A window vainly stuffed about,
To keep November's breezes out,
So crazy, that the panes proclaim,
That they soon mean to leave the frame.

My furniture, I sure may crack—
A broken chair without a back;
A table, wanting just two legs,
One end sustained by wooden pegs;
A desk-of that I am not fervent,
The work of, sir, your humble servant,
(Who, though I say 't, am no such fumbler;)
A glass decanter and a tumbler,

From which, my night-parched throat I lave,
Luxurious, with the limpid wave.

A chest of drawers, in antique sections,
And sawed by me, in all directions;
So small, sir, that whoever views 'em,
Swears nothing but a doll could use 'em.
To these, if you will add a store
Of oddities upon the floor,

A pair of globes, electric balls,

Scales, quadrants, prisms, and cobbler's awls,
And crowds of books, on rotten shelves,
Octavos, folios, quartos, twelves;

I think, dear Ned, you curious dog,
You'll have my earthly catalogue.

But stay, I nearly had left out
My bellows destitute of snout;

And on the walls,-Good heavens! why there
I've such a load of precious ware,

Of heads, and coins, and silver medals,

And organ works, and broken pedals,

(For I was once a building music,

Though soon of that employ I grew sick),
And skeletons of laws which shoot

All out of one primordial root;

That you, at such a sight, would swear
Confusion's self had settled there.
There stands, just by a broken sphere,
A Cicero without an ear,

A neck, on which by logic good
I know for sure a head once stood;
But who it was the able master,
Had moulded in the mimic plaster,
Whether 'twas Pope, or Coke, or Burn,
I never yet could justly learn:
But knowing well that any head
Is made to answer for the dead,
(And sculptors first their faces frame,
And after pitch upon a name,
Nor think it aught of a misnomer
To christen Chaucer's busto, Homer,

Because they both have beards, which you know

Will mark them well from Joan, and Juno),

For some great man, I could not tell
But NECK might answer just as well,
So perched it up, all in a row
With Chatham and with Cicero.

Then all around in just degree,
A range of portraits you may see,
Of mighty men, and eke of women
Who are no whit inferior to men.

With these fair dames, and heroes round,
I call my garret classic ground.

For though confined, 'twill well contain
The ideal flights of Madam Brain.
No dungeon's walls, no cell confined,
Can cramp the energies of mind!

Thus, though my heart may seem so small,
I've friends and 'twill contain them all;
And should it e'er beome so cold
That these it will no longer hold,

No more may heaven her blessings give,
I shall not then be fit to live.

TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE.

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 questioned winter's sway, 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.

SONNETS.

SONNET I.

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 let 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 watched 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 II.

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;

POEMS OF

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.

SONNET III.*

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

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 bloomMy hopes lie buried in the silent tomb.

SONNET IV.

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY THE UNHAPPY POET DERMODY, IN A STORM,
WHILE ON BOARD A SHIP IN HIS MAJESTY'S SERVICE.

Lo! o'er the welkin the tempestuous clouds
Successive fly, and the loud-piping wind

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."