Why fly from ill

With anxious skill,

When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing heart

be still?

8 Come, Disappointment, come!
Thou art not stern to me;
Sad monitress! I own thy sway,
A votary sad in early day,

I bend my knee to thee.
From sun to sun

My race will run,

I only bow, and say, My God, thy will be done!

On another paper are a few lines, written probably in the freshness of his dis

appointment.

I dream no more-the vision flies away,

There fell my hopes-I lost my all in this,
My cherish'd all of visionary bliss.

Now hope farewell, farewell all joys below;
Now welcome sorrow, and now welcome woe.
Plunge me in glooms

ON THE DEATH OF DERMODY THE POET.

1 CHILD of Misfortune! Offspring of the Muse! Mark like the meteor's gleam his mad career; With hollow cheeks and haggard eye, Behold he shrieking passes by:

I see, I see him near:

That hollow scream, that deepening groan;
It rings upon mine ear.

2 Oh come, ye thoughtless, ye deluded youth, Who clasp the syren Pleasure to your breast, Behold the wreck of genius here,

And drop, oh drop the silent tear
For Dermody at rest!

His fate is yours, then from your loins
Tear quick the silken vest.

3 Saw'st thou his dying bed? Saw'st thou his eye,
Once flashing fire, despair's dim tear distil?
How ghastly did it seem!
And then his dying scream:
Oh God! I hear it still:

It sounds upon my fainting sense,
It strikes with deathly chill.

4 Say, didst thou mark the brilliant poet's death?
Saw'st thou an anxious father by his bed,
Or pitying friends around him stand:
Or didst thou see a mother's hand

Support his languid head?

Oh! none of these-no friend o'er him
The balm of pity shed.

5 Now come around, ye flippant sons of wealth,
Sarcastic smile on genius fallen low;

Now come around who pant for fame,
And learn from hence, a poet's name
Is purchased but by woe:
And when ambition prompts to rise,
Oh! think of him below.

6 For me, poor moraliser, I will run, Dejected, to some solitary state:

7 Yet ere I go I'll drop one silent tear,

lie,

Where lies unwept the poet's fallen head:
May Peace her banners o'er him wave!
For me in my deserted grave

No friend a tear shall shed:
Yet may the lily and the rose
Bloom on my grassy bed!

SONNETS.

TO THE RIVER TRENT.

WRITTEN ON RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS.

ONCE more, O Trent! along thy pebbly marge,
A pensive invalid, reduced and pale,
From the close sick-room newly set at large,

Woos to his wan, worn cheek the pleasant gale. Oh! to his ear how musical the tale

Which fills with joy the throstle's little throat! And all the sounds which on the fresh breeze sail, How wildly novel on his senses float!

It was on this that many a sleepless night,

As lone he watch'd the taper's sickly gleam, And at his casement heard, with wild affright, The owl's dull wing, and melancholy scream, On this he thought; this, this, his sole desire, Thus once again to hear the warbling woodland choir.

SONNET.

GIVE me a cottage on some Cambrian wild,
Where far from cities I may spend my days;
And, by the beauties of the scene beguiled,
May pity man's pursuits, and shun his ways.

While on the rock I mark the browsing goat,
List to the mountain-torrent's distant noise,
Or the hoarse bittern's solitary note,

I shall not want the world's delusive joys;
But with my little scrip, my book, my lyre,

Shall think my lot complete, nor covet more;
And when, with time, shall wane the vital fire,
I'll raise my pillow on the desert shore,
And lay me down to rest where the wild wave
Shall make sweet music o'er my lonely grave.

SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN ADDRESSED BY
A FEMALE LUNATIC TO A LADY.1

LADY, thou weepest for the maniac's woe,

And thou art fair, and thou, like me, art young ;
Oh! may thy bosom never, never know

The pangs with which my wretched heart is wrung.
I had a mother once-a brother too--
(Beneath yon yew my father rests his head.)
I had a lover once, and kind and true,
But mother, brother, lover, all are fled!
Yet, whence the tear which dims thy lovely eye?
Oh! gentle lady-not for me thus weep,

The green sod soon upon my breast will lie,

And soft and sound will be my peaceful sleep.

Go thou, and pluck the roses while they bloom-
My hopes lie buried in the silent tomb.

'This Quatorzain had its rise from an elegant Sonnet, Occasioned by seeing

a young Female Lunatic,' written by Mrs Lofft, and published in the Monthly Mirror.'