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The summer sun that dew shall dry,

The owl and the raven are mute for dread, Ere yet the day be past its morrow;

And the time is meet to awake the dead! Nor longer in my false love's eye, Remain'd the tear of parting sorrow.

“ Souls of the mighty, wake and say,

To what high strain your harps were strurg.

When Lochlin plough'd her billowy way, TO A LADY,

And on your shores her Norsemen flung?

Her Norsemen train'd to spoil and blood, Take these flowers, which, purple waving,

Skill'd to prepare the raven's food, On the ruin'd rampart grew,

All by your harpings door'd to die

On bloody Largs and Loncarty.
Where, the sons of freedom braving,
Rome's imperial standards flew.

“ Mute are ye all? No inurmurs strange Warriors from the breach of danger

Upon the midnight breeze sail by; Pluck no longer laurels there:

Nor through the pines with whistling change They but yield the passing stranger

Mimic the harp's wild harmony!
Wild-flower wreaths for beauty's hair.

Mute are ye now?-Ye ne'er were mute,
When Murder with his bloody foot,

And Rapine with his iron hand,

Were hovering near yon mountain strand.

“ O yet awake the strain to tell, THE AUTUMN OP 1804.

By every deed in song enroll'd,
The forest of Glenmore is drear,

By every chief who fought or fell
It is all of black pine, and the dark oak-tree; For Albion's weal in battle bold;-
And the midnight wind, to the mountain deer, From Coilgach, first who roll'd his car
Is whistling the forest lullaby:

Through the deep ranks of Roman war,
The moon looks through the drifting storm, To him, of veteran memory dear,
But the troubled lake reflects not her form,

Who victor died on Aboukir.
For the waves roll whitening to the land,
And dash against the shelvy strand.

“ By all their swords, by all their scars,

By all their names, a mighty spell! There is a voice among the trees

By all their wounds, by all their wars, That mingles with the groaning oak

Arise, the mighty strain to tell! That mingles with the stormy breeze,

For fiercer than fierce Hengist's strain, And the lake-waves dashing against the rock ;- More impious than the heathen Dane, There is a voice within the wood,

More grasping than all-grasping Rome,
The voice of the Bard in fitful mood;

Gaul's ravening legions hither come!"
His song was louder than the blast,
As the Bard of Glenmore through the forest past.

The wind is hush'd, and still the lake

Strange murmurs fill my tingling ears, “ Wake ye from your sleep of death,

Bristles my hair, my sinews quake, Minstrels and Bards of other days!

At the dread voice of other years, For the midnight wind is on the heath,

" When targets clash'd, and bugles rung, And the midnight meteors dimly blaze!

And blades round warriors' heads were flung, The spectre with his bloody hand

The foremost of the band were we, Is wandering through the wild woodland;

And hymn'd the joys of liberty!"

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A month or more hath she been dead,
Yet cannot I by force be led
To think upon the wormy bed,

And her together.
A springy motion in her gait,
A rising step, did indicate
Of pride and joy no common rate,

That Aush'd her spirit.
I know not by what name beside
I shall it call :-if'twas not pride,
It was a joy to that allied,

She did inherit.

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A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO. May the Babylonish curse Strait confound my stammering verse, If I can a passage see In this word-perplexity, Or a fit expression find, Or a language to my mind, (Still the phrase is wide or scant) To take leave of thee, great plant! Or in any terms relate Half my love, or half my hate: For I hate, yet love, thee so, That, whichever thing I shew, The plain truth will seem to be A constrain'd hyperbole, And the passion to proceed More for a mistress than a weed.

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Sooty retainer to the vine, Bacchus' black servant, negro fine; Sorcerer, that mak’st us dote upon Thy begrimed complexion, And, for thy pernicious sake, More and greater oaths to break Than reclaimed lovers take 'Gainst women: thou thy siege dost lay Much too in the female way, While thou suck'st the lab'ring breath Faster than kisses or than death.

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THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES. I have had playmates, I have had companions, In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days, All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. I have been laughing, I have been carousing, Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies, All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. I loved a love once, fairest among women! Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man; Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly; Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.

