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Far from drowsy pillows flee, And turn the church's massy key; Then, as through the painted glass The moon's faint beams obscurely pass, And darkly on the trophied wall Her faint, ambiguous shadows fall, Let us, while the faint winds wail Through the long reluctant aisle, As we pace with reverence meet, Count the echoings of our feet, While from the tombs, with confess'd breath, Distinct responds the voice of death. If thou, mild sage, wilt condescend Thus on my footsteps to attend, To thee my lonely lamp shall burn By fallen Genius' sainted urn, As o'er the scroll of Time I pore, And sagely spell of ancient lore, Till I can rightly guess of all That Plato could to memory call, And scan the formless views of things; Or, with old Egypt's fetter'd kings, Arrange the mystic trains that shine In night's high philosophic mine; And to thy name shall e’er belong The honours of undying song.

TO THE GENIUS OF ROMANCE.

Oh! thou who, in my early youth,
When fancy wore the garb of truth,
Wert wont to win my infant feet
To some retired, deep fabled seat,
Where, by the brooklet's secret tide,
The midnight ghost was known to glide;
Or lay me in some lonely glade,
In native Sherwood's forest shade,
Where Robin Hood, the outlaw bold,
Was wont his sylvan courts to hold;
And there, as musing deep I lay,
Would steal my little soul away,
And all my pictures represent,
Of siege and solemn tournament;
Or bear me to the magic scene,
Where, clad in greaves and gaberdine,
The warrior knight of chivalry
Made many a fierce enchanter flee;
And bore the high-born dame away,
Long held the fell magician's prey.
Or oft would tell the shuddering tale
Of murders, and of goblins pale,
Haunting the guilty baron's side
(Whose floors with secret blood were dyed),
Which o'er the vaulted corridor
On stormy nights was heard to roar,

By old domestic, waken’d wide
By the angry winds that chide:
Or else the mystic tale would tell
Of Greensleeve, or of Blue-Beard fell.

TO MIDNIGHT.

Season of general rest, whose solemn still
Strikes to the trembling heart a fearful chill,

But speaks to philosophic souls delight;
Thee do I hail, as at my casement high,
My candle waning melancholy by,

I sit and taste the holy calm of night.

Yon pensive orb, that through the ether sails,
And gilds the misty shadows of the vales,

Hanging in thy dull rear her vestal flame;
To her, while all around in sleep recline,
Wakeful I raise my orisons divine,

And sing the gentle honours of her name;

While Fancy lone o'er me, her votary, bends,
To lift my soul her fairy visions sends,

And pours upon my ear her thrilling song,
And Superstition's gentle terrors come,-
See, see yon dim ghost gliding through the gloom!
See round yon churchyard elm what spectres

throng!

Meanwhile I tune, to some romantic lay,
My ilageolet—and as I pensive play,

The sweet notes echo o'er the mountain scene : The traveller late journeying o'er the moors, Hears them aghast,—(while still the dull owl pours

Her hollow screams each dreary pause between).
Till in the lonely tower he spies the light,
Now faintly flashing on the glooms of night,

Where I, poor muser, my lone vigils keep,
And, 'mid the dreary solitude serene,
Cast a much-meaning glance upon the scene,

And raise my mournful eye to Heaven, and weep.

TO THOUGHT.

WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT.

Hence, away, vindictive thought !

Thy pictures are of pain ;
The visions through thy dark eye caught,
They with no gentle charms are fraught,
So pr’ythee back again.

I would not weep,

I wish to sleep,
Then why, thou busy foe, with me thy vigils keep?
Why dost o'er bed and couch recline ?

Is this thy new delight?
Pale visitant, it is not thine
To keep thy sentry through the mine,

The dark vault of the night :

'Tis thine to die,

While o'er the eye
The dews of slumber press, and waking sorrows fly.
Go thou, and bide with him who guides

His bark through lonely seas;
And as reclining on his helm,
Sadly he marks the starry realm,
To him thou mayst bring ease :

But thou to me

Art misery, [my pillow flee. So pr’ythee, pr’ythee, plume thy wings, and from

And, memory, pray what art thou ?

Art thou of pleasure born?
Does bliss untainted from thee flow?
The rose that gems thy pensive brow,
Is it without a thorn? .

With all thy smiles,

And witching wiles, [defiles. Yet not unfrequent bitterness thy mournful sway

The drowsy night-watch has forgot

To call the solemn hour ;
Lulld by the winds, he slumbers deep,
While I in vain, capricious sleep,
Invoke thy tardy power ;

And restless lie,

With unclosed eye, And count the tedious hours as slow they minute by.

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