Poems

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POEMS

S;

by

Sybille

SYBILLE.

A NORTHUMBRIAN TALE.

ARGUMENT.

The following Poem was written at the request of a near relation, who wished me to compose a Tale adapted to the picturesque and enchanting scenery of the ancient domains of our family, now in the possession of Bertram Mitford, Esq.

The Lord de Bertram, (one of the followers of William the Conqueror) married Sybille, the heiress of Sir Johannes de Mitford, and died, I believe, in the Holy Land. This is the only historical foundation for the story; but tradition is fertile in incident, and has assigned to the beautiful ruin of Mary's Chapel, a tale nearly similar to the one I have attempted to relate. It has too, within a very few years, been the scene of a most extraordinary occurrence. An unfortunate and guilty female, an inhabitant of Morpeth, resolved, when in the last stage of a consumption, to close her eyes within the sacred precincts of the Lady's chapel. She retired accordingly; and though every effort, that humanity could dictate, was made to remove her to a more comfortable habitation, she resisted, with wild and delirious strength, all attempts to tear her from the situation she had chosen. After lingering a few weeks she died, and was buried on the spot. I have alluded to this circumstance in the sixth stanza of the introductory verses.

But dark is thy tempestuous flood, When sad November lours; And through old Bothall's gloomy wood The foaming torrent pours.

Then e'en the oak's last lingering leaves The slippery path-way spread; The long brown grass the foot deceives, And mocks the uncertain tread.

The Lady's chapel rises there. Amid the darkening gloom; Its mouldering walls still brave the air; The maniac's lonely tomb!

No roof has crown'd those mouldering walls, For many a wintry day; An aged ash high o'er them falls, With moss and lichens grey.

The dreaded spot the peasant flies, For in the torrent's swell, He hears fair Sybille's piercing cries, Or the sad passing bell.

And in the raging of the storm, When the blue lightnings glare, He sees pale Sybille's shrouded form, Swift flitting through the air.

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Gay summer smil'd on Bothall bowers; The setting sun's resplendent beam Illum'd fair Mitford's mossy towers, Tinging with gold the living stream.

High o'er the flood the castle steep Rear'd its proud head in feudal state; Wav'd the broad banner on the Keep; Frown'd darkly grim the arched gate.

No pleasant sound of wassel gay Rung round Lord Bertram's splendid board; Dark frowning, like his turrets grey, Sate at the feast the haughty lord.

With Norman William Bertram came; De Mitford's lovely heir he saw; The conqueror own'd his favorite's claim; And William's word was England's law.

Vainly the suppliant fair-one knelt, Vainly she spurn'd a foreign yoke; The king nor love nor pity felt— She wept, but yielded to the stroke.

Not long she wept. Two lingering years Two lovely smiling babes had given, Still faster flowed the mother's tears, Till her soul sought its native heaven.

Goodly and brave the youthful heir To battle leads his father's power; And gay, and innocent, and fair, His Sybille blooms; a northern flower!

And now, the Baron leaves the hall; His chieftains pass the goblet round, When from the castle's outer wall Arose a harp's melodious sound.

Dark brows and rugged breasts had they; But, who the minstrel's power withstands? Who loves not well the rapturous lay, Or pleasant tales from distant lands?

Well pleas'd the stubborn warriors smil'd; The iron gates were backward flung: And soon the harper's descant wild Through Mitford's echoing turrets rung.

And high and haughty was the lay, That sweetly flow'd in Provence tongue; Of tourneys, lords and ladies gay, A wondrous tale the minstrel sung.

Boldly he struck the martial strain; His manly voice was deep and clear; And rapture fires the hardy train, Again their native tongue to hear!

The polish'd accents as they fall, (Long used to Saxon strains uncouth) The fields of Normandy recall, And renovate their lusty youth.

O then each well-remember'd cot, Each blooming maid they lov'd so well, Their earliest and their happiest lot!— Again their steel-clad bosoms swell.

Sweet was the strain. Enchanting them Of happy love the minstrel sung; To the rapt poet's blissful dream The magic chords responsive rung.

But soon they pause; and sad and low, He touch'd a wildly plaintive air, In thrilling tones of deepest woe He told the hapless lover's care.

