The Poetical Works of H. K. W. and J. Grahame. With memoirs, critical dissertations, and explanatory notes by G. Gilfillan

Front matter

KIRKE WHITE AND GRAHAM'S POETICAL WORKS. edinburgh: printed by ballantyne and company, Paul's Work. THE POETICAL WORKS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE AND JAMES GRAHAME. ©Hits) Memoirs*, Critical £>ij8#ertation0, and Œrplanatorg Botesf, BY THE REV. GEORGE GILFILLAN. EDINBURGH: JAMES NICHOL, 9 NOETH BANK STREET. LONDON : JAMES NISBET AND CO. DUBLIN: W. ROBERTSON. M.DCCC.LVI. CONTENTS. KIEKE WHITE'S POEMS.

PAGE The Life and Writings of Henry Kirke White . . vii Miscellaneous Poems — Clifton Grove : a Sketch . . 3 Time : a Poem .... 18 Childhood : a Poem ... 37 The Christiad : a Divine Poem 50 Lines written on a Survey of the Heavens 61 Lines supposed to be Spoken by a Lover at the Grave of his Mistress 63 My Study 65 Lines 69 Written in the Prospect of Death 71 Verses 73 Fragment 74 Fragment 75 To a Friend in Distress . . 76 Christmas Day, 180- ... 77 Nelsoni Mors 79 Epigram on Robert Bloomfield 81 Elegy occasioned by the Death of Mr Gill 81 Inscription for a Monument to the Memory of Cowper . 82 "I'm pleased, and yet I'm sad" 83 Solitude 84 Fragments 86 Fragment of an Eccentric Drama 91 To a Friend 97 Lines on Reading the Poems ofWarton 98 Fragment 99 Commencement of a Poem on Despair 102 The Eve of Death .... 104 Thanatos 105 Athanatos 106 PAGE Music 108 On being Confined to School one pleasant Morning in Spring 100 To Contemplation 110 My own Character . . . . 112 Lines written in Wilford Churchyard 114 Verses 117 Lines 118 The Prostitute 120 Odes— To my Lyre 122 To an Early Primrose . . . 124 Addressed to H. Fuseli, Esq., R.A 125 To the Earl of Carlisle, E.G. . 128 To Contemplation 130 To the Genius of Romance . . 13.5 To Midnight 136 To Thought 137 Genius 139 Fragment of an Ode to the Moon 142 To the Muse 143 To Love 144 On Whit-Monday 145 To the Wind, at Midnight . . 146 To the Harvest Moon ... 147 To the Herb Rosemary . . . 149 To the Morning 150 On Disappointment .... 153 On the Death of Dermody the Poet 155 Sonnets — To the River Trent .... 158 Supposed to have been Addressed by a Female Lunatic to a Lady 159 Supposed to have been Written by the Unhappy Poet Dermody in a Storm 160 The Winter Traveller ... 160 Sonnet by Capel Loft, Esq. . .

VI CONTENTS. PAGE PA 01 Ballads, Songs, and Hymns— Gondoline: a Ballad ... 173 A Ballad 184 The Lullaby of a Female Convict to her Child . . . 185 The Savoyard's Return . . 185 A Pastoral Song . . . . 187 Melody 188 Recantatory in Reply to the foregoingelegant Admonition 162 On Hearing the Sounds of an Æolian Harp 162 Sonnet 163 To Capel Loft, Esq. ... 163 To the Moon 164 Written at the Grave of a Friend 165 To Misfortune 165 Song by Waller .... 188 The Wandering Boy : a Song 189 Canzonet 190 Sonnet 166 To April 166 Sonnet 167 Song 191 To a Taper 167 The Shipwrecked Solitary's Song to the Night 192 To my Mother 168 Sonnet 168 The Wonderful Juggler : a Song 194 To Consumption .... 169 Sonnet 170 Hymn 197 Sonnet 170 A Hymn for Family Worship 198 The Star of Bethlehem . . 199 A Hymn 200 Sonnet 171 Sonnet 171 GP.AIIAME'S POEMS.

