Alas! to mend the breaches wide

He made for these poor ninnies, They all must work, whate'er betide, Both days and months, and pay beside (Sad news for Avarice and for Pride) A sight of golden guincas.

But here once more to view did pop
The man that kept his senses.

And now he cried- Stop, neighbours! stop!
The Ox is mad! I would not swop,
No, not a school-boy's farthing top,
For all the parish fences.

«The Ox is mad! Ho! Dick, Bob, Mat! What means this coward fuss? Ho! stretch this rope across the plat'T will trip him up-or if not that, Why damme! we must lay him flatSee, here's my blunderbuss!»

A lying dog! just now he said,
The Ox was only glad.
Let's break his presbyterian head!-

Hush! quoth the sage, « you 've been misled,
No quarrels now-let 's all make head-
You drove the poor Ox mad!»

As thus I sat in careless chat,

With the morning's wet newspaper, In eager haste, without his hat, As blind and blundering as a bat, In came that fierce aristocrat, Our pursy woollen-draper.

And so my Muse perforce drew bit,

And in he rush'd and panted:

Well, have you heard? No! not a whit.

<< What! han't you heard? Come, out with it!»> That Tierney votes for Mister Pitt,

And Sheridan 's recanted..

II. LOVE POEMS.

Quas humilis tenero stylus olim effudit in ævo.
Perlegis bic lacrymas, et quod pharetratus acutà
Ille puer puero fecit mihi cuspide vulnus,
Omnia paulatim consumit longior ætas,
Vivendoque simul morimur, rapimurque manendo.
Ipse mihi collatus enim non ille videbor:
Frons alia est, moresque alii, nova mentis imago,
Voxque aliud sonat-

Pectore nunc gelido calidos miseremur amantes,
Jamque arsisse pudet. Veteres tranquilla tumultus
Mens horret relogensque alium putat ista locutum.

PETRARCH.

INTRODUCTION TO THE TALE OF THE DARK LADIE.

The following Poem is intended as the introduction to a somewhat longer one. The use of the old Ballad word Ladie for Lady, is the only piece of obsoleteness in it; and as it is professedly a tale of ancient times, I trust that the affectionate lovers of venerable antiquity (as Camden says) will grant me their pardon, and perhaps may be induced to admit a force and propriety in it. A heavier objection may be adduced against the author, that in these times of fear and expectation, when novelties explode around

us in all directions, he should presume to offer to the public a silly tale of old-fashioned love: and five years ago, I own I should have allowed and felt the force of this objection. But, alas! explosion has succeeded explosion so rapidly, that novelty itself ceases to appear new; and it is possible that now even a simple story, wholly uninspired with politics or personality, may find some attention amid the hubbub of revolutions, as to those who have remained a long time by the falls of Niagara, the lowest whispering becomes distinctly audible.

Dec. 21, 1799.

O LEAVE the lily on its stem;

O leave the rose upon the spray;

O leave the elder-bloom, fair maids! And listen to my lay.

A cypress and a myrtle-bough

S. T. C.

This morn around my harp you twined, Because it fashion'd mournfully

Its murmurs in the wind.

And now a Tale of Love and Woe, A woeful Tale of Love I sing; Hark, gentle maidens, hark! it sighs And trembles on the string.

But most, my own dear Genevieve,

It sighs and trembles most for thee! O come, and hear what cruel wrongs Befel the Dark Ladie.

Few sorrows hath she of her own,
My hope, my joy, my Genevieve!
She loves me best, whene'er I sing
The songs that make her grieve.

All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stir this mortal frame,

All are but ministers of Love,
And feed his sacred flame.

Oh! ever in my waking dreams,
I dwell upon that happy hour,
When midway on the mount I sate,
Beside the ruin'd tower.

The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene,
Had blended with the lights of eve;
And she was there, my hope, my joy,
My own dear Genevieve!

She lean'd against the armed man,

The statue of the armed knight; She stood and listen'd to my harp, Amid the ling'ring light.

I play'd a sad and doleful air,

I sang an old and moving story-
An old rude song, that fitted well
That ruin wild and hoary.

She listen'd with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest
grace;
For well she knew, I could not chuse
But gaze upon her face.

I told her of the Knight that wore

Upon his shield a burning brand; And how for ten long years he woo'd The Ladie of the Land:

I told her how he pined: and ah!

The deep, the low, the pleading tone With which I sung another's love, Interpreted my own.

She listen'd with a flitting blush;

With downcast eyes, and modest grace;
And she forgave me, that I gazed,
Too fondly on her face!

But when I told the cruel scorn

That crazed this bold and lovely Knight, And how he roam'd the mountain-woods, Nor rested day or night.

And how he cross'd the woodman's paths, Through briars and swampy mosses beat; How boughs rebounding scourged his limbs, And low stubs gored his feet;

That sometimes from the savage den,

And sometimes from the darksome shade,
And sometimes starting up at once
In green and sunny glade;

There came and look'd him in the face
An Angel beautiful and bright;
And how he knew it was a Fiend,
This miserable Knight!

