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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,
And not a tear shall fall on thy early grave,
Nor shall a single stone tell where thy bones are


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 :
But if a wretch like him sleeps in security,
God of the red right arm! where is thy thunder-

bolt ?



Thou simple Lyre! thy music wild

Has served to charm the weary hour, . And many a lonely night has 'guiled, When even pain has own'd, and smiled,

Its fascinating power.

Yet, oh my Lyre! the busy crowd

Will little heed thy simple tones ; Them mightier minstrels harping loud Engross,—and thou and I must shroud

Where dark oblivion 'thrones.

No hand, thy diapason o'er,

Well skill'd I throw with sweep sublime;
For me, no academic lore
Has taught the solemn strain to pour,

Or build the polish'd rhyme.

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

Than the full requiem's swelling peal ; I'd rather than that crowds should sigh For me, that from some kindred eye

The trickling tear should steal.

Yet dear to me the wreath of bay,

Perhaps from me debarr’d; And dear to me the classic zone, Which, snatch'd from learning's labour'd throne,

Adorns the accepted bard.

And O! if yet 'twere mine to dwell

Where Cam or Isis winds along, Perchance, inspired with ardour chaste, I yet might call the ear of taste

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.


Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire !
Whose modest form, so delicately fine,

Was nursed in whirling storms,
And cradled in the winds.

Thee when young spring first question’d winter's

And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight,

Thee on this bank he threw
To mark his victory.

In this low vale, the promise of the year,
Serene thou openest to the nipping gale,

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.



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,

Which rises slowly up the rocky steep, While the weird sisters weave the horrid song:

Or, when along the liquid sky
Serenely chant the orbs on high,
Dost love to sit in musing trance,
And mark the northern meteor's dance
(While far below the fitful oar
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 guide the wakeful helms-man's eye
To Helice in northern sky;
And there upon the rock reclined
With mighty visions fill'st the mind,

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