Thou in such a cloud dost bind us,
That our worst foes cannot find us,
And ill fortune, that would thwart us,
Shoots at rovers, shooting at us;
While each man, thro' thy height’ning steam,
Does like a smoking Etna seem,
And all about us does express
(Fancy and wit in richest dress)
A Sicilian fruitfulness.

Thou through such a mist dost shew us, That our best friends do not know us, And, for those allowed features,

Call her Cockatrice and Siren,
Basilisk, and all that's evil,
Witch, Hyena, Mermaid, Devil,
Ethiop, Wench, and Blackamoor,
Monkey, Ape, and twenty more;
Friendly Trait'ress, loving Foe,-
Not that she is truly so,
But no other way they know
A contentment to express,
Borders so upon excess,
That they do not rightly wot
Whether it be pain or not.

Or, as men, constrain d to part
With what's nearest to their heart,
While their sorrow's at the height,
Lose discrimination quite,
And their hasty wrath let fall,
To appease their frantic gall,
On the darling thing whatever,
Whence they feel it death to sever,
Though it be, as they, perforce,
Guiltless of the sad divorce.

Due to reasonable creatures,
Liken'st us to fell chimeras,
Monsters that, who see us, fear us;
Worse than Cerberus or Geryon,
Or, who first lov'd a cloud, Ixion.

Bacchus we know, and we allow
His tipsy rites. But what art thou,
That but by reflex can'st shew
What his deity can do,
As the false Egyptian spell
Aped the true Hebrew miracle?
Some few vapours thou may'st raise,
The weak brain may serve to amaze,
But to the reins and nobler heart
Can'st nor life nor heat impart.

Brother of Bacchus, later born,
The old world was sure forlorn,
Wanting thee, that aidest more
The god's victories than before
All his panthers, and the brawls
Of his piping Bacchanals.
These, as stale, we disallow,
Or judge of thee meant: only thou
His true Indian conquest art;
And, for ivy round his dart,
The reformed god now weaves
A finer thyrsus of thy leaves.

Scent to match thy rich perfume
Chemic art did ne'er presume
Through her quaint alembic strain,
None so sov’reign to the brain.
Nature, that did in thee excel,
Fram'd again no second smell.
Roses, violets, but toys
For the smaller sort of boys,
Or for greener damsels meant;
Thou art the only manly scent.

Stinking'st of the stinking kind,
Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind,
Africa, that brags her foyson,
Breeds no such prodigious poison,
Henbane, nightshade, both together,
Hemlock, aconite-

Nay, rather,
Plant divine, of rarest virtue;
Blisters on the tongue would hurt you.
'Twas but in a sort I blam'd thee;
None e'er prosper'd who defam’d thee;
Irony all, and feign'd abuse,
Such as perplext lovers use,
At a need, when, in despair
To paint forth their fairest fair,
Or in part but to express
That exceeding comeliness
Which their fancies doth so strike,
They borrow language of dislike;
And, instead of Dearest Miss,
Jewel, Honey, Sweetheart, Bliss,
And those forms of old admiring,

For I must (nor let it griere thee

, Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee. For thy sake, Tobacco, I Would do any thing but die, And but seek to extend my days Long enough to sing thy praise. But, as she, who once hath been A king's consort, is a queen Ever after, nor will bate Any tittle of her state, Though a widow, or divorced, So I, from thy converse forced, The old name and style retain, A right Katherine of Spain; And a seat, too, 'mongst the joys Of the blest Tobacco Boys; Where though I, by sour physician, Am debarr'd the full fruition Of thy favours, I may catch Some collateral sweets, and snatch Sidelong odours, that give life Like glances from a neighbour's wife; And still live in the by-places And the suburbs of thy graces; And in thy borders take delight, An unconquer'd Canaanite.

TO T. L. H. Model of thy parent dear, Serious infant worth a fear: In thy unfaultering visage well Picturing forth the son of Tell, When on his forehead, firm and good, Motionless mark, the apple stood; Guileless traitor, rebel mild, Convict unconscious, culprit-child! Gates that close with iron roar Have been to thee thy nursery door;

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Chains that chink in cheerless cells

This saintly lady Abbess hath made me justly fear, Have been thy rattles and thy bells;

It nothing will avail me that I were worshipp'd Walls contrived for giant sin

here." Have hemmed thy faultless weakness in; Near thy sinless bed black guilt

LINES Her discordant house hath built,

ON THE SAME PICTURE BEING REMOVED TO MAKE And filled it with her monstrous brood

PLACE FOR A PORTRAIT OF A LADY BY TITIAN, Sights, by thee not understood

Who art thou, fair one, who usurp'st the place Sights of fear, and of distress,

Of Blanch, the lady of the matchless grace?
That pass a harmless infant's guess!