Preface

. The following attempts in verse are laid before the public with extreme diffi dence. The author is very conscious that the juvenile efforts of a youth, who has not received the polish of academical discipline, and who has been but sparingly blessed with opportunities for the prosecution of scholastic pursuits, must necessarily be defective in the accuracy and finished elegance which mark the works of the man who has passed his life in the retirement of his study, fur nishing his mind with images, and at the same time attaining the power of disposing those images to the best advantage. The unpremeditated effusions of a boy, from his thirteenth year, employed, not in the acquisition of literary information, but in the more active business of life, must not be expected to exhibit any considerable portion of the correctness of a Virgil, or the vigorous compression of a Horace.

Men are not, I believe, frequently known to bestow much labour on their amusements ; and these poems were, most of them, written merely to beguile a leisure hour, or to fill up the languid intervals of studies of a severer nature. _I_sto oiKfios cpyov aya-rra, " Every one loves his own work," says the Stagyrite ; but it was no overweening affection of this kind which induced this publication. Had the author relied on his own judgment only, these poems would not, in all probability, ever have seen the light. Perhaps it may be asked of him, What are his motives for this publication ? He answers — Simply these: the facilitation, through its means, of those studies which, from his earliest infancy, have been the principal objects of his ambition ; A and the increase of the capacity to pursue those inclinations which may one day place him in an honourable station in the scale of society.

The principal poem in this little collection— Clifton Grove — is, he fears, defi cient in numbers and harmonious coherency of parts. It is, however, merely to be regarded as a description of a nocturnal ramble in that charming retreat, accompanied with such reflections as the scene naturally suggested. It was written twelve months ago, when the author was in his sixteenth year. The Miscellanies are, some of them, the productions of a very early age. Of the Odes, that " To an Early Primrose " was written at thirteen ; the others are of a later date. The Sonnets are chiefly irregular ; they have, perhaps, no other claim to that specific denomination, than that they consist only of fourteen lines. Such are the Poems towards which I entreat the lenity of the public. The critic will doubtless find in them much to condemn ; he may likewise possibly discover something to commend.

Let him scan my faults with an indulgent eye ; and in the work of that correction which I invite, let him remember he is holding the iron mace of criticism over the flimsy superstructure of a youth of seventeen ; and remembering that, may he forbear from crushing, by too much rigour, the painted butterfly whose transient colours may otherwise be capable of affording a moment's innocent amusement. H. K. WHITE. Nottingham. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. CLIFTON GROVE : A SKETCH. Lo ! in the west, fast fades the lingering light, And day's last vestige takes its silent flight. No more is heard the woodman's measured stroke, Which with the dawn from yonder dingle broke ; No more, hoarse clamouring o'er the uplifted head, The crows assembling seek their wind-rock'd bed ; Still'd is the village hum — the woodland sounds Have ceased to echo o'er the dewy grounds, And general silence reigns, save when, below, The murmuring Trent is scarcely heard to flow ; And save when, swung by 'nigh ted rustic late, Oft, on its hinge, rebounds the jarring gate ; Or when the sheep-bell, in the distant vale, Breathes its wild music on the downy gale.

Now, when the rustic wears the social smile, Released from day and its attendant toil, And draws his household round their evening fire, And tells the oft-told tales that never tire ; Or where the town's blue turrets dimly rise, And manufacture taints the ambient skies, The pale mechanic leaves the labouring loom, The air-pent hold, the pestilential room, And rushes out, impatient to begin The stated course of customary sin : Now, now my solitary way I bend 23 Where solemn groves in awful state impend ; And cliffs, that boldly rise above the plain, Bespeak, bless'd Clifton ! thy sublime domain. Here lonely wandering o'er the sylvan bower, I come to pass the meditative hour ; 30 To bid awhile the strife of passion cease, And woo the calms of solitude and peace. And oh ! thou sacred Power, who rear'st on high Thy leafy throne where waving poplars sigh !

