But, ah! the soothing scene is o'er!
On middle flight we cease to soar,

For now the muse assumes a bolder sweep,
Strikes on the lyric string her sorrows deep,
In strains unheard before.

Now, now the rising fire thrills high,

Now, now to heav'n's high realms we fly,
And every throne explore,

The soul entranced, on mighty wings,
With all the poet's heat, up springs,
And loses earthly woes;

Till all alarmed at the giddy height,

The muse descends on gentler flight,

And lulls the wearied soul to soft repose.

TO THE MUSE

Written at the age of fourteen.

I.

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,

Or self-content and ease, each torturing wound to heal?

II.

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 rout to go,

In which in-numerous before have gone,
And died in misery, poor and woe-begone.

III.

Yet can I ask what charms in thee are found?

I who have drank from thine etherial rill,

And tasted all the pleasures that abound Upon Parnassus', lov'd Aonian hill?

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

thrill!

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

SONG.

Written at the age of fourteen.

I.

SOFTLY, softly, blow ye breezes,
Gently o'er my Edwy fly!

Lo! he slumbers, slumbers sweetly,
Softly zephyrs pass him by!
My love is asleep,

He lies by the deep,

All along where the salt waves sigh,

II.

I have cover'd him with rushes,
Water-flags and branches dry;
Edwy long have been thy slumbers,
Edwy, Edwy, ope thine eye!
My love is asleep,

He lies by the deep,

All along where the salt waves sigh.

III.

Still he sleeps; he will not waken,
Fastly closed is his eye;

Paler is his cheek, and chiller

Than the icy moon on high.

Alas! he is dead,

He has chose his death-bed,

All along where the salt waves sigh.

IV.

Is it, is it so my Edwy?

Will thy slumbers never fly?

Could'st thou think I would survive thee?

No, my love, thou bid'st me die.

Thou bid'st me seek,

Thy death-bed bleak,

All along where the salt waves sigh.

V.

I will gently kiss thy cold lips,

On thy breast I'll lay my head,

And the winds, shall sing our death-dirge,
And our shroud the waters spread;
The moon will smile sweet,

And the wild wave will beat,

Oh! so softly o'er our lonely bed.

THE WANDERING BOY.

A SONG.

I.

WHEN the winter wind whistles along the wild moor,
And the cottager shuts on the beggar his door;
When the chilling tear stands in my comfortless eye,
Oh how hard is the lot of the wandering boy.

II.

The winter is cold, and I have no vest,

And my heart it is cold as it beats in my breast;
No father, no mother, no kindred have I,

For I am a parentless wandering boy.

III.

Yet I had a home, and I once had a sire,

A mother, who granted each infant desire;

Our cottage it stood in a wood-embower'd vale, Where the ring-dove would warble its sorrowful tale.

IV.

But my
father and mother were summon'd away,
And they left me to hard-hearted strangers a prey;
I fled from their rigour with many a sigh,

And now I'm a poor little wandering boy.