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The horses are all bedded up,
Now, on the settle all, but Bess,
Written impromptu, on reading the following passage in Mr.
Capel Lofft's beautiful and interesting Preface to Nathaniel Bloomfield's Poems, just published :-“ It has a mixture of the sportive, which deepens the impression of its melancholy close. I could have wished, as I have said in a short note, the conclusion had been otherwise. The sours of life less offend my taste than its sweets delight it."
Go to the raging sea, and say, “ Be still !"
Thou, who in Plenty's lavish lap hast rollid, And every year with new delight hast' told, Thou, who recumbent on the lacquer'd barge, Hast dropt down joy's gay stream of pleasant
marge, Thou mayst extol life's calm untroubled sea, The storms of misery never burst on thee.
Go to the mat, where squalid Want reclines, Go to the shade obscure, where Merit pines ; Abide with him whom Penury's charms control, And bind the rising yearnings of his soul, Survey his sleepless couch, and, standing there, Tell the poor pallid wretch that life is fair!
Press thou the lonely pillow of his head, And ask why sleep his languid eyes has fled;
Mark his dew'd temples, and his half shut eye, His trembling nostrils, and his deep drawn sigh, His muttering mouth contorted with despair, And ask if Genius could inhabit there.
Oh, yes! that sunken eye with fire once gleam'd, And rays of light from its full circlet stream'd: But now Neglect has stung him to the core, And Hope's wild raptures thrill his breast no more; Domestic Anguish winds his vitals round, And added Grief compels him to the ground. Lo! o'er his manly form, decay'd and wan, The shades of death with gradual steps steal on; And the pale mother, pining to decay, Weeps for her boy her wretched life away.
Go, child of Fortune! to his early grave, Where o'er his head obscure the rank weeds wave; Behold the heart-wrung parent lay her head On the cold turf, and ask to share his bed. . Go, child of Fortune, take thy lesson there, And tell us then that life is wondrous fair! Yet, Lofft, in thee, whose hand is still stretch'd
forth, To encourage genius, and to foster worth ; On thee, the unhappy's firm, unfailing friend, 'Tis just that every blessing should descend; "Tis just that life to thee should only show Her fairer side but little mix'd with woe.
WRITTEN IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH.
Sad solitary Thought, who keep'st thy vigils, Thy solemn vigils, in the sick man's mind; Communing lonely with his sinking soul, And musing on the dubious glooms that lie In dim obscurity before him,—thee, Wrapt in thy dark magnificence, I call At this still midnight hour, this awful season, When on my bed, in wakeful restlessness, I turn me wearisome; while all around, All, all, save me, sink in forgetfulness; I only wake to watch the sickly taper Which lights me to my tomb. Yes, 'tis the hand Of death I feel press heavy on my vitals, Slow sapping the warm current of existence. My moments now are few—the sand of life Ebbs fastly to its finish. Yet a little, And the last fleeting particle will fall Silent, unseen, unnoticed, unlamented. Come then, sad Thought, and let us meditate, While meditate we may. We have now ? But a small portion of what men call time To hold communion; for even now the knife, The separating knife, I feel divide The tender bond that binds my soul to earth. Yes, I must die--I feel that I must die; And though to me has life been dark and dreary, Though Hope for me has smiled but to deceive,
And Disappointment still pursued her blandish-