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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
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 :
TO MY LYRE.
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;
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,
Should swell the note of praise.
TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE.
Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire !
Was nursed in whirling storms,
Thee when young spring first question’d winter's
Thee on this bank he threw
In this low vale, the promise of the year,
Unnoticed and alone,
So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms
Of life she rears her head,
While every bleaching breeze that on her blows
And hardens her to bear
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,
Which rises slowly up the rocky steep, While the weird sisters weave the horrid song:
Or, when along the liquid sky