Genius of woodland shades! whose mild control Steals with resistless witchery to the soul, Come with thy wonted ardour, and inspire My glowing bosom with thy hallow'd fire. And thou, too, Fancy ! from thy starry sphere, Where to the hymning orbs thou lend'st thine ear, Do thou descend, and bless my ravish'd sight, Veil'd in soft visions of serene delight. 40 At thy command the gale that passes by Bears in its whispers mystic harmony. Thou wav'st thy wand, and lo ! what forms appear ! On the dark cloud what giant shapes career ! The ghosts of Ossian skim the misty vale, And hosts of sylphids on the moonbeams sail. This gloomy alcove, darkling to the sight, Where meeting trees create eternal night, Save, when from yonder stream the sunny ray, Reflected, gives a dubious gleam of day, Recalls, endearing to my alter'd mind, Times when, beneath the boxen hedge reclined, I watch'd the lapwing to her clamorous brood ; Or lured the robin to its scatter'd food ; Or woke with song the woodland echo wild, And at each gay response delighted smiled.

How oft, when childhood threw its golden ray Of gay romance o'er every happy day, 57 Here would I run, a visionary boy, When the hoarse tempest shook the vaulted sky, And, fancy-led, beheld the Almighty's form Sternly careering on the eddying storm ; And heard, while awe congeal'd my inmost soul, His voice terrific in the thunders roll ! With secret joy, I view'd with vivid glare The vollied lightnings cleave the sullen air ; And, as the warring winds around reviled, With awful pleasure big, 1 heard and smiled. Beloved remembrance ! — memory which endears This silent spot to my advancing years. Here dwells eternal peace, eternal rest ; In shades like these to live is to be blest. While happiness evades the busy crowd, In rural coverts loves the maid to shroud. And thou, too, Inspiration ! whose wild flame Shoots with electric swiftness through the frame, Thou here dost love to sit with upturn 'd eye, And listen to the stream that murmurs by, The woods that wave, the gray owl's silken flight, The mellow music of the listening night.

Congenial calms ! more welcome to my breast Than maddening joy in dazzling lustre dress'd, To Heaven my prayers, my daily prayers I raise, That ye may bless my unambitious days, Withdrawn, remote, from all the haunts of strife ; May trace with me the lowly vale of life, Aud when her banner Death shall o'er me wave, May keep your peaceful vigils on my grave ! 70 80 Now as I rove, where wide the prospect grows, 91 A livelier light upon my vision flows. No more above the embracing branches meet, No more the river gurgles at my feet, But seen deep down the cliff's impending side, Through hanging woods, now gleams its silver tide. Dim is my upland path — across the green Fantastic shadows fling, yet oft between The checker'd glooms the moon her chaste ray sheds, Where knots of bluebells droop their graceful heads, 100 And beds of violets, blooming 'mid the trees, Load with waste fragrance the nocturnal breeze.

Say, why does Man, while to his opening sight Each shrub presents a source of chaste delight, And Nature bids for him her treasures flow, And gives to him alone his bliss to know, Why does he pant for Vice's deadly charms . Why clasp the syren Pleasure to his arms, And suck deep draughts of her voluptuous breath, Though fraught with ruin, infamy, and death . no Could he who thus to vile enjoyment clings Know what calm joy from purer sources springs ; Could he but feel how sweet, how free from strife, The harmless pleasures of a harmless life, No more his soul would pant for joys impure, The deadly chalice would no more allure, But the sweet potion he was wont to sip AVould turn to poison on his conscious lip. Fair Nature ! thee, in all thy varied charms, Fain would I clasp for ever in my arms ! 120 Thine are the sweets which never, never sate, Thine still remain through all the storms of fate.