He ceas'd; and plaudits loud were made, Grateful he rais'd his down-cast eye, But scarce his modest thanks he paid Ere the half-utter'd accents die.

For that dark eye had careless glanc'd To the high throne of feudal state; And hov'ring there, inspir'd, entranc'd, A lovely vision speechless sate.

O ne'er was form so witching fair! Sweetly through recent tears she smil'd, Loose and unbound her sunny hair Flow'd round her sylphid figure wild.

Soft was her eye of heav'nly blue; Her cheek was like the opening rose, Wet with the morning's pearly dew, And pure her bosom's living snows.

In manly beauty's youthful glow Was he, who touch'd the tuneful string, Dark clustering o'er his polish'd brow, Hung ringlets like the raven's wing.

Stately his form, and proud his mien; High genius sparkled in his eye Soft'ning from glances wild and keen, To smiles of cherub infancy.

They saw, they lov'd—The harp still rung To airs of love in Mitford tow'r. Of war, of fame, no more he sung, But high-born beauty's gentle pow'r.

Nor wealth, nor rank on Albert smil'd; He knew no father's fostering care, A widow'd mother rear'd the child, Deep in the wilds of Provence fair.

But far from his romantic home He sought Italia's blissful strand, For Albert long'd the world to roam, To visit every distant land.

"O he had wander'd far and wide Through vales, where Arno's waters flow, "Seen the bright dames, Iberia's pride, "And Grecian nymphs with necks of snow;

"But not in Tempe's classic shade "Had he so sweet a valley seen; "Nor e'er beheld so fair a maid, As she who tripp'd o'er Mitford green."

The blushing girl, with accents mild And gentle chidings, check'd his praise: But still she listen'd, still she smil'd, Whilst Albert pour'd his am'rous lays.

No hopes had they the Baron proud Would e'er the minstrel's vows approve, For noble youths to Sybille bow'd, And sought the blue-eyed maiden's love.

Gay summer now was fading fast; The robin twitter'd from the wood, And scatter'd by th' autumnal blast, The yellow leaves sail'd down the flood.

Still the fond youth his passion prest, A smile half lit her down-cast eye, "O! if of Sybille's heart possest, "Albert can ev'ry care defy!

"Far from the scenes of pride and wealth, We'll seek some wood-embosom'd cot, "Content, and innocence, and health, "With happy love, shall crown our lot.

"At morn these sinewy limbs I'll strain, ("How blest to labour, love, for thee!) "At ev'ning with the village train "We'll join in rustic revelry.

"Haste then, my fair! a holy priest "E'en now at Mary's chapel waits; "Thy father loiters at the feast, The weary warder leaves the gates.

"My Sybille, come!" Her trembling feet Can scarce her slender form support; Hope, fear, and love, contending meet, Scarce can she cross the echoing court.

My Sybille, come!" Prophetic fears The maiden's gentle bosom move; Her azure eyes are dimm'd with tears, Tears soon dispell'd by mighty love!

No more she turns; to Mitford's tow'rs No more her ling'ring footsteps stray; Lightly she trips through Bothall's bow'rs, Ting'd by the parting beam of day.

There in the virgin's chapel fair, By Wansbeck's swiftly-flowing tide, The holy father blest the pair, And Albert clasp'd his blushing bride.

'Twas night, and darkness veil'd the wood, Save where the silver moon-beam shone, Danc'd upon Wansbeck's rippling flood, Or kiss'd the chapel's holy stone,

And nought the solemn stillness broke, Save the clear water's rushing sound, The night-breeze murm'ring through the oak, Or the dark bat quick flitting round.

But soon a thousand torches shine! Wild shouts the sleeping echoes rouse! And Sybille sinks by Mary's shrine, Where late she pledg'd her stolen vows.

Soon, soon they pierce the holy walls! The minstrel draws his trusty blade; "Revenge" the madden'd father calls, And furious spurns the weeping maid.

They fight—the husband and the sire: They fight—and desp'rate is the strife; Still fiercer glows their mutual ire, Nor heeds the daughter and the wife.

Frantic she darts between the foes— The Baron's sword is dipp'd in gore, O'er her fair form the life-blood flows, And Sybille falls—to rise no more!

