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0! I could laugh to hear the midnight wind, She served her heavenly master. I have seen
That, rushing on its way with careless sweep, That reverend form bent down with age and pain,
Scatters the ocean waves. And I could weep And rankling malady. Yet not for this
Like to a child. For now to my raised mind Ceased she to praise her Maker, or withdrew
On wings of winds comes wild-eyed Phantasy, Her trust in him, her faith, and humble hope
And her rude visions give severe delight.

So meekly had she learn'd to bear her crossO winged bark! how swift along the night

For she had studied patience in the school Pass'd thy proud keel! nor shall I let go by

Of Christ, much comfort she had thence derived, Lightly of that drear hour the memory,

And was a follower of the Nazarene.
When wet and chilly on thy deck I stood,
Unbonnetted, and gazed upon the flood,
Even till it seemed a pleasant thing to die,-

COMPOSED AT MIDNIGHT.
To be resolv'd into th' elemental wave,

From broken visions of perturbed rest
Or take my portion with the winds that rave. I wake, and start, and fear to sleep again.

How total a privation of all sounds,
We were two pretty babes, the youngest she, Sights, and familiar objects, man, bird, beast,
The youngest, and the loveliest far, I ween, Herb, tree, or flower, and prodigal light of heaven.
And innocence her name. The time has been, "Twere some relief to catch the drowsy cry
We two did love each other's company;

Of the mechanic watchman, or the noise Time was, we two had wept to have been apart. Of revel reeling home from midnight cups. But when by show of seeming good beguild, Those are the moanings of the dying man, I left the garb and manners of a child,

Who lies in the upper chamber; restless moans, And my first love for man's society,

And interrupted only by a cough Defiling with the world my virgin heart

Consumptive, torturing the wasted lungs. My loved companion dropped a tear, and fled, So in the bitterness of death he lies, And hid in deepest shades her awful head. And waits in anguish for the morning's light. Beloved, who shall tell me where thou art- What can that do for him, or what restore? In what delicious Eden to be found

Short taste, faint sense, affecting notices,
That I may seek thee the wide world around?

And little images of pleasures past,
Of health, and active life-health not yet slain,

Nor the other grace of life, a good name, sold
THE GRANDAME.

For sin's black wages. On his tedious bed
hill
top,

He writhes, and turns him from the accusing light, Hard by the house of prayer, a modest roof,

And finds no comfort in the sun, but says And not distinguish'd from its neighbour-barn,

“ When night comes I shall get a little rest." (end. Save by a slender-tapering length of spire,

Some few groans more, death comes, and there an The Grandame sleeps. A plain stone barely tells

'Tis darkness and conjecture all beyond; The name and date to the chance passenger.

Weak nature fears, though charity must hope, For lowly born was she, and long bad eat

And fancy, most licentious on such themes Well-earned the bread of service :-her's was else

Where decent reverence well had kept her mute, A mounting spirit, one that entertained

Hath o'er-stock'd hell with devils, and brought Scorn of base action, deed dishonorable,

By her enormous fablings and mad lies, [down, Or aught unseemly. I remember well

Discredit on the gospel's serious truths Her reverend image: I remember, too,

And salutary fears. The man of parts, With what a zeal she served her master's house; Poet, or prose declaimer, on his couch And how the prattling tongue of garrulous age

Lolling, like one indifferent, fabricates Delighted to recount the oft-told tale

A heaven of gold, where he, and such as he, Or anecdote domestic. Wise she was,

Their heads encompassed with crowns, their heels And wondrous skilled in genealogies,

With fine wings garlanded, shall tread the stars And could in apt and voluble terms discourse

Beneath their feet, heaven's pavement, far removed Of births, of titles, and alliances;

From damned spirits, and the torturing cries Of marriages, and intermarriages;

Of men, his breth'ren, fashioned of the earth, Relationship remote, or near of kin;

As he was, nourish'd with the self-same bread, Of friends offended, family disgraced

Belike his kindred or companions onceMaiden high-born, but wayward, disobeying Through everlasting ages now divorced, Parental strict injunction, and regardless

In chains and savage torments to repent Of unmixed blood, and ancestry remote,

Short years of folly on earth. Their groans unheard Stooping to wed with one of low degree.