Though not for me 'twas Heaven's divine command To roll in acres of paternal land, Yet still my lot is bless'd, while I enjoy 125 Thine opening beauties with a lover's eye. Happy is he who, though the cup of bliss Has ever shunn'd him when he thought to kiss, Who, still in abject poverty or pain, Can count with pleasure what small joys remain : 130 Though, were his sight convey'd from zone to zone, He would not find one spot of ground his own, Yet, as he looks around, he cries with glee, These bounding prospects all were made for me : For me yon waving fields their burden bear, For me yon labourer guides the shining share, While happy I in idle ease recline, And mark the glorious visions as they shine ! This is the charm, by sages often told, Converting all it touches into gold. i_o Content can soothe where'er by fortune placed, Can rear a garden in the desert waste.

How lovely, from this hill's superior height, Spreads the wide view before my straining sight ! O'er many a varied mile of lengthening ground, E'en to the blue-ridged hill's remotest bound, My ken is borne ; while o'er my head serene The silver moon illumes the misty scene : Now shining clear, now darkening in the glade, In all the soft varieties of shade. 150 Behind me, lo ! the peaceful hamlet lies, The drowsy god has seal'd the cotter's eyes. No more, where late the social faggot blazed, The vacant peal resounds, by little raised ; But lock'd in silence, o'er Arion's x star The slumbering Night rolls on her velvet car : 1 The constellation Delphinus. For authority for this appellation, see Ovid's ' Fasti,' b. xi. 113. The church bell tolls, deep sounding down the glade, 157 The solemn hour for walking spectres made ; The simple ploughboy, wakening with the sound, Listens aghast, aud turns him startled round, Then stops his ears, and strives to close his eyes, Lest at the sound some grisly ghost should rise.

Now ceased the long, the monitory toll, Returning silence stagnates in the soul ; Save when, disturb'd by dreams, with wild affright, The deep-mouth'd mastiff bays the troubled night : Or where the village alehouse crowns the vale, The creaking signpost whistles to the gale. A little onward let me bend my way, Where the moss'd seat invites the traveller's stay. 170 That spot, oh ! yet it is the very same ; That hawthorn gives it shade, and gave it name : There yet the primrose opes its earliest bloom, There yet the violet sheds its first perfume, And in the branch that rears above the rest The robin unmolested builds its nest. 'Twas here, when Hope, presiding o'er my breast, In vivid colours every prospect dress'd : 'Twas here, reclining, I indulged her dreams, And lost the hour in visionary schemes. iso Here, as I press once more the ancient seat, Why, bland deceiver ! not renew the cheat .

Say, can a few short years this change achieve, That thy illusions can no more deceive . Time's sombrous tints have every view o'erspread, And thou too, gay seducer ! art thou fled] Though vain thy promise, and the suit severe, Yet thou couldst guile Misfortune of her tear, And oft thy smiles across life's gloomy way Could throw a gleam of transitory day. How gay, in youth, the flattering future seems ! 191 How sweet is manhood in the infant's dreams ! The dire mistake too soon is brought to light, And all is buried in redoubled night. Yet some can rise superior to the pain, And in their breasts the charmer Hope retain ; While others, dead to feeling, can survey, Unmoved, their fairest prospects fade away : But yet a few there be — too soon o'ercast ! — Who shrink unhappy from the adverse blast, 200 And woo the first bright gleam, which breaks the gloom, To gild the silent slumbers of the tomb.

So in these shades the early primrose blows, Too soon deceived by suns and melting snows ; So falls untimely on the desert waste, Its blossoms withering in the northern blast. Now pass'd whate'er the upland heights display, Down the steep cliff I wind my devious way : Oft rousing, as the rustling path I beat, The timid hare from its accustom'd seat. 210 And oh ! how sweet this walk o'erhung with wood, That winds the margin of the solemn flood ! What rural objects steal upon the sight ! What rising views prolong the calm delight ! The brooklet branching from the silver Trent, The whispering birch by every zephyr bent, The woody island, and the naked mead, The lowly hut half-hid in groves of reed, The rural wicket, and the rural stile, And frequent interspersed, the woodman's pile. 220 Above, below, where'er I turn my eyes, Rocks, waters, woods, in grand succession rise, High up the cliff the varied groves ascend, And mournful larches o'er the wave impend.

