Famine and fell disease shortly will wear thee down, Yet thou hast still to brave often the winter's wind, Loathsome to those thou wouldst court with thine hollow eyes. Soon thou wilt sink into death's silent slumbering, Once wert thou happy-thou wert once innocent; But the seducer beguiled thee in artlessness, Then he abandoned thee unto thine infamy. Now he perhaps is reclined on a bed of down: ODES. TO MY LYRE. THOU simple Lyre! thy music wild Yet, oh my Lyre! the busy crowd No hand, thy diapason o'er, Well skill'd I throw with sweep For me, no academic lore sublime; Has taught the solemn strain to pour, Yet thou to sylvan themes canst soar; Thou know'st to charm the woodland train; The rustic swains believe thy power Can hush the wild winds when they roar, And still the billowy main. These honours, Lyre, we yet may keep, I, still unknown, may live with thee, And gentle zephyr's wing will sweep Thy solemn string, where low I sleep, Beneath the alder tree. This little dirge will please me more Yet dear to me the wreath of bay, Which, snatch'd from learning's labour'd throne, And O! if yet 'twere mine to dwell To listen to my song. Oh! then, my little friend, thy style I'd change to happier lays, Oh! then the cloister'd glooms should smile, And through the long, the fretted aisle Should swell the note of praise. TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE. MILD offspring of a dark and sullen sire! And cradled in the winds. Thee when young spring first question'd winter's sway, And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight, To mark his victory. In this low vale, the promise of the year, Unnoticed and alone, Thy tender elegance. So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms Of chill adversity, in some lone walk Of life she rears her head, Obscure and unobserved; While every bleaching breeze that on her blows Chastens her spotless purity of breast, And hardens her to bear Serene the ills of life. ODE, ADDRESSED TO H. FUSELI, ESQ. R. A. ON SEEING ENGRAVINGS FROM HIS DESIGNS. MIGHTY magician! who on Torneo's brow, When sullen tempests wrap the throne of night, Art wont to sit and catch the gleam of light That shoots athwart the gloom opaque below; And listen to the distant death-shriek long From lonely mariner foundering in the deep, Serenely chant the orbs on high, And mark the northern meteor's dance Flings its faint pauses on the steepy shore), And list the music of the breeze, That sweeps by fits the bending seas; And often bears with sudden swell The shipwreck'd sailor's funeral knell, By the spirits sung, who keep Their night-watch on the treacherous deep, And there upon the rock reclined With mighty visions fill'st the mind, |