Who is that chief on Judah's strand, Who, reckless of the mortal wound, Hews desp'rate mid the Pajuun band, Strewing with mangled heaps the ground?

And who is he, whose raven hair Is taun'd by sun and wet with rain, Who lies on Mary's pavement bare, Bathing with tears the bloody stain?

That chief—may Heaven its mercy shew! That wretched youth in woe umnov'd,— That chief is he who gave the blow, That youth is he whom Sybille lov'd.

On revisiting the School where I was educated

ON

REVISITING THE SCHOOL,

WHERE I WAS EDUCATED.

For still instruction's genial pow'r With learning wing'd the fleeting hour, And yet, so mild her gentle sway, That pleas'd the youthful band obey.

Within the dome with learning stor'd, Our daily studies we explor'd; Or when, th' allotted lesson done, Had struck the wish'd-for hour of one, From care, from woe, from envy free, We sported here with frolic glee. My fair companions! though no more Ye bound across the well-known floor, Though few of all the youthful train, Within these peaceful walls remain, Yet still can faithful mem'ry trace The features of each blooming face! To me their graceful forms appear! Each gentle voice I seem to hear!

And fancy lends her vivid ray To gild fair childhood's halcyon day!

Amidst the garden's peaceful shade, Where oft with sportive glee we play'd, While some, reclin'd in verdant bow'rs, With tales amus'd the passing hours, And some their fav'rite flow'rs attend, I roam'd with my selected friend; And, constant to the maid I lov'd, With Zosia still I fondly rov'd. Oh! she was fair! and wise! and good! And sprung from Poland's noblest blood! To others, haughty she might be, But kind and gentle still to me! In yon deserted path we walk'd, Of home and our dear parents talk'd, Or glowing with some rural theme, Together wove the fairy dream:

For even then could nature's charm My young imagination warm, And landscapes, mountainous and wild, Had charm'd the visionary child. For I had heard old ocean roar And chafe 'gainst Dorset's rocky shore; Had listen'd to the sea-bird's cries, Had mark'd the gath'ring tempest rise, And, fearless 'mid the deaf'ning jar, Had watch'd the elemental war.

But chief in some sequester'd cot I sigh'd to fix my tranquil lot; Some straw-rooft cot, 'mid southern vales, And fann'd by Devon's balmy gales; The white-wash'd walls and lattice clean, Scarce through the twining jasmine seen; The little garden's simple bound With rose and myrtle fenc'd around;

A nameless, winding streamlet there, Midst shaggy copse-wood glist'ning fair; While shelt'ring trees behind it rise, And mountains tow'ring to the skies: In such a cot what bliss to dwell With those dear friends I lov'd so well! And still is childhood's happy dream Of youth's romantic wish, the theme; No cot to me so fair appears, As that my glowing fancy rears, And, e'en 'mid Berkshire's woody vales, I sigh for Devon's balmy gales.

With lofty tales of feudal power Would Zosia charm the ling'ring hour, Describe her father's princely dome, The splendors of her native home; The slaves, that follow'd where she trod, And swift obey'd her slightest nod;

Yet, had she learnt on this blest shore To wish that slav'ry liv'd no more, For many a tale of negro woe Had bid her gen'rous bosom glow, Pitying, she sigh'd at their distress, And languish'd for the pow'r to bless. Perchance it might be her's to save, From equal grief, some Polish slave! To life, to liberty restore! And bid his bosom bleed no more!— Alas, my dear-lov'd friend, 'tis thine In hopeless, helpless woe, to pine! 'Tis thine in youth's enchanting hour, And grac'd with beauty's witching pow'r, Of ev'ry kindred friend bereav'd, In ev'ry cherish'd hope deceiv'd, To learn in that lov'd land to mourn, An orphan, friendless, and forlorn!— But still, my Zosia, youth and health Are thine, and mines of mental wealth;

Again may prosp'rous Fortune pour Fresh blessings from her golden store, Some kindred spirit bid arise Thy yet unwaken'd sympathies, Till Poland's dreary deserts prove A paradise illum'd by love!