Around, what sounds, what magic sounds arise, 225 What glimmering scenes salute my ravish'd eyes ! Soft sleep the waters on their pebbly bed, The woods wave gently o'er my drooping head, And, swelling slow, oomes wafted on the wind, Lorn Progne's note from distant copse behind. 230 Still every rising sound of calm delight Stamps but the fearful silence of the night, Save when is heard between each dreary rest, Discordant, from her solitary nest, The owl, dull screaming to the wandering moon, Now riding, cloud-wrapp'd, near her highest noon Or when the wild duck, southering, hither rides, And plunges sullen in the sounding tides. How oft in this sequester 'd spot, when youth *Gave to each tale the holy force of truth, 240 Have I long linger'd, while the milkmaid sung The tragic legend, till the woodland rung !

That tale, so sad ! which, still to memory dear, From its sweet source can call the sacred tear, And (lull'd to rest stern Reason's harsh control) Steal its soft magic to the passive soul ; These hallow'd shades, these trees that woo the wind, Recall its faintest features to my mind. A hundred passing years, with march sublime, Have swept beneath the silent wing of time, 250 Since, in yon hamlet's solitary shade, Reclusely dwelt the far-famed Clifton Maid, The beauteous Margaret ; for her each swain Confess'd in private his peculiar pain, In secret sigh'd, a victim to despair, Nor dared to hope to win the peerless fair. No more the shepherd, on the blooming mead, Attuned to gaiety his artless reed ; No more entwined the pansied wreath, to deck 259 His favourite wether's unpolluted neck ; But listless, by yon bubbling stream reclined, He mix'd his sobbings with the passing wind, Bemoan'd his hapless love ; or, boldly bent, Far from these smiling fields a rover went, O'er distant lands, in search of ease, to roam, A self-will'd exile from his native home.

Yet not to all the maid express'd disdain ; Her Bateman loved, nor loved the youth in vain. Full oft, low whispering o'er these arching boughs, The echoing vault responded to their vows, 270 As here, deep hidden from the glare of day, Enamour'd, oft they took their secret way. Yon bosky dingle, still the rustics name ; 'Twas there the blushing maid confess'd her flame. Down yon green lane they oft were seen to hie, AVhen evening slumber'd on the western sky. That blasted yew, that mouldering walnut bare, Each bears mementos of the fated pair. One eve, when Autumn loaded every breeze With the fallen honours of the mourning trees, 280 The maiden waited at the accustom'd bower, And waited long beyond the appointed hour, Yet Bateman came not ; — o'er the woodland drear Howling portentous did the winds career ; And bleak and dismal on the leafless woods The fitful rains rush'd clown in sullen floods ; The night was dark ; as, now and then, the gale Paused for a moment, Margaret listen'd, pale ; But through the covert to her anxious ear No rustling footstep spoke her lover near. 290 Strange fears now fill'd her breast — she knew not why, She sigh'd, and Bateman's name was in each sigh.

She hears a noise — 'tis he ! — he comes at last ! — 293 Alas ! 'twas but the gale which hurried past ; But now she hears a quickening footstep sound, Lightly it comes, and nearer does it bound ; 'Tis Baseman's self! — he springs into her arms, 'Tis he that clasps, and chides her vain alarms ! ' Yet why this silence ? — I have waited long, And the cold storm has yell'd the trees among. 300 And now thou'rt here my fears are fled — yet speak, Why does the salt tear moisten on thy cheek . Say, what is wrong % ' Now through a parting cloud The pale moon peer'd from her tempestuous shroud, And Batemau's face was seen ; 'twas deadly white, And sorrow seem'd to sicken in his sight. ' Oh, speak, my love ! ' again the maid conjured, ' Why is thy heart in sullen woe immured 1 ' He raised his head, and thrice essay 'd to tell, Thrice from his lips the unfinish'd accents fell ; 310 When thus at last reluctantly he broke His boding silence, and the maid bespoke : ' Grieve not, my love, but ere the morn advance, I on these fields must cast my parting glance ; For three long years, by cruel fate's command, I go to languish in a foreign land.