In heav'n, the saint nor pity feels, nor care, But these are not thy praises; and I wrong

For those thus sentenced-pity might disturb Thy honor'd memory, recording chiefly

The delicate sense and most divine repose Things light or trivial. Better 'twere to tell, Of spirits angelical. Blessed be God, How with a nobler zeal, and warmer love,

The measure of his judgments is not fixed

On the green

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FOREST SPORTS.

By man's erroneous standard. He discerns Sure grief hath set his sacred impress here,
No such inordinate difference and vast

To claim the world's respect! they note so feelingly
Betwixt the sinner and the saint, to doom

By outward types the serious man within.-
Such disproportion'd fates. Compared with him, Alas! what part or portion can I claim
No man on earth is holy called! they best

In all the decencies of virtuous sorrow,
Stand in his sight approved, who at his feet Which other mourners use ? as namely,
Their little crowns of virtue cast, and yield

This black attire, abstraction from society,
To him of his own works the praise, his due. Good thoughts, and frequent sighs, and seldom

smiles,

A cleaying sadness native to the brow,
FROM THE TRAGEDY OF JOHN All sweet condolements of like-grieved friends,
WOODVIL.

(That steal away the sense of loss almost)
Men's pity, and good offices

Which enemies themselves do for us then,
Margaret. In the name of the boy God, who plays Putting their hostile disposition off,
at hood-man-blind with the Muses, and cares not As we put off our high thoughts and proud looks.
whom he catches: what is it you love?

(Pauses, and observes the pictures.) Simon. Simply, all things that live,

These pictures must be taken down:
From the crook'd worm to man's imperial form, The portraitures of our most antient family
And God-resembling likeness. The poor tiy, For nigh three hundred years! how have I listen'd,
That makes short holyday in the sunbeam,

To hear Sir Walter, with an old man's pride,
And dies by some child's hand. The feeble bird Holding me in bis arms, a prating boy,
With little wings, yet greatly venturous

And pointing to the pictures where they hung,
In the upper sky. The fish in th' other element, Repeat by course their worthy histories,
That knows no touch of eloquence. What else? (As Hugh de Widville, Walter, first of the name,
Yon tall and elegant stag,

And Anne the handsome, Stephen, and famous
Who paints a dancing shadow of his horns

John: In the water, where he drinks.

Telling me, I must be his famous John.) Margaret. I myself love all these things, yet so But that was in old times. as with a difference:--for example, some animals Now, no more better than others, some men rather than other men; Must I grow proud upon our house's pride. the nightingale before the cuckoo, the swift and I rather, I, by most unheard of crimes, graceful palfrey before the slow and asinine mule. Have backward tainted all their noble blood, Your humour goes to confound all qualities. Rased out the memory of an ancient family, What sports do you use in the forest :

And quite revers’d the honors of our house. Simon. Not many; some few, as thus:

Who now shall sit and tell us anecdotes? To see the sun to bed, and to arise,

The secret history of his own times,
Like some hot amourist with glowing eyes,

And fashions of the world when he was young:
Bursting the lazy bands of sleep that bound him, How England slept out three and twenty years,
With all his fires and travelling glories round him. While Carr and Villiers rul'd the baby king:
Sometimes the moon on soft night clouds to rest, The costly fancies of the pedant's reign,
Like beauty nestling in a young man's breast, Balls, feastings, huntings, shows in allegory,
And all the winking stars, her handmaids, keep

And beauties of the court of James the First.
Admiring silence, while those lovers sleep.

Margaret enters. Sometimes outstretcht, in very idleness,

John. Comes Margaret here to witness my disNought doing, saying little, thinking less,

grace? To view the leaves, thin dancers upon air,

O, lady, I have suffer'd loss,
Go eddying round; and small birds, how they fare, And diminution of my honor's brightness.
When mother Autumn fills their beaks with corn,
Filch'd from the careless Amalthea's horn;

You bring some images of old times, Margaret,

That should be now forgotten.
And how the woods berries, and worms provide
Without their pains, when earth has nought beside

Margaret. Old times should never be forgotten,

John.
To answer their small wants.
To view the graceful deer come tripping by,

I came to talk about them with my friend.
Then stop, and gaze, then turn, they know not why,

John. I did refuse you, Margaret, in my pride. Like bashful younkers in society.

Margaret. If John rejected Margaret in his pride, To mark the structure of a plant or tree,

(As who does not, being splenetic, refuse And all fair things of earth, how fair they be.

Sometimes old play-fellows,) the spleen being gole,
The offence no longer lives.