And how, unknowing what he did,
He leapt amid a lawless band,
And saved from outrage worse than death
The Ladie of the Land!

And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees; And how she tended him in vain

And meekly strove to expiate

The scorn that crazed his brain :

And how she nursed him in a cave;
And how his madness went away,
When on the yellow forest-leaves
A dying man he lay;

His dying words-but when I reach'd
That tend'rest strain of all the ditty,
My falt'ring voice and pausing harp
Disturb'd her soul with pity!

All impulses of soul and sense

Had thrill'd my guiltless Genevieve;
The music and the doleful tale,
The rich and balmy eve;

And hopes and fears that kindle hope,
An undistinguishable throng,
And gentle wishes long subdued,
Subdued and cherish'd long!

She wept with pity and delight,

She blush'd with love and maiden-shame
And, like the murmurs of a dream,
I heard her breathe my name.

I saw her bosom heave and swell,
Heave and swell with inward sighs-

I could not chuse but love to see
Her gentle bosom rise.

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The little cloud-it floats away,
Away it goes; away so soon?
Alas! it has no power to stay:
Its hues are dim, its hues are grey-
Away it passes from the moon!
How mournfully it seems to fly,
Ever fading more and more,
To joyless regions of the sky--

And now 't is whiter than before!
As white as my poor cheek will be,
When, Lewti! on my couch I lie,

A dying man for love of thee.
Nay, treacherous image! leave my mind-
And yet thou didst not look unkind.

I saw a vapour in the sky,
Thin, and white, and very high;

I ne'er beheld so thin a cloud :
Perhaps the breezes that can fly
Now below and now above,
Have snatch'd aloft the lawny shroud
Of Lady fair-that died for love.
For maids, as well as youths, have perish'd
From fruitless love too fondly cherish'd.
Nay, treacherous image! leave my mind-
For Lewti never will be kind.

Hush! my heedless feet from under

Slip the crumbling banks for ever: Like echoes to a distant thunder,

They plunge into the gentle river. The river-swans have heard my tread, And startle from their reedy bed. O beauteous Birds! methinks ye measure Your movements to some heavenly tune! O beauteous Birds! 't is such a pleasure To see you move beneath the moon, I would it were your true delight To sleep by day and wake all night.

I know the place where Lewti lies,
When silent night has closed her eyes:
It is a breezy jasmine-bower,
The nightingale sings o'er her head:

Voice of the Night! had I the power
That leafy labyrinth to thread,

And creep, like thee, with soundless tread,
I then might view her bosom white

Heaving lovely to my sight,
As these two swans together heave
On the gently swelling wave.

Oh! that she saw me in a dream,

And dreamt that I had died for care;

All pale and wasted I would seem,

Yet fair withal, as spirits are!

I'd die indeed, if I might see
Her bosom heave, and heave for me!
Soothe, gentle image! soothe mind!
my
To-morrow Lewti may be kind.

1795.

THE PICTURE, OR THE LOVER'S RESOLUTION.
THROUGH weeds and thorns, and matted underwood
I force my way; now climb, and now descend

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But hence, fond wretch! breathe not contagion here!
No myrtle-walks are these: these are no groves
Where Love dare loiter! If in sullen mood
He should stray hither, the low stumps shall gore
His dainty feet, the briar and the thorn
Make his plumes haggard. Like a wounded bird
Easily caught, ensnare him, O ye Nymphs,
Ye Oreads chaste, ye dusky Dryades!

And you, ye Earth-winds! you that make at morn
The dew-drops quiver on the spiders' webs!
You, O ye wingless Airs! that creep between
The rigid stems of heath and bitten furze,
Within whose scanty shade, at summer-noon,
The mother-sheep hath worn a hollow bed-
Ye, that now cool her fleece with dropless damp,
Now pant and murmur with her feeding lamb.
Chase, chase him, all ye Fays, and elfin Gnomes!
With prickles sharper than his darts bemock
His little Godship, making him perforce

Creep through a thorn-bush on yon hedgehog's back.

This is my hour of triumph! I can now
With my own fancies play the merry fool,
And laugh away worse folly, being free.

Here will I seat myself, beside this old,
Hollow, and weedy oak, which ivy-twine

Clothes as with net-work here will I couch my limbs,
Close by this river, in this silent shade,

As safe and sacred from the step of man

As an invisible world-unheard, unseen,

And list'ning only to the pebbly brook

That murmurs with a dead, yet tinkling sound;
Or to the bees, that in the neighbouring trunk
Make honey-hoards. The breeze, that visits me,
Was never Love's accomplice, never raised
The tendril ringlets from the maiden's brow,
And the blue, delicate veins above her cheek;
Ne'er play'd the wanton-never half disclosed
The maiden's snowy bosom, scattering thence
Eye-poisons for some love-distemper'd youth,
Who ne'er henceforth may see an aspen-grove

Shiver in sunshine, but his feeble heart Shall flow away like a dissolving thing.

