Or when the setting moon, in crimson dyed,
Hung o'er the dark and melancholy deep,
To haunted stream, remote from man, he hied,
Where fays of yore their revels wont to keep;
And there let Fancy rove at large, till sleep
A vision brought to his entranced sight.

And first, a wildly murmuring wind 'gan creep Shrill to his ringing ear; then tapers bright, With instantaneous gleam, illumed the vault of night.

Anon in view a portal's blazoned arch

Arose; the trumpet bids the valves unfold; And forth a host of little warriors march,

Grasping the diamond lance, and targe of gold. Their look was gentle, their demeanour bold, And green their helms, and green their silk attire; And here and there, right venerably old,

The long-robed minstrels wake the warbling wire, And some with mellow breath the martial pipe inspire.

With merriment, and song, and timbrels clear,

A troop of dames from myrtle bowers advance ; The little warriors doff the targe and spear,

And loud enlivening strains provoke the dance. They meet, they dart away, they wheel askance ; To right, to left, they thrid the flying maze;

Now bound aloft with vigorous spring, then glance Rapid along. With many-coloured rays

Of tapers, gems, and gold, the echoing forests blaze.

The dream is fled. Proud harbinger of day, Who scar'dst the vision with thy clarion shrill, Fell chanticleer, who oft hath reft away

My fancied good, and brought substantial ill! O, to thy cursed scream, discordant still, Let Harmony aye shut her gentle ear.

Thy boastful mirth let jealous rivals spill, Insult thy crest, and glossy pinions tear; And ever in thy dreams the ruthless fox appear.

Forbear, my Muse. Let love attune thy line.
Revoke the spell. Thine Edwin frets not so.
For how should he at wicked chance repine,

Who feels from every change amusement flow!
Even now his eyes with smiles of rapture glow,
As on he wanders through the scenes of morn,
Where the fresh flowers in living lustre blow,
Where thousand pearls the dewy lawns adorn,
A thousand notes of joy in every breeze are borne.

But who the melodies of morn can tell?—

The wild brook babbling down the mountain side; The lowing herd; the sheepfold's simple bell; The pipe of early shepherd dim descried In the lone valley; echoing far and wide, The clamorous horn along the cliffs above; The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide; The hum of bees; the linnet's lay of love; And the full choir that wakes the universal grove.

The cottage curs at early pilgrim bark;

Crowned with her pail the tripping milkmaid sings ; The whistling ploughman stalks afield; and, hark! Down the rough slope the ponderous waggon rings. Through rustling corn the hare astonished springs ; Slow tolls the village church the drowsy hour;

The partridge bursts away on whirring wings; Deep mourns the turtle in sequestered bower, And shrill lark carols clear from her aërial tower.

RETIREMENT.

WHEN in the crimson cloud of even
The lingering light decays,
And Hesper on the front of heaven
His glittering gem displays;
Deep in the silent vale unseen,
Beside a lulling stream,

A pensive youth, of placid mien,
Indulged this tender theme.

"Ye cliffs, in hoary grandeur piled
High o'er the glimmering dale;
Ye woods, along whose windings wild
Murmurs the solemn gale ;-
Where Melancholy strays forlorn,

And Woe retires to weep,

What time the wan moon's yellow horn Gleams on the western deep!

"To you, ye wastes, whose artless charms Ne'er drew Ambition's eye,

'Scaped a tumultuous world's alarms,

To your retreats I fly :

Deep in your most sequestered bower

Let me at last recline,

Where Solitude, mild, modest power,

Leans on her ivied shrine.

"How shall I woo thee, matchless fair? Thy heavenly smile how win ?—

Thy smile that smooths the brow of care,
And stills the storm within.

O wilt thou to thy favourite grove
Thine ardent votary bring,

And bless his hours, and bid them move
Serene, on silent wing?

"Oft let remembrance soothe his mind
With dreams of former days.
When, in the lap of peace reclined,
He framed his infant lays ;-
When fancy raved at large, nor care,
Nor cold distrust alarmed;
Nor envy, with malignant glare,
This simple youth had harmed.

"Twas then, O Solitude! to thee His early vows were paid,

From heart sincere and warm and free,

Devoted to the shade.

Ah, why did fate his steps decoy
In stormy paths to roam,
Remote from all congenial joy?—

O take the wanderer home!

"Thy shades, thy silence, now be mine, Thy charms my only theme;

My haunt the hollow cliff, whose pine
Waves o'er the gloomy stream,