O Woodvil, those were happy days,
John. How beautiful, (handling his mourning.)

When we two first began to love. When first,
And comely do these mourning garments shew!

Under pretence of visiting my father,
(Being then a stripling nigh upon my age)

THE MOURNER VISITED.

You came a wooing to his daughter, John.

Thou perfect pattern of thy slander'd sex, Do you remember,

Whom miseries of mine could never alienate, With what a coy reserve and seldom speech, Nor change of fortune shake; whom injuries, (Young maidens inust be chary of their speech) And slights (the worst of injuries) which moved I kept the honors of my maiden pride?

Thy nature to return scorn with like scorn, I was your favourite then.

Then when you left in virtuous pride this house, John. O Margaret, Margaret!

Could not so separate, but now in this These your submissions to my low estate,

My day of shame, when all the world forsake, And cleaving to the fates of sunken Woodvil, You only visit me, love, and forgive me. Write bitter things 'gainst my unworthiness.

JAMES MONTGOMERY.

THE PILLOW.
The head that oft this Pillow press'd,
That aching head is gone to rest;
Its little pleasures now no more,
And all its mighty sorrows o'er,
For ever, in the worms' dark bed.
For ever sleeps that humble head.

My Friend was young, the world was new;
The world was false, my Friend was true;
Lowly his lot, his birth obscure,
His fortune hard, my Friend was poor;
To wisdom he had no pretence,
A child of suffering, not of sense ;
For nature never did impart
A weaker or a warmer heart.
His fervent soul, a soul of flame,
Consum'd its frail terrestrial frame;
That fire from Heaven so fiercely burn'd,
That whence it came it soon return'd:
And yet, O Pillow! yet to me,
My gentle Friend survives in thee;
In thee, the partner of his bed,
In thee, the widow of the dead!

On Helicon's inspiring brink,
Ere yet my Friend had learn'd to think,
Once as he pass'd the careless day
Among the whispering reeds at play,
The Muse of Sorrow wandered by;
Her pensive beauty fix'd his eye;
With sweet astonishment he smiled;
The gipsy saw-she stole the child;
And soft on her ambrosial breast
Sang the delighted babe to rest ;
Convey'd him to her inmost grove,
And loved him with a mother's love.
Awaking from his rosy nap,
And gayly sporting on her lap,
His wanton fingers o'er her lyre
Twinkled like electric fire:
Quick and quicker as they flew,
Sweet and sweeter tones they drew;
Now a bolder hand he flings,
And dives among the deepest strings;
Then forth the music brake like thunder;
Back he started, wild with wonder!
The Muse of Sorrow wept for joy,
And clasp'd and kiss'd her chosen boy.

Ah! then no more his smiling hours
Were spent in childhood's Eden bowers;
The fall from infant innocence,
The fall to knowledge drives us thence:
O knowledge! worthless at the price,
Bought with the loss of Paradise !

As happy ignorance declined,
And reason rose upon bis mind,
Romantic hopes and fond desires
(Sparks of the soul's immortal fires!)
Kindled within his breast the rage
To breathe through every future age,
To clasp the fitting shade of fame,
To build an everlasting name,
O'erleap the narrow vulgar span,
And live beyond the life of man!

Then Nature's charms his heart possessid,
And Nature's glory fill'd his breast :
The sweet Spring morning's infant rays,
Meridian Summer's youthful blaze,
Maturer Autumn's evening mild,
And hoary Winter's midnight wild,
Awoke his eye, inspired his tongue;
For every scene he loved, he sung.
Rude were his songs, and simple truth,
Till boyhood blossom'd into youth;
Then nobler themes his fancy fired,
To bolder flights his soul aspired;
And as the new moon's opening eye
Broadens and brightens through the sky,
From the dim streak of western light
To the full orb that rules the night;
Thus, gathering lustre in its race,
And shining through unbounded space,
From earth to heaven his genius soar'd,
Time and eternity explorid,
And hail'd, where'er its footsteps trod,
In Nature's ternple, Nature's God:
Or pierced the human breast to scan
The hidden majesty of man ;
Man's hidden weakness too descried,
His glory, grandeur, meanness, pride;
Pursued, along their erring course,
The streams of passion to their source;
Or in the mind's creation sought
New stars of fancy, worlds of thought!
- Yet still through all his strains would flow
A tone of uncomplaining woe,
Kind as the tear in pity's eye,
Sost as the slumbering iofant's sigh,
So sweetly, exquisitely wild,
It spake the Muse of Sorrow's child.