Sweet breeze! thou only, if I guess aright,
Liftest the feathers of the robin's breast,
That swells its little breast, so full of song,
Singing above me, on the mountain-ash.
And thou too, desert Stream! no pool of thine,
Though clear as lake in latest summer-eve,
Did e'er reflect the stately virgin's robe,

The face, the form divine, the downcast look
Contemplative! Behold! her open palm
Presses her cheek and brow! her elbow rests
On the bare branch of half-uprooted tree,
That leans towards its mirror! Who erewhile
Had from her countenance turn'd, or look'd by stealth
(For fear is true love's cruel nurse), he now
With steadfast gaze and unoffending eye,
Worships the watery idol, dreaming hopes
Delicious to the soul, but fleeting, vain,
E'en as that phantom-world on which he gazed,
But not unheeded gazed: for see, ah! see,
The sportive tyrant with her left hand plucks
The heads of tall flowers that behind her grow,
Lychnis, and willow-herb, and fox-glove bells:
And suddenly, as one that toys with time,
Scatters them on the pool! Then all the charm
Is broken-all that phantom-world so fair
Vanishes, and a thousand circlets spread,
And each mis-shapes the other. Stay awhile,
Poor youth, who scarcely darest lift up
thine eyes!
The stream will soon renew its smoothness, soon
The visions will return! And lo! he stays:
And soon the fragments dim of lovely forms
Come trembling back, unite, and now once more
The pool becomes a mirror; and behold
Each wild-flower on the marge inverted there,
And there the half-uprooted tree-but where,
O where the virgin's snowy arm, that lean'd
On its bare branch? He turns, and she is gone!
Homeward she steals through many a woodland maze
Which he shall seek in vain. Ill-fated youth!
Go, day by day, and waste thy manly prime
In mad love-yearning by the vacant brook,
Till sickly thoughts bewitch thine
eyes, and thou
Behold'st her shadow still abiding there,
The Naiad of the Mirror!

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Placeless, as spirits, one soft water-sun
Throbbing within them, Heart at once and Eye!
With its soft neighbourhood of filmy clouds,
The stains and shadings of forgotten tears,
Dimness o'erswum with lustre! Such the hour
Of deep enjoyment, following love's brief feuds;
And hark, the noise of a near waterfall!
I pass forth into light-I find myself
Beneath a weeping birch (most beautiful
Of forest-trees, the Lady of the woods),
Hard by the brink of a tall weedy rock
That overbrows the cataract. How bursts
The landscape on my sight! Two crescent hills
Fold in behind each other, and so make
A circular vale, and land-lock'd, as might seem,
With brook and bridge, and grey stone cottages,
Half hid by rocks and fruit-trees. At my feet,
The whortle-berries are bedew'd with spray,
Dash'd upwards by the furious waterfall.
How solemnly the pendent ivy mass
Swings in its winnow: All the air is calm.
The smoke from cottage-chimneys, tinged with light,
Rises in columns; from this house alone,
Close by the waterfall, the column slants,
And feels its ceaseless breeze. But what is this?
That cottage, with its slanting chimney-smoke,
And close beside its porch a sleeping child,
His dear head pillow'd on a sleeping dog-
One arm between its fore-legs, and the hand
Holds loosely its small handful of wild-flowers,
Unfilleted, and of unequal lengths.

A curious picture, with a master's haste
Sketch'd on a strip of pinky-silver skin,
Peel'd from the birchen bark! Divinest maid!
Yon bark her canvas, and those purple berries
Her pencil! See, the juice is scarcely dried
On the fine skin! She has been newly here;
And lo! yon patch of heath has been her couch-
The pressure still remains! O blessed couch!
For this mayst thou flower early, and the Sun,
Slanting at eve, rest bright, and linger long
Upon thy purple bells! O Isabel!

Daughter of genius! stateliest of our maids!
More beautiful than whom Alcæus wooed,
The Lesbian woman of immortal song!
O child of genius! stately, beautiful,
And full of love to all, save only me,
And not ungentle e'en to me! My heart,
Why beats it thus? Through yonder coppice-wood
Needs must the pathway turn, that leads straightway
On to her father's house. She is alone!

The night draws on-such ways are hard to hit-
And fit it is I should restore this sketch,
Dropt unawares, no doubt. Why should I yearn
To keep the relique? 't will but idly feed
The passion that consumes me. Let me haste!
The picture in my hand which she has left,
She cannot blame me that I follow'd her;
And I may be her guide the long wood through.

THE NIGHT-SCENE.

A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT.

SANDOVAL.

You loved the daughter of Don Manrique?

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