TO A YOUNG LADY,

WITH A POEM ON THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.

MUCH on my early youth I love to dwell,
Ere yet I bade that friendly dome farewell,
Where first, beneath the echoing cloisters pale,
I heard of guilt and wondered at the tale!
Yet though the hours flew by on careless wing,
Full heavily of Sorrow would I sing.

Aye as the star of evening flung its beam
In broken radiance on the wavy stream,
My soul amid the pensive twilight gloom

Mourned with the breeze, O Lee Boo!* o'er thy tomb.
Where'er I wandered, Pity still was near,
Breathed from the heart and glistened in the tear:
No knell that tolled, but filled my anxious eye,
And suffering Nature wept that one should die! +

Thus to sad sympathies I soothed my breast,
Calm, as the rainbow in the weeping West:
When slumbering Freedom roused by high Disdain
With giant fury burst her triple chain!

Fierce on her front the blasting Dog-star glowed;
Her banners, like a midnight meteor, flowed;
Amid the yelling of the storm-rent skies
She came, and scattered battles from her eyes!

*Lee Boo, the son of Abba Thule, Prince of the Pelew Islands, came over to England with Captain Wilson, died of the small-pox, and is buried in Rotherhithe church-yard. See Keate's Account.

† Southey's Retrospect.

Then Exultation waked the patriot fire
And swept with wild hand the Tyrtæan lyre:
Red from the Tyrant's wound I shook the lance,
And strode in joy the reeking plains of France!

Fallen is the oppressor, friendless, ghastly, low,
And my heart aches, though Mercy struck the blow.
With wearied thought once more I seek the shade,
Where peaceful Virtue weaves the myrtle braid.
And O! if Eyes whose holy glances roll,
Swift messengers, and eloquent of soul;
If Smiles more winning, and a gentler Mien
Than the love-wildered Maniac's brain hath seen
Shaping celestial forms in vacant air,

If these demand the impassioned Poet's care-
If Mirth and softened Sense and Wit refined,
The blameless features of a lovely mind;
Then haply shall my trembling hand assign
No fading wreath to Beauty's saintly shrine.
Nor, Sara! thou these early flowers refuse—
Ne'er lurked the snake beneath their simple hues
No purple bloom the Child of Nature brings
From Flattery's night-shade: as he feels he sings.

September 1792.

IMITATED FROM OSSIAN.

THE stream with languid murmur creeps,

In Lumin's flowery vale: Beneath the dew the Lily weeps

Slow-waving to the gale.

"Cease, restless gale!" it seems to say,
"Nor wake me with thy sighing!
The honours of my vernal day
On rapid wing are flying.

"To-morrow shall the Traveller come
Who late beheld me blooming:
His searching eye shall vainly roam
The dreary vale of Lumin."

With eager gaze and wetted cheek
My wonted haunts along,

Thus, faithful Maiden! thou shalt seek
The Youth of simplest song.

But I along the breeze shall roll

The voice of feeble power;

And dwell, the Moon-beam of thy soul,

In Slumber's nightly hour.

1794.

THE COMPLAINT OF NINATHOMA.

How long will ye round me be swelling,
0
ye blue-tumbling waves of the sea?
Not always in caves was my dwelling,
Nor beneath the cold blast of the tree.

Through the high-sounding halls of Cathlóma
In the steps of my beauty I strayed;
The warriors beheld Ninathóma,

And they blessed the white-bosomed Maid!

A Ghost! by my cavern it darted!
In moon-beams the Spirit was drest-
For lovely appear the departed

When they visit the dreams of my rest!

But disturbed by the tempest's commotion
Fleet the shadowy forms of delight-
cease, thou shrill blast of the Ocean!
To howl through my cavern by night.

Ah

TO A YOUNG ASS.

ITS MOTHER BEING TETHERED NEAR IT.

POOR little Foal of an oppressed Race!
I love the languid Patience of thy face:
And oft with gentle hand I give thee bread,
And clap thy ragged Coat, and pat thy head.
But what thy dulled Spirits hath dismayed,
That never thou dost sport along the glade?
And (most unlike the nature of things young)
That earthward still thy moveless head is hung?
Do thy prophetic Fears anticipate,

Meek Child of Misery! thy future fate?

The starving meal, and all the thousand aches
"Which patient Merit of the Unworthy takes ?"
Or is thy sad heart thrilled with filial pain
To see thy wretched Mother's shortened Chain?
And, truly very piteous is her Lot-

Chained to a Log within a narrow spot,

Where the close-eaten Grass is scarcely seen,
While sweet around her waves the tempting Green.
Poor Ass! thy master should have learnt to show
Pity-best taught by fellowship of Woe!
For much I fear me that He lives like thee,
Half famished in a land of Luxury!

How askingly its footsteps hither bend,
It seems to say,
"And have I then one Friend ?"
Innocent Foal! thou poor despised Forlorn!
I hail thee Brother-spite of the fool's scorn!