While tinkling soft the silver-tuning bell Floats on the gale, or dies by fits away From the sweet straw-roof'd grange, deep buried from the day. Man was not made to pine in solitude, And wake the nobler powers of usefulness to ply. The savage broods that in the forest shroud, Blossoms forlorn, rock'd by the mountain wind; Then, withering, fades away, unnoticed and unknown! For ye who, fill'd with fancy's wildest dreams, Run from the imperious voice of human pride, And shrinking quick from woe's unheeded screams, Long in some desert-cell your heads to hide, Where you may muse from morn to eventide, Free from the taunts of contumely and scorn, From sights of woe-the power to soothe denied, Attend the song which in life's early morn * ELEGY Occasioned by the death of Mr. Gill, who was drowned in the river Trent, while bathing, 9th August, 1802. He sunk-the impetuous river roll'd along, The gale of evening touch'd the chords of death. Nymph of the Trent! why didst not thou appear, To snatch the victim from thy felon wave? Alas! too late thou camest to embalm his bier, And deck with water-flags his early grave. Triumphant, riding o'er its tumid prey, Rolls the red stream in sanguinary pride; While anxious crowds, in vain, expectant stay, And ask the swoln corse from the murdering tide. The stealing tear-drop stagnates in the eye, The sudden sigh by friendship's bosom proved, I mark them rise-I mark the gen❜ral sigh; Unhappy youth! and wert thou so beloved? On thee, as lone I trace the Trent's green brink, When the dim twilight slumbers on the glade, On thee my thoughts shall dwell, nor Fancy shrink To hold mysterious converse with thy shade. Of thee, as early I, with vagrant feet, Hail the grey-sandal'd morn in Colwick's vale, Of thee my sylvan reed shall warble sweet, And wild-wood echoes shall repeat the tale. And oh ye nymphs of Pæon! who preside EXTEMPORANEOUS VERSES. These lines were composed extempore soon after the publication of "Clifton Grove," in the presence of an acquaintance who doubted the author's ability to write poetry. THOU base repiner at another's joy, Whose eye turns green at merit not thine own, Oh, far away from generous Britons fly, And find in meaner climes a fitter throne. Thou shalt not dare defile our plains; The truly generous heart disdains Joys at another's joy, and smiles at others' jollity. Triumphant monster! though thy schemes succeed; Which thou hadst planted with the thorn severe; Then will thy baseness stand confest, and all [fall. Will curse the ungen'rous fate, that bade a Poet * * * * * Yet, ah! thy arrows are too keen, too sure: O'er his pale features streams his dying lamp; [live? Does jocund Health in thought's still mansion Lo, the cold dews that on his temples rest, That short quick sigh-their sad responses give. And canst thou rob a Poet of his song? Snatch from the bard his trivial meed of praise? Small are his gains, nor does he hold them long : Then leave, oh, leave him to enjoy his lays While yet he lives-for, to his merits just, Though future ages join, his fame to raise, Will the loud trump awake his cold unheeding dust? ADDRESSED TO CAPEL LOFFT, ESQ., SEPT. 10, 1805. YES, my stray steps have wander'd, wander'd far Call the warm tear from its thrice-hallow'd cell, . Warm my reluctant heart.-Yes, I would throw, |