Poems

Front matter

BY

S. T. COLERIDGE.

ppoem|{fine} Felix curarum, cui non Heliconia cordi Serta, nec imbelles Parnassi e vertice laurus! Sed viget ingenium, et magnos accinctus in usus Fert animus quascunque vices,—Nos tristia vitæ Solamur cantu. >>Stat. Silv. Lib. iv. 4.

Preface

PREFACE

Compositions resembling those of the present volume are not unfrequently condemned for their querulous Egotism. But Egotism is to be condemned then only when it offends against Time and Place, as in an History or an Epic Poem. To censure it in a Monody or Sonnet is almost as absurd as to dislike a circle for being round. Why then write Sonnets or Monodies? Because they give me pleasure when perhaps nothing else could. After the more violent emotions of Sorrow, the mind demands amusement, and can find it in employment alone; but full of its late sufferings, it can endure no employment not in some measure connected with them. Forcibly to turn away our atention to general subjects is a painful and most often an unavailing effort.

But O! how grateful to a wounded heart The tale of Misery to impart― From others' eyes bid artless sorrows flow, And raise esteem upon the base of Woe! >>Shaw.

The communicativeness of our Nature leads us to describe our own sorrows; in the endeavour to describe them, intellectual activity is exerted; and from intellectual activity there results a pleasure, which is gradually associated, and mingles as a corrective, with the painful subject of the description. "True!" (it may be answered) but how are the Public interested in your Sorrows or your Description?" We are for ever attributing personal Unities to imaginary Aggregates.—What is the Public, but a term for a number of scatter'd individuals? Of whom as many will be interested in these sorrows, as have experienced the same or similar.

"Holy be the lay Which mourning soothes the mourner on his way."

If I could judge of others by myself, I should not hesiate to affirm, that the most interesting passages in our most interesting Poems are those in which the Author developes his own feelings. The sweet voice of Cona never sounds so sweetly, as when it speaks of itself; and I should almost suspect that man of an unkindly heart, who could read the opening of the third book of the Paradise Lost without peculiar emotion. By a law of our Nature, he, who labours under a strong feeling, is impelled to seek for sympathy; but a Poet's feelings are all strong,—Quicquid amet valde amat.—Akenside therefore speaks with philosophical accuracy when he classes Love and Poetry, as producing the same effects:

"Love and the wish of Poets when their tongue Would teach to others' bosoms, what so charms Their own," >>Pleasures of Imagination.

There is one species of Egotism which is truly disgusting; not that which leads us to com- municate our feelings to others, but that which would reduce the feelings of others to an identity with our own. The Atheist, who exclaims, "pshaw!" when he glances his eye on the praises of Deity, is an Egotist: an old man, when he speaks contemptuously of Love-verses, is an Egoist: and the sleek Favorites of Fortune are Egotists, when they condemn all "melancholy, discontented" verses. Surely, it would be candid not merely to ask whether the poem pleases ourselves, but to consider whether or no there may not be others, to whom it is well-calculated to give an innocent pleasure.

I shall only add, that each of my readers will, I hope, remember, that these Poems on various subjects, which he reads at one time and under the influence of one set of feelings, were written at different times and prompted by very different feelings; and therefore that the supposed inferiority of one Poem to another may sometimes be owing to the temper of mind, in which he happens to peruse it.

S. T. C.

My poems have been rightly charged with a profusion of double-epithets, and a general turgidness. I have pruned the double-epithets with no sparing hand; and used my best efforts to tame the swell and glitter both of thought and diction. This latter fault however had insinuated itself into my Religious Musings with such intricacy of union, that sometimes I have omitted to disentangle the weed from the fear of snapping the flower. A third and heavier accusation has been brought against me, that of obscurity; but not, I think, with equal justice. An Author is obscure, when his conceptions are dim and imperfect, and his language incorrect, or unappropriate, or involved. A poem that abounds in allusions, like the Bard of Gray, or one that impersonates high and abstract truths, like Collins's Ode on the poetical character, claims not to be popular—but should be acquitted of obscurity. The deficiency is in the Reader. But this is a charge which every poet, whose imagination is warm and rapid, must expect from his contemporaries. Milton did not escape it; and it was adduced with virulence against Gray and Collins. We now hear no more of it; not that their poems are better understood at present, than they were at their first publication; but their fame is established; and a critic would accuse himself of frigidity or inattention, who should profess not to understand them. But a living writer is yet sub judice; and if we cannot follow his conceptions or enter into his feelings, it is more consoling to our pride to consider him as lost beneath, than as soaring above, us. If any man expect from my poems the same easiness of style which he admires in a drinking-song, for him I have not written. Intelligibilia, non intellectum adfero.