But where is she, the only fair Whose charms with Zosia's could compare, The sweet Eliza? polish'd grace Deck'd her fair form and lovely face; Whilst the pure influence of her soul Shed soften'd radiance o'er the whole: Breath'd in her voice, when Handel's strain Seraphic, thrill'd through every vein, Gave added force to Boileau's sense, Or glow'd in Milton's eloquence. Her's was high honor; spotless truth! Her's the gay laughing charms of youth!—

O where is now that lovely form? Where that pure heart in feeling warm? Where the sweet smiles that nature gave? They rest in dear Eliza's grave, In youth's fair spring, in beauty's pride, In virtue's early prime—she died.

Yet still the echoing chambers ring To fair Victoria's magic string: Sweet tuneful maid! at her controul Alternate passions fire the soul! As o'er her harp with bending grace The strings her flying fingers trace, Now lightly rings the sprightly measure To gayest airs of joy and pleasure: And now, with high and haughty sound, The mimic notes of war rebound: Sudden they pause, and soft and slow, In murm'ring cadence, sad and low,

Some sweetly plaintive melody At distance seems to fall and die. With mute delight we hover near The strains, which still we seem to hear! To move, to breathe we scarcely dare, So soft, so sad, so sweet the air! Nor yet alone by music's art Can fair Victoria charm the heart! Whether she join in converse gay, With arch and playful naïveté; Or, whether on her pitying breast She lull a brother's cares to rest; Still ever lovely, ever dear, Of temper soft, and heart sincere, Her varying charms the soul inspire, And all the beauteous maid admire.

There grace and symmetry combine, To mock the sculptor's skill divine,

And round the young Olivia glows A brighter charm, than beauty knows. Who can like her with sylphid grace The "poetry of motion" trace? In airy bound, or slow advance, Thread the soft mazes of the dance? In easy elegance recline, Or in light sportive movement twine? Whilst modesty's celestial veil Improves the charms it would conceal; And in that mild and polish'd mien, Shines spotless innocence serene. Yet those blue eyes and looks demure, That speak a heart both cold and pure, Are oft by radiant fancy lit, And sparkle with etherial wit; Till scarce the gentle girl we know Who hides, like Etna crown'd with snow, The fires that in her bosom glow.

There too presides the gentle fair, Who made me her peculiar care. To me by ev'ry tie endear'd! And still admir'd, belov'd, rever'd! Skill'd in the rare and happy art To win the timid, youthful heart; By manners grac'd with courtly ease, By playful wit, secure to please. But who shall tell her mind's rich store, Imbued with many-languag'd lore? Who shall the thousand virtues tell, That in her gentle bosom dwell? Oh! could I catch from you, bright dame! One spark of your immortal flame, My verse should pay the tribute due To friendship, gratitude, and you! Twas yours, with polish'd art, to twine A lovely wreath for Flora's shrine, To fairest flow'rs fresh beauties give, Which in your glowing strains shall live,

And bid each opening bud impart Some lesson, to the female heart, And now, with nobler visions fir'd, By friendship's holy zeal inspir'd, At her pure altars, lo! you bend, To her poetic vows ascend, For her you tune the warbling string, Her triumphs and her joys to sing; And emulate the classic fame Of Rogers' and of Campbell's name.

Lov'd friend of childhood's early day, Still deign to guide my devious way! What, though I fondly strive in vain Like you to frame the polish'd strain; Though no bright rays of genius fire, But faintly breathes the trembling lyre, Yet be your bright example mine! And lead my steps to virtue's shrine!

To the Evening Primrose

TO

THE EVENING PRIMROSE.

Yon flaunting sun-flow'r, by thy side, In starry radiance gay, Spreads her rich breast in beauty's pride, And courts the noon-tide ray.

Whilst, shrinking from the fervid glow, Thy modest colors fly, Each graceful flow'ret drooping low, Thy silken blossoms die.

But fairer than proud Phœbus' flow'r In noon-tide beauty bright, Art thou, in ev'ning's pensive hour, By Cynthia's trembling light.

When faintly gleams the western star, And ev'ning's gentle breeze, Like sweetest music heard from far, Sighs softly through the trees.

Then lovely in the silver beam Thy flowerets, glist'ning fair With pearly dew-drops, brightly gleam Resplendent through the air!