Oh, Margaret ! omens dire have met my view, Say, when far distant, wilt thou bear me true 1 Should honours tempt thee, and should riches fee, Wouldst thou forget thine ardent vows to me, 320 And, on the silken couch of wealth reclined, Banish thy faithful Bateman from thy mind . ' ' Oh ! why,' replies the maid, ' my faith thus prove . Canst thou, ah ! canst thou, then, suspect my love . Hear me, just God ! if from my traitorous heart My Bateman's fond remembrance e'er shall part ; If, when he hail again his native shore, He finds his Margaret true to him no more, May fiends of hell, and every power of dread, Conjoin'd, then drag me from my perjured bed, And hurl me headlong down these awful steeps, To find deserved death in yonder deeps !' * 327 Thus spake the maid, and from her finger drew A golden ring, and broke it quick in two : One half she in her lovely bosom hides, The other, trembling, to her love confides. ' This bind the vow,' she said, ' this mystic charm No future recantation can disarm ; The right vindictive does the fates involve, No tears can move it, no regrets dissolve.' 340 She ceased.

The death-bird gave a dismal cry, The river moan'd, the wild gale w*histled by, And once again the lady of the night Behind a heavy cloud withdrew her light. Trembling, she view'd these portents with dismay ; But gently Bateman kiss'd her fears away : Yet still he felt conceal'd a secret smart, Still melancholy bodings fill'd his heart. When to the distant land the youth was sped, A lonely life the moody maiden led. 350 Still would she trace each dear, each well-known walk, Still by the moonlight to her love would talk, And fancy, as she paced among the trees, She heard his whispers in the dying breeze. Thus two years glided on in silent grief; The third her bosom own'd the kind relief : Absence had cool'd her love — the impoverish'd flame Was dwindling fast, when lo ! the tempter came ; 1 This part of the Trent is commonly called ' The Clifton Deeps.' He offer'd wealth, and all the joys of life, And the weak maid became another's wife ! 359 Six guilty months had mark'd the false one's crime, When Bateman hail'd once more his native clime.

Sure of her constancy, elate he came, The lovely partner of his soul to claim ; Light was his heart, as up the well-known way He bent his steps, and all his thoughts were gay. Oh ! who can paint his agonising throes, AVhen on his ear the fatal news arose ! Chill'd with amazement, senseless with the blow, He stood a marble monument of woe ; 370 Till, call'd to all the horrors of despair, He smote his brow, and tore his horrent hair ; Then rush'd impetuous from the dreadful spot, And sought those scenes (by memory ne'er forgot), Those scenes, the witness of their growing flame, And now like witnesses of Margaret's shame. 'Twas night — he sought the river's lonely shore, And traced again their former wanderings o'er. Now on the bank in silent grief he stood, And gazed intently on the stealing flood.

Death in his mien and madness in his eye, He watch'd the waters as they murmur'd by ; Bade the base murderess triumph o'er his grave — Prepared to plunge into the whelming wave. Yet still he stood irresolutely bent, 380 Religion sternly stay'd his rash intent. He knelt. Cool play'd upon his cheek the wind, And fann'd the fever of his maddening mind, The willows waved, the stream it sweetly swept, The paly moonbeam on its surface slept, And all was peace ; — he felt the general calm O'er his rack'd bosom shed a genial balm : MISCELLANEOUS FOEMS. When, casting far behind his streaming eye, He saw the Grove — in fancy saw her lie, His Margaret, lull'd in Germain's x arms to rest, And all the demon rose within his breast. Convulsive now, he clench'd his trembling hand, Cast his dark eye once more upon the land, Then, at one spring, he spurn'd the yielding bank, And in the calm deceitful current sank. 393 400 Sad, on the solitude of night, the sound, As in the stream he plunged, was heard around : Then all was still — the wave was rough no more, The river swept as sweetly as before ; The willows waved, the moonbeams shone serene, And peace returning brooded o'er the scene.