I expect neither profit or general fame by my writings; and I consider myself as having been amply repayed without either. Poetry has been to me its own "exceeding great reward:" it has soothed my afflictions, it has multiplied and refined my enjoyments; it has endeared solitude; and it has given me the habit of wishing to discover the Good and the Beautiful in all that meets and surrounds me.

Dedication

DEDICATION

To the Reverend GEORGE COLERIDGE,

OF

Songs of the Pixies

of

The Pixies, in the superstition of Devonshire, are a race of beings invisibly small, and harmless or friendly to man. At a small distance from a village in that county, half-way up a wood-cover'd hill, is an excavation, called. the Pixies' Parlour. The roots of old trees form its ceiling; and on its sides are innumerable cyphers, among which the Author discovered his own cypher and those of his brothers, cut by the hand of their childhood. At the foot of the hill flows the river Otter.

To this place the Author conducted a party of young Ladies, during the summer months of the year 1793; one of whom, of stature elegantly small, and of complexion colourless yet clear, was proclaimed the Fairy Queen: On which occasion, and at which time, the following Irregular Ode was written.

SONGS

of

THE PIXIES.

<>I. Whom the untaught Shepherds call Pixies in their madrigal, Fancy's children, here we dwell: Welcome, Ladies! to our cell. Here the wren of softest note Builds it's nest and warbles well; Here the blackbird strains his throat: Welcome, Ladies! to our cell.

<>II. When fades the moon all shadowy-pale And scuds the cloud before the gale, Ere Morn with living gems bedight Streaks the east with purple light, We sip the furze-flowr's fragrant dews Clad in robes of rainbow hues Richer than the deepen'd bloom That glows on Summer's scented plume: Or sport amid the rosy gleam Sooth'd by the distant-tinkling team, While lusty Labor Scouting sorrow Bids the Dame a glad good-morrow, Who jogs th' accustom'd road along, And paces cheery to her cheering song.

<>III. But not our filmy pinion We scorch amid the blaze of day,

When Noontide’s fiery-tressed Minion Flashes the fervid ray. Aye from the sultry heat We to the cave retreat O’ercanopied by huge roots intertwin‘d With wildest texture, blacken’d o’er with age: Round them their mantle green the ivies bind, Beneath whose foliage pale Fann'd by the unfrequent gale We shield us from the Tyrant’s mid-day rage.

<>IV. Thither, while the murm’ring throng Of wild-bees hum their drowsy song, By Indolence and Fancy brought, A youthful Bard, “unknown to Fame,” Wooes the Queen of Solemn Thought, And heaves the gentle mis’ry of a sigh Gazing with tearful eye,

As round our sandy grot appear Many a rudely sculptur’d name To pensive Mem’ry dear! Weaving gay dreams of sunny-tinctur’d hue We glance before his view: O’er his hush’d soul ear soothing witch’ries shed, And twine our faery garlands round his head.

<>V. When Evening’s dusky car Crown’d with her dewy star Steals o’er the fading sky in shadowy flight; On leaves of aspen trees We tremble to the breeze, Veil’d from the grosser ken of mortal sight. Or, haply, at the visionary hour, Along our wild sequestred walk, We listen to th’ enamour’d rustic’s talk;

Heave with the heavings of the maiden's breast, Where young-eyed Loves have built their turtle nest; Or guide of soul-subduing power Th' electric flash, that from the melting eye Darts the fond question and the soft reply.

<> VI. Or thro' the mystic ringlets of the vale We flash our faery feet in gamesome prank; Or, silent-sandal'd, pay our defter court Circling the Spirit of the Western Gale, Where, wearied with his flower-caressing sport, Supine he slumbers on a violet bank; Then with quaint music hymn the parting gleam, By lonely Otter's sleep-persuading stream; Or where his wave with loud unquiet song Dash'd o'er the rocky channel froths along;

Or where, his silver waters smooth'd to rest, The tall tree's shadow sleeps upon his breast.

<> VII. Hence thou lingerer, Light! Eve saddens into Night. Mother of wildly-working dreams! we view The Sombre Hours, that round thee stand With down-cast eyes (a duteous band!) Their dark robes dripping with the heavy dew. Sorceress of the ebon throne! Thy power the Pixies own, When round thy raven brow Heaven's lucent roses glow, And clouds, in watry colours drest, Float in light drapery o'er thy sable vest; What time the pale moon sheds a softer day Mellowing the woods beneath its pensive beam:

For mid the quiv'ring light 'tis ours to play, Aye dancing to the cadence of the stream.