Lines, written in a favorite Bower

WRITTEN IN A FAVORITE BOWER,

PREVIOUS TO LEAVING HOME,

MAY 14, 1809.

But thy fair bank, in beauty gay, Can boast the blooming tints of May; Pure, limpid, sparkling, is the flood That murmurs through thy tangl'd wood; And fragrant is the balmy gale, That gently whispers through the vale.

Oh! pleasant is thy turfy seat, Sweet is thy shade, my lov'd retreat! Bright pansies deck th' enamell'd ground, Cowslips and harebels wave around; The dandelion, brilliant weed! Spreads its gay blossoms o'er the mead, Like stars, that in December's gloom A countless host, the sky illume. In superstition's dreary hour Vast is thy sway, thou star-like flow'r! Thy light and feather'd orb reveals The husband, cruel fate conceals,

As wafted by the maiden's sigh, The buoyant seeds wide-scatt'ring fly. But oft, alas! the village maid Seeks the dark gipsy's fatal aid, Down by the wood's romantic side She glides unseen at evening tide, With trembling awe her fate she hears. Quick rising hopes, and bashful fears; Wak'd by the sybil's wily art, What transports swell that simple heart! She tells of gentle lovers true, With nut-brown hair, and eyes of blue, "'Tis he! 'tis William!" Lucy cries, And light as air to meet him flies, Too fond, too happy, to be wise!

How slowly wells the limpid flood! How calm, how still the solitude! No sound comes wafted on the gale, Save the sweet warblings of the vale;

No curling smoke waves on the breeze, Hemm'd closely in by circling trees, Save, where o'er yonder rustic gate The tall oaks twine in gothic state, And through the arch in lustre gay, The landscape spreads its bright arrray. The woodland wild—the cultur'd plain, Its lowing herds, and fleecy train— The cottage by the green wood side, With blooming orchard spreading wide,— The village school—the farm—the green— The ivied tower, at distance seen,— And the soft hills that swelling rise, Mingling their grey tops with the skies, Illumin'd by the western beams How fair this living picture gleams!

Lov'd seat, farewel! yet soon I come, I leave not long my happy home:

When thy sweet woodbine's charms unclose; When blushes tinge thy modest rose; When thy pure lily on the tide Rears her fair flow'rs, in beauty's pride; When, where the whiten'd blossoms spread, The scarlet berry hides its head; Then will I seek my shelter'd bow'r, And while away the noon-tide hour, Remote from folly, noise, and strife, Gaze from my calm retreat, on life; List to the music of the glade; Watch the swift flitting shadows fade; With the lov'd muse of friendship stray, Or weep o'er Campbell's melting lay.

To the Glow-worm

I love to view the deep'ning shades, The waving spots of varying light, The cottage, rising 'mid the glades, With little casements glist'ning bright.

Whilst hanging o'er the limpid stream, Whose waters faintly murm'ring glide, A brilliant star thou seem'st to gleam, Reflected on the silver tide.

The village-maid by thy pale rays To meet her plighted lover roves, Weaves visions gay of future days, And, sweetly blushing, owns she loves.

And round thee oft, as poets sing, Fair elfin beings circling tread, Trip gaily o'er the fairy ring, And balmy odors round thee spread.

Oh! may no daring hand intrude To pluck thee from thy green retreat! No wand'ring rustic's footstep rude E'er crush thee in thy tranquil seat!

Though forked lightning round thee play, Though brilliant meteors wildly glare, Still may thy pale and modest ray Shed em'rald lustre through the air!

Lines, suggested by the uncertain Fate of Mungo Park

And on that spot, then first by Christian trod, Pour'd forth thanksgiving to the living God. Proud was that day! But lengthen'd labors rose; By sickness weaken'd, and begirt with foes, Reluctantly he turn'd; and pass'd again The dreary wilderness, the fiery plain; Through barb'rous tribes and warring nations tost, Till health and strength, and all but hope, was lost, When negro friendship bore him to the strand, And science hail'd him to his native land.