Now, see upon the perjured fair one hang Remorse's glooms and never ceasing pang. Full well she knew, repentant now too late, She soon must bow beneath the stroke of fate. But, for the babe she bore beneath her breast, The offended God prolong'd her life unbless'd. But fast the fleeting moments roll'd away, And near and nearer drew the dreaded day ; That day foredoom'd to give her child the light, And hurl its mother to the shades of night. The hour arrived, and from the wretched wife The guiltless baby struggled into life. 410 As night drew on, around her bed a band Of friends and kindred kindly took their stand ; In holy prayer they pass'd the creeping time, Intent to expiate her awful crime. 420 Their prayers were fruitless. As the midnight came A heavy sleep oppress'd each weary frame. 1 Germain is the traditionary name of her husband.

In vain they strove against the o'erwhelming load, 425 Some power unseen their drowsy lids bestrode. They slept tdl in the blushing eastern sky The blooming Morning oped her dewy eye ; Then wakening wide they sought the ravish'd bed, But lo ! the hapless Margaret was fled ; 430 And never more the weeping train were doom'd To view the false one, in the deeps entomb'd. The neighbouring rustics told that in the night They heard such screams as froze them with affright ; And many an infant, at its mother's breast, Started dismay'd from its unthinking rest.

And even now, upon the heath forlorn, They show the path down which the fair was borne, By the fell demons, to the yawning wave, Her own and murder'd lover's mutual grave. 440 Such is the tale, so sad, to memory dear, Which oft in youth has charm'd my listening ear, That tale, which bade me find redoubled sweets In the drear silence of these dark retreats ; And even now, with melancholy power, Adds a new pleasure to the lonely hour. 'Mid all the charms by magic Nature given To this wild spot, this sublunary heaven, With double joy enthusiast Fancy leans On the attendant legend of the scenes. 450 This sheds a fairy lustre on the floods, And breathes a mellower gloom upon the woods ; This, as the distant cataract swells around, Gives a romantic cadence to the sound ; This, and the deepening glen, the alley green, The silver stream with sedgy tufts between, The massy rock, the wood-encompass'd leas, The broom-clad islands, and the nodding trees, The lengthening vista, and the present gloom, The verdant pathway breathing waste perfume : These are thy charms, the joys which these impart Bind thee, bless'd Clifton! close around my heart. 459 Dear native Grove ! where'er my devious track, To thee will Memory lead the wanderer back.

Whether in Arno's polish'd vales I stray, Or where ' Oswego's swamps ' obstruct the day ; Or wander lone, where, wildering and wide, The tumbling torrent laves St Gothard's side ; Or by old Tejo's classic margent muse, Or stand entranced with Pyrenean views; 470 Still, still to thee, where'er my footsteps roam, My heart shall point, and lead the wanderer home. When splendour offers, and when fame incites, I '11 pause, and think of all thy dear delights, Reject the boon, and, wearied with the change, Renounce the wish which first induced to range ; Turn to these scenes, these well-known scenes once more, Trace once again old Trent's romantic shore, And, tired with worlds and all their busy ways, Here waste the little remnant of my days. 480 But if the Fates should this last wish deny, And doom me on some foreign shore to die; Oh ! should it please the world's supernal King, That weltering waves my funeral dirge shall sing ; Or that my corse should, on some desert strand, Lie stretch'd beneath the Simoom's blasting hand; Still, though unwept I find a stranger tomb, My sprite shall wander through this favourite gloom, Ride on the wind that sweeps the leafless grove, Sigh on the wood-blast of the dark alcove, 490 Sit a lorn spectre on yon well-known grave, And mix its moanings with the desert wave.