Come fair and pretty, tell to me,
But the clouds, that overcast

Who, in thy life-time, thou might'st be.

Thou pretty art and fair,
Thy young morning, may not last.
Soon shall arrive the rescuing hour,

But with the lady Blanch thou never must compare.

No need for Blanch her history to tell; That yields thee up to Nature's power.

Whoever saw her face, they there did read it well. Nature, that so late doth greet thee,

But when I look on thee, I only know
Shall in o'er-flowing measure meet thee.

There lived a pretty maid some hundred years ago.
She shall recompense with cost
For every lesson thou hast lost.
Then wandering up thy sire's lov'd hill,

Thou shalt take thy airy fill

ON THE CELEBRATED PICTURE BY LIONARDO DA Of health and pastime. Birds shall sing

VINCI, CALLED THE VIRGIN OF TAE ROCKS. For thy delight each May morning. 'Mid new-yean'd lambkins thou shalt play,

While young John runs to greet Hardly less a lamb than they.

The greater infant's feet, Then thy prison's lengthened bound

The mother standing by, with trembling passion

Of devout admiration, Shall be the horizon skirting round.

[ration; And, while thou fillest thy lap with flowers,

Beholds the engaging mystic play, and pretty adoTo make amends for wintery hours,

Nor knows as yet the full event The breeze, the sunshine, and the place,

Of those so low beginnings, Shall from thy tender brow efface

From whence we date our winnings, Each vestige of untimely care,

But wonders at the intent (worship meant. That sour restraint had graven there;

Of those new rites, and what that strange childAnd on thy every look impress

But at her side A more excelling childishness.

An angel doth abide,

With such a perfect joy
So shall be thy days beguil'd,

As no dim doubts alloy,
Thornton Hunt, my favourite child.

An intuition,
A glory, an amenity,
Passing the dark condition

Of blind humanity,

As if he surely knew
All the blest wonders should ensue,

Or he had lately left the upper sphere, [dles there.
The lady Blanch, regardless of all her lovers' fears,

And had read all the sovran schemes and divine ridTo the Urs’line convent hastens, and long the abbess hears.

[ye lead.”

SONNETS. “O Blanch, my child, repent ye of the courtly life Blanch looked on a rose-bud and little seem'd to


[thought She looked on the rose-bud, she looked round, and You are not, Kelly, of the common strain, On all her heart had whisper'd, and all the Nun That stoop their pride and female honor down had taught.

[my fame, To please that many-headed beast the town, “ I am worshipped by lovers, and brightly shines And vend their lavish smiles and tricks for gain; All Christendom resoundeth the noble Blanch's By fortune thrown amid the actors' train,

(the tree, You keep your native dignity of thought; Nor shall I quickly wither like the rose-bud from The plaudits that attend you come unsought, My queen-like graces shining when my beauty's As tributes due unto your natural vein. gone from me.

[head, Your tears have passion in them, and a grace But when the sculptur'd marble is raised o’er my Of genuine freshness, which our hearts avow; And the matchless Blanch lies lifeless among the Your smiles are winds whose ways we cannot trace,

That yanish and return we know not how

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noble dead,

And please the better from a pensive face,

A timid grace sits trembling in her eye, A thoughtful eye, and a reflecting brow.