Then was his hour of bliss! success had crown'd The daring youth, and spread his fame around; And pity's sigh, and admiration's smile Flush'd his pale cheek, and sweeten'd every toil. Then high-born beauty join'd th' applauding throng, And added grace to nature's sweetest song, Whilst in the "white man's woe, the negro's care," The gentler sex a double triumph share.

Oh! when secure in Albion's happy land, He trac'd his dangers with recording hand, He little thought, when Houghton's shorten'd date Drew pitying tears, how similar his fate? How soon those blood-stain'd shores should seal his doom, Or slav'ry close him in a living tomb!

Again he went! with hope and ardor fir'd, With mild philanthropy's warm zeal inspir'd; Again he went! untrodden worlds to scan, To meliorate the lot of savage man! To ope the track for England's peaceful train, That wafts her commerce o'er the azure main, To bid fair science bless the sultry shore, And art diffusive spread her golden store, Bid pure Religion 'mid the trackless wild, Rear her high fame, and pour her precepts mild, Converted nations own the sacred tie! And Afric hail the day-spring from on high!

For this the wand'rer went. And how he fell Another Park, in future years, may tell. But fall howe'er he might, whether he died Swept by the fierce Tornado's furious tide; Or, whether in the desert met his fate, With famish'd eye, alone and desolate; Or, still more wretched, destin'd to endure The ling'ring tortures of the barb'rous Moor; Howe'er he fell, yet glorious was his end, Of truth, of nature, and of man the friend! But long shall Science mourn her vent'rous son Untimely lost; her arduous task undone. Long o'er his fate Philanthropy shall sigh; And Faith and Virtue waft him to the sky!

Verses

But Flora's characters exprest The wishes of each blameless breast, And saved a world of lover's sighs, Of blushes bright, and down-cast eyes. First the pure bud, whose soft leaves swell Enclos'd within their mossy cell, Of infant love the fair one tell: And next appears the half-blown rose, Whose radiance like her beauty glows, And still encreasing passion shows: Till in the full-expanded flow'r, Triumphant love proclaims his pow'r.

If then gay Flora's fragrant race Can changeful love's gradations trace,— Love! ever varying, ebbing, flowing, Sinking in woe, with rapture glowing,— Calm friendship surely may employ These tokens sweet of grief or joy.

But not the blushing rose I send, As my glad pledge to thee, my friend! For thorns that brilliant rose surround, And, like the god, his emblems wound. I send those blossoms fair and pure, That winter's stormy gales endure; Those blossoms, firstlings of the year, To sportive childhood ever dear. Oh! still how fresh to mem'ry's eyes, Those hours of childish bliss arise, When in the deep and tangled dell, I pluck'd the flow'rs I lov'd so well; Or, on the primrose bank reclin'd, Gay bouquets form'd, or garlands twin'd, Deek'd hat and frock in flow'ry state, And totter'd with the fragrant weight. And still, no infant better loves To view the primrose-spangled groves, When, first of spring's enchanting train, They bloom beside the verdant plain.

But doubly dear these timid flow'rs, Sweet harbingers of happy hours! Like drooping worth by Fortune scorn'd, Late in the wintry blast they mourn'd, Soon shall they bloom beneath thine eye! Soon on thy snowy bosom die!

But ere ye die, lov'd flow'rets! say, "Haste! lovely Mary, haste away! "At kindred friendship's call, arise! "Seek southern bow'rs, and milder skies! "Go, heighten spring's enraptur'd pleasures! "Go, shed around thy heart's rich treasures! "Fond tears as bright as morning dews, "Sweet sunny smiles, around diffuse! "Go! dearer than the rose of May, "To southern bow'rs, fair maid, away!

To the Hon. Miss Murray

And chose each lovely bud, and fragrant flower, The emblems true of youth's enraptur'd hour.

The brilliant rainbow-tints, the softer bloom, The graceful form, the exquisite perfume, Faded by heat, or scatter'd by the wind, All pass away, nor "leave a wreck behind." Yon Cistus, mark, fairest of Flora's train, Of velvet robe, and splendid colors vain, Whose wide-spread blossoms proudly-flaunting gleam, Woo the bright ray, and wanton in the beam, To-morrow's sun shall view them strew'd around, Borne on the breeze, or with'ring on the ground: Successive flow'rs the parent shrub illume, And each succession finds a daily tomb.