<> VIII. Welcome, Ladies! to the cell, Where the blameless Pixies dwell. But thou, sweet Nymph! proclaim'd our Faery Queen, With what obeisance meet Thy presence shall we greet? For lo attendant on thy steps are seen Graceful Ease in artless stole, And white-rob'd Purity of soul, With Honor's softer mien: Mirth of the loosely-flowing hair, And meek ey'd Pity eloquently fair, Whose tearful cheeks are lovely to the view, As snow-drop wet with dew.

<> IX. Unboastful Maid! tho' now the Lily pale Transparent grace thy beauties meek; Yet ere again along th' impurpling vale, The purpling vale and elfin-haunted grove, Young Zephyr his fresh flowers profusely throws, We'll tinge with livelier hues thy cheek! And haply from the nectar-breathing Rose Extract a Blush for Love!

The Rose

As late each flower that sweetest blows I pluck'd, the Garden's pride! Within the petals of a Rose A sleeping Love I spied.

Around his brows a beamy wreath Of many a lucent hue; All purple glow'd his cheek, beneath, Inebriate with dew.

I softly seiz'd th' unguarded Power, Nor scar'd his balmy rest; And plac'd him, cag'd within the flower, On spotless Sara's breast.

But when unweeting of the guile Awoke the pris'ner sweet, He struggled to escape awhile And stamp'd his faery feet.

Ah! soon the soul-entrancing sight Subdued th' impatient boy! He gaz'd! he thrill'd with deep delight! Then clapp'd his wings for joy.

And ô! he cried—"Of magic kind "What charms this Throne endear! "Some other Love let Venus find2 "I'll fix my empire here.

Kisses

Cupid, if storying Legends tell aright, Once fram'd a rich Elixir of Delight. A Chalice o'er love-kindled flames he fix'd, And in it Nectar and Ambrosia mix'd: With these the magic dews which Evening brings, Brush'd ftom the Idalian star by faery wings:

Each tender pledge of sacred Faith he join'd, Each gentler Pleasure of th' unspotted mind— Day-dreams, whose tints with sportive brightness glow, And Hope, the blameless Parasite of Woe. The eyeless Chemist heard the process rise, The steamy Chalice bubbled up in sighs; Sweet sounds transpir'd, as when the enamour'd Dove, Pours the soft murm'ring of responsive Love. The finish'd work might Envy vainly blame, And "Kisses" was the precious Compounds' name. With half the God his Cyprian Mother blest, And breath'd on Sara's lovelier lips the rest.

To Sara

One kiss, dear Maid! I said and sigh'd— Your scorn the little boon deny'd. Ah why refuse the blameless bliss? Can Danger lurk within a kiss?

Yon viewless Wand'rer of the vale, The Spirit of the Western Gale, At Morning's break, at Evening's close, Inhales the sweetness of the Rose, And hovers o'er th' uninjur'd Bloom Sighing back the soft perfume. Vigor to the Zephyr's wing Her nectar-breathing Kisses fling;

And He the glitter of the Dew Scatters on the Rose's hue. Bashful lo! she bends her head, And darts a blush of deeper Red!

Too well those lovely lips disclose The Triumphs of the op'ning Rose: O fair! O graceful! bid them prove As passive to the breath of Love. In tender accents, faint and low, Well-pleas'd I hear the whisper'd "No!" The whisper'd "No"2how little meant! Sweet Falsehood, that endears Consent! For on those lovely lips the while Dawns the soft relenting smile, And tempts with feign'd dissuasion coy The gentle violence of joy.

The Sigh

<> I. When Youth his faery reign began, Ere Sorrow had proclaim'd me man; While Peace the present hour beguil'd, And all the lovely Prospect smil'd; Then, Mary! 'mid my lightsome glee I heav'd the painless Sigh for thee.

<> II. And when, as toss'd on waves of woe, My harrass'd Heart was doom'd to know The frantic Burst, the Outrage keen, And the slow Pang that gnaws unseen; Then shipwreck'd on Life's stormy sea I heav'd an anguish'd Sigh for thee!

<> III. But soon Reflection's power imprest A stiller sadness on my breast; And sickly Hope with waning eye Was well content to droop and die: I yielded to the stern decree, Yet heav'd a languid Sigh for thee!

<> IV. And tho' in distant climes to roam, A Wanderer from my native home, I fain would sooth the sense of Care And lull to sleep the Joys, that were! Thy Image may not banish'd be— Still, Mary! still I Sigh for thee.

>>> JUNE, 1794.

Genevieve

Maid of my Love! sweet Genevieve! In Beauty's light you glide along: Your eye is like the star of eve, And sweet your Voice, as Seraph's song. Yet not your heavenly Beauty gives This heart with passion soft to glow: Within your soul a Voice there lives! It bids you hear the tale of Woe. When sinking low the