As loth to meet the rudeness of men's sigbt,

Yet shedding a delicious lunar light, ON THE SIGHT OP SWANS IN KENSINGTON GARDEN. That steeps in kind oblivious ecstasy Queen-bird that sittest on thy shining nest,

The care-crazed mind, like some still melody: And thy young cygnets without sorrow hatchest, Speaking most plain the thoughts which de passes And thou, thou other royal bird, that watchest Her gentle sprite: peace, and meek quietness, Lest the white mother wandering feet molest:

And innocent loves, and maiden purity: Shrined are your offspring in a chrystal cradle,

A look whereof might heal the cruel smart Brighter than Helen's ere she yet had burst

Of changed friends, or fortune's wrongs unkind; 1 Her shelly prison. They shall be born at first

Might to sweet deeds of mercy move the heart Strong, active, graceful, perfect, swan-like, able

Of him who hates his brethren of mankind. To tread the land or waters with security.

Turned are those lights from me, who foodly yet Unlike poor human births, conceived in sin,

Past joys, vain loves, and buried hopes regret. In grief brought forth, both outwardly and in Confessing weakness, error, and impurity.

If from my lips some angry accents fell, Did heavenly creatures own succession's line,

Peevish complaint, or harsh reproof onkind, The births of heaven like to your's would shine.

'Twas but the error of a sickly mind

And troubled thoughts, clouding the purer well, Was it some sweet device of faery

And waters clear, of reason; and for me That mocked my steps with many a lonely glade, Let this my verse the poor atonement ben And fancied wanderings with a fair-hair'd maid? My verse, which thou to praise wert erer incided Have these things been? or what rare witchery, Too highly, and with a partial eye to see Impregning with delights the charmed air,

No blemish. Thou to me didst ever shew
Enlighted up the semblance of a smile

Kindest affection; and would oft-times lend
In those fine eyes? methought they spake the while An ear to the desponding love-sick lay,
Soft soothing things, which might enforce despair Weeping my sorrows with me, who repay
To drop the murdering knife, and let go by But ill the mighty debt of love I owe,
His foul resolve. And does the lonely glade

Mary, to thee, my sister and my friend.
Still court the footsteps of the fair-hair'd maid?
Still in her locks the gales of summer sigh?

While I forlorn do wander reckless where,
And mid my wanderings meet no Anna there.

What reason first imposed thee, gentle name,

Name that my father bore, and his sire's sire, Methinks how dainty sweet it were, reclin'd Without reproach? we trace our stream no hiçber; Beneath the vast out-stretching branches high

And I, a childless man, may end the same. Of some old wood, in careless sort to lie,

Perchance some shepherd on Lincolnian plains, Nor of the busier scenes we left behind

In manners guileless as his own sweet flocks, Aught envying. And, O Anna! mild-eyed maid!

Received thee first amid the merry mocks Beloved! I were well content to play

And arch allusions of his fellow swains.
With thy free tresses all a summer's day,

Perchance from Salem's holier fields returned,
Losing the time beneath the greenwood shade. With glory gotten on the heads abhort'd
Or we might sit and tell some tender tale

Of faithless Saracens, some martial lord
Of faithful vows repaid by cruel scorn,

Took his meek title, in whose zeal he burn'd. A tale of true love, or of friend forgot ;

Whate'er the fount whence thy beginnings cane, And I would teach thee, lady, how to rail

No deed of mine shall shame thee, gentle name. In gentle sort, on those who practise not Or love or pity, though of woman born.

TO JOHN LAMB, ESQ. OF THE SOUTH-SEA-Horst When last I roved these winding wood-walks green,

John, you were figuring in the gay career Green winding walks, and shady pathways sweet,

Of blooming manhood with a young man's jos, Oft times would Anna seek the silent scene,

When I was yet a little peerish boyShrouding her beauties in the lone retreat.

Though time has made the difference disappiu No more I hear her footsteps in the shade:

Betwixt our ages, which then seemed so grestHer image only in these pleasant ways

And still by rightful custom you retain
Meets me self-wandering, where in happier days Much of the old authoritative strain,
I held free converse with the fair-hair'd maid, And keep the elder brother up in state.
passed the little cottage which she loved,

O! you do well in this. 'T'is man's worst deed
The cottage which did once my all contain; To let the "things that have been" run to waste,
It spake of days which ne'er must come again, And in the unmeaning present sink the past:
Spake to my heart, and much my heart was moved. In whose dim glass even now I faintly read
“Now fair befall thee, gentle maid !” said I,

Old buried forms, and faces long ago,
And from the cottage turned me with a sigh. Which you, and I, and one more, only know.

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