Alike in charms, but diff'rent far in fate, May thy bright roses mourn no transient date!

Still may they bloom through many a golden year, Unblanch'd by woe, "unsullied by a tear" Fortune for thee with Nature's bounties blend! And purest bliss thy flow'ry paths attend!

The Night of May

The rustic bridge—the winding stream, Where faintly play'd the trembling beam And, dimly seen, the quiet farm— Increas'd the ev'ning's pensive charm; No sounds of day, with clamor rude, Disturb'd the peaceful solitude; Mute was all Nature's warbling train, Save Philomel's enchanting strain. Sweet bird! thy notes responsive find A chord in each poetic mind; And poets still, in rapt'rous lay. To thee their grateful tribute pay; Of thee each hallow'd lyre has rung, By Shakspeare and by Milton sung!

And, fair companion of my May! You felt the breathing charm of May, The lovely scene your mind inspir'd, And bright imagination fir'd.

Now gay, now sad, our various theme Was changeful, as life's morning dream; Now, gravely conn'd th' historic page, Which charms us still from age to age, Now, glancing o'er the tuneful throng, Explor'd the glitt'ring mines of song; And, varying still in fitful change, From books to real life, we range; With noble deeds our fancy warm, Or dwell on Nature's milder charm; Now tell some childish frolic gay, Now pause to view thy beauties, May!

Say, when you tread the fertile vales, Or climb the tow'ring hills of Wales, Say, dearest Catherine! will you deign To think of Berkshire's modest plain? Yes; well I know, whate'er your lot, You'll think of Whitley's lovely cot;

And still will fancy's vivid ray Frequent the well-known group pourtray: Its hospitable master there Shall Andrews' sportive gambols share; And view, with still encreasing joy, The frolics of his blooming boy. The graceful mother, young and fair, Bends, smiling, o'er her latest care; She, whose soft charms my verse inspire! She, whom to know is to admire! She, who to temper ever gay, And feelings keen, and fancy's play, Adds judgment true, and taste refin'd, With ev'ry grace that decks the mind; Alike in ev'ry scene of life, The daughter, mother, and the wife!

Say—when for friends like these rever'd, By kindred's sacred ties endear'd.

You feel affection's purest glow— Will you a passing thought bestow On her, who in the Night of May, Delighted shar'd your converse gay? And, vary as it may with me, This shifting scene of woe and glee; Whether, as now, of health possest, With ev'ry social comfort blest; Or, doom'd the general lot to share, The prey of sickness or of care— Still, when the wanton Zephyrs play, And frolic in the sweets of May, The dews of ev'ning, as they fall, Our pleasant rambles will recall.

May fate for thee bright garlands twine, And health, and peace, fair maid, be thine!

To my Father

To greet you summer smiles around, The groves, the fields, the plains are gay; Fair is each blossom on the ground, Bright gleams the oak's majestic spray!

For you each flow'ret, that you love, And each fair shrub, luxuriant blooms, The gay Labunium decks the grove, The woodbine the soft breeze perfumes.

For you the lark's gay carols swell, And notes of welcome grace his lay— What notes shall Mary's pleasure tell? What words her heart's fond welcome say?

To welcome you in vain she tries, And vainly strives to speak her bliss— Then read her pleasure in her eyes! And take her welcome in a kiss!

Sonnet

And thou, fair forest! lovely are thy shades, Thy oaks majestic, o'er the billows pale High spreading their green arms: Or the deep glades, Where the dark holly, arm'd in prickly mail, Shelters the yellow fern, and tufted blades, That wave responsive to the sighing gale.

To my beloved Mother

All nature hails the happy day, That smil'd on my lov'd mother's birth,— And shall not Mary's simple lay Attempt to tell her matchless worth?

Oh! no, still Mary strives in vain Her mind's rich treasures to display; Where taste and modest science reign, And intellect's soul-piercing ray.

No; not to Mary's lay 'tis giv'n, To paint that heart, so good, so pure! That faith, that looks from earth to Heav'n, And knows its blest reward secure.

Oh! long and happy may she live, In peace and virtue beaming mild! Long, long a bright example give! And bless her husband, and her child!