When to the upland heights we bent our way,
To view the last beam of departing day;

How calm was all around; no playful breeze
Sigh'd 'mid the wavy foliage of the trees,
But all was still, save when, with drowsy song,
The grey-fly wound his sullen horn along ;
And save when, heard in soft, yet merry glee,

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The distant church bells' mellow harmony;

The silver mirror of the lucid brook,

That 'mid the tufted broom its still course took;

The rugged arch, that clasp'd its silent tides,

With moss and rank weeds hanging down its sides, 190 The craggy rock that jutted on the sight,

The shrieking bat, that took its heavy flight,

space;

To the charm'd soul sublimest thoughts convey'd.
In these what forms romantic did we trace,
While fancy led us o'er the realms of
Now we espied the thunderer in his car,
Leading the embattled seraphim to war,
Then stately towers descried, sublimely high,
In Gothic grandeur frowning on the sky-
Or saw, wide stretching o'er the azure height,
A ridge of glaciers in mural white,

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Hugely terrific.-But those times are o'er,

And the fond scene can charm mine eyes no more;

For thou art gone, and I am left below,

Alone to struggle thro' this world of woe.

The scene is o'er-still seasons onward roll,

210

And each revolve conducts me toward the goal;
Yet all is blank, without one soft relief,
One endless continuity of grief;

215

And the tir'd soul now led to thoughts sublime,
Looks but for rest beyond the bounds of time.

Toil on, toil on, ye busy crouds, that pant

For boards of wealth which ye will never want;

And lost to all but gain, with ease resign

220

The calms of peace and happiness divine!

Far other cares be mine-men little crave,

In this short journey to the silent grave;

And the poor peasant, bless'd with peace and health,

I

envy more than Croesus with his wealth.

225

Yet grieve not I, that fate did not decree

Paternal acres to await on me ;

She gave me more, she placed within my breast

A heart with little pleas'd—with little blest:

230

I look'd around me, where, on every side,
Extensive manors spread in wealthy pride;
And could my sight be borne to either zone,
I should not find one foot of land my own.

But whither do I wander? shall the muse,
For golden baits, her simple theme refuse:

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Oh no! but while the weary spirit greets

The fading scenes of Childhood's far-gone sweets,
It catches all the infant's wandering tongue,
And prattles on in desultory song.

That song must close-the gloomy mists of night
Obscure the pale stars' visionary light,

And ebon darkness, clad in vapoury wet,

Steals on the welkin in primæval jet.

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The song must close.—Once more my adverse lot
Leads me reluctant from this cherish'd spot;

245

Again compels to plunge in busy life,
And brave the hateful turbulence of strife.

Scenes of my youth-ere my unwilling feet
Are turn'd for ever from this lov'd retreat,
Ere on these fields, with plenty cover'd o'er,
My eyes are clos'd to ope on them no more,
Let me ejaculate to feeling due,
One long, one last, affectionate adieu.
Grant that, if ever Providence should please,
To give me an old age of peace and ease,
Grant that in these sequester'd shades my days

May wear away in gradual decays:

And oh, ye spirits, who unbodied play,

Unseen upon the pinions of the day,

Kind genii of my native fields benign,
Who were *

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FRAGMENT

OF AN

ECCENTRIC DRAMA.

Written at a very early Age.

In a little volume which Henry had copied out, apparently for the press, before the publication of Clifton Grove, the song with which this fragment commences was inserted, under the title of "The Dance of the Consumptives," in imitation of Shakespeare, taken from an Eccentric Drama, written by H. K. W. when very young." The rest was discovered among his loose papers, in the first rude draught, having, to all appearance, never been transcribed. The song was extracted when he was sixteen, and must have been written at least a year before, probably more, by the hand-writing. There is something strikingly wild and original in the fragment.

THE DANCE OF THE CONSUMPTIVES.

1.

DING-DONG! ding-dong!

Merry, merry, go the bells,

Ding-dong! ding-dong!

Over the heath, over the moor, and over the dale, "Swinging slow with sullen roar,"

Dance, dance away, the jocund roundelay!

Ding-dong, ding-dong, calls us away.

2.

Round the oak, and round the elm,
Merrily foot it o'er the ground!
The sentry ghost it stands aloof,
So merrily, merrily, foot it round.
Ding-dong! ding-dong!

Merry, merry, go the bells,
Swelling in the nightly gale.

The sentry ghost,

It keeps its post,

And soon, and soon, our sports must fail! But let us trip the nightly ground,

While the merry, merry, bells ring round.

3.

Hark! hark! the death-watch ticks!

See, see, the winding-sheet!

Our dance is done,

Our race is run,

And we must lie at the alder's feet!

Ding-dong, ding-dong,

Merry, merry, go the bells,

Swinging o'er the weltering wave!

And we must seek,

Our death-beds bleak,

Where the green sod grows upon the grave.