O Pillow! then, when light withdrew,
To thee the fond enthusiast flew;
On thee, in pensive mood reclined,
He poured his contemplative mind,
Till o'er his eyes with mild controul
Sleep like a soft enchantment stole,
Charm'd into life his airy schemes,

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And realized his waking dreams.

His name has perished from the earth,
Soon from those waking dreams he woke,

This truth survives alone:-
The fairy spell of fancy broke;
In vain he breathed a soul of fire,

That joy and grief, and hope and fear
Through every chord that strung his lyre.

Alternate triumph'd in his breast; No friendly echo cheer'd his tongue,

His bliss and woe,-a smile, a tear! Amidst the wilderness he sung;

- Oblivion hides the rest. Louder and bolder bards were crown'd,

The bounding pulse, the languid limb, Whose dissonance his music drown'd:

The changing spirits' rise and fall; The public ear, the public voice,

We know that these were felt by him,
Despised his song, denied his choice,

For these are felt by all.
Denied a name,-a life in death,
Denied-a bubble and a breath.

He suffer'd,—but his pangs are o'er;
Stript of his fondest, dearest claim,

Enjoy'd,—but his delights are fled;
And disinherited of fame,

Had friends,-his friends are now no more; To thee, O Pillow ! thee alone,

And foes,-his foes are dead. He made his silent anguish known;

He loved,

but whom he loved, the grave His haughty spirit scorn'd the blow That laid his high ambition low;

Hath lost in its unconscious womb: But ah! his looks assumed in vain

O she was fair!—but nought could save A cold ineffable disdain,

Her beauty from the tomb. While deep he cherished in his breast

He saw whatever thou hast seen;
The scorpion that consumed his rest.

Encounter'd all that troubles thee;
Yet other secret griefs had he,

He was-whatever thou hast been;
O Pillow! only told to thee:

He is—what thou shalt be.
Say, did not hopeless love intrude
On his poor bosom's solitude ?

The rolling seasons, day and night,
Perhaps on thy soft lap reclined,

Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main, In dreams the cruel fair was kind,

Erewhile his portion, life and light,
That more intensely he might know

To him exist in vain.
The bitterness of waking woe.
Whate'er those pangs from me conceal'd,

The clouds and sunbeams, o'er his eye
To thee in midnight groans reveal’d;

That once their shades and glory threw, They stung remembrance to despair;

Have left in yonder silent sky “ A wounded spirit who can bear!"

No vestige where they flew. Meanwhile disease, with slow decay,

The annals of the human race, Moulder'd his feeble frame away!

Their ruins since the world began, And as his evening sun declined,

Of Him afford no other trace
The shadows deepen'd o'er his mind.

Than this,—THERE LIVED A MAN!
What doubts and terrors then possess'd
The dark dominion of his breast!
How did delirious fancy dwell

DEATH OF ADAM AND EVE.
On madness, suicide, and hell!

-566 Leave me not, Adam! leave me not below; There was on earth no power to save:

With thee I tarry, or with thee I go,'-But, as he shudder'd o'er the grave,

She said, and yielding to his faint embrace, He saw from realms of light descend

Clung round his neck, and wept upon his face. The friend of him who has no friend,

Alarming recollection soon return'd, Religion!-her almighty breath

His fever'd frame with growing anguish burn'd: Rebuked the winds and waves of death ;

Ah! then, as Nature's tenderest impulse wrought, She bade the storm of frenzy cease,

With fond solicitude of love she souglit And smiled a calm, and whisper'd peace:

To soothe his limbs

upon

their Amidst that calm of sweet repose,

grassy bed,

And make the pillow easy to his head; To Heaven his gentle spirit rose.

She wiped his reeking temples with her hair;

She shook the leaves to stir the sleeping air;
THE COMMON LOT.

Moisten'd his lips with kisses: with her breath
Once in the flight of ages past

Vainly essay'd to quell the fire of death,

That ran and revelled through his swollen veins There lived a man:-and who was JE?

With quicker pulses, and severer pains. - Mortal! howe'er thy lot be cast, That man resembled thee.

“ The sun, in summer majesty on high, Unknown the region of his birth,

Darted his fierce effulgence down the sky; The land in which he died unknown:

Yet dimm'd and blunted were the dazzling rays,

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