He feels the vital flame decrease,

He sees the grave wide yawning for its prey, Without a friend to soothe his soul to peace And cheer the expiring ray.

III.2.

By Sulmo's bard of mournful fame,
By gentle Otway's magic name,

By him, the youth, who smiled at death,
And rashly dared to stop his vital breath,
Will I thy pangs proclaim;

For still to misery closely thou'rt allied,
Though gaudy pageants glitter by thy side,
And far resounding Fame.

What though to thee the dazzled millions bow, And to thy posthumous merit bend them low; Though unto thee the monarch looks with awe, And thou at thy flash'd car dost nations draw, Yet, ah! unseen behind thee fly

Corroding Anguish, soul-subduing Pain,
And discontent that clouds the fairest sky,
A melancholy train.

Yes, Genius, thee a thousand cares await,
Mocking thy derided state;

Thee chill Adversity will still attend,

Before whose face flies fast the summer's friend, And leaves thee all forlorn; [laughs While leaden Ignorance rears her head and And fat Stupidity shakes his jolly sides,

And while the cup of affluence he quaffs

With bee-eyed Wisdom, Genius derides,

Who toils and every hardship doth outbrave, To gain the meed of praise when he is mouldering in his grave.

FRAGMENT OF AN ODE TO THE MOON.

MILD orb, who floatest through the realm of night, A pathless wanderer o'er a lonely wild,

Welcome to me thy soft and pensive light, Which oft in childhood my lone thoughts bc

guiled.

Now doubly dear as o'er my silent seat,
Nocturnal study's still retreat,

It casts a mournful melancholy gleam,
And through my lofty casement weaves,
Dim through the vine's encircling leaves,
An intermingled beam.

These feverish dews that on my temples hang, This quivering lip, these eyes of dying flame; These the dread signs of many a secret pang, These are the meed of him who pants for fame; Pale Moon, from thoughts like these divert my soul;

Lowly I kneel before thy shrine on high; My lamp expires;-beneath thy mild control These restless dreams are ever wont to fly.

Come, kindred mourner, in my breast
Soothe these discordant tones to rest,
And breathe the soul of peace ;

Mild visitor, I feel thee here,
It is not pain that brings this tear,
For thou hast bid it cease.
Oh! many a year has pass'd away
Since I, beneath thy fairy ray,

Attuned my infant reed;

When wilt thou, Time, those days restore, Those happy moments now no more—

When on the lake's damp marge I lay,
And mark'd the northern meteor's dance,
Bland Hope and Fancy, ye were there
To inspirate my trance,

Twin sisters, faintly now ye deign
Your magic sweets on me to shed,
In vain your powers are now essay'd
To chase superior pain.

And art thou fled, thou welcome orb!
So swiftly pleasure flies,

So to mankind, in darkness lost,

The beam of ardour dies.

Wan moon, thy nightly task is done,
And now, encurtain'd in the main,
Thou sinkest into rest;

But I, in vain, on thorny bed

Shall woo the god of soft repose—

TO THE MUSE.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN.

ILL-FATED maid, in whose unhappy train Chill poverty and misery are seen,

Anguish and discontent, the unhappy bane Of life, and blackener of each brighter scene. Why to thy votaries dost thou give to feel So keenly all the scorns-the jeers of life? Why not endow them to endure the strife

With apathy's invulnerable steel, [to heal? Of self-content and ease, each torturing wound

Ah! who would taste your self-deluding joys, That lure the unwary to a wretched doom,

That bid fair views and flattering hopes arise, Then hurl them headlong to a lasting tomb? What is the charm which leads thy victims on To persevere in paths that lead to woe? What can induce them in that route to go, In which innumerous before have gone, And died in misery poor and woe-begone.

Yet can I ask what charms in thee are found; I, who have drunk from thine ethereal rill,

And tasted all the pleasures that abound Upon Parnassus' loved Aonian hill?

[thrill!

I, through whose soul the Muses' strains aye Oh! I do feel the spell with which I'm tied;

And though our annals fearful stories tell, How Savage languish'd, and how Otway died, Yet must I persevere, let whate'er will betide.

TO LOVE.

WHY should I blush to own I love?
'Tis love that rules the realms above.
Why should I blush to say to all,
That Virtue holds my heart in thrall?

Why should I seek the thickest shade,
Lest Love's dear secret be betrayed?
Why the stern brow deceitful move,
When I am languishing with love?

Is it weakness thus to dwell
On passion that I dare not tell?
Such weakness I would ever prove;
'Tis painful, though 'tis sweet to love.

ON WHIT-MONDAY.

HARK! how the merry bells ring jocund round, And now they die upon the veering breeze;

Anon they thunder loud

Full on the musing ear.

Wafted in varying cadence, by the shore
Of the still twinkling river, they bespeak
A day of jubilee,

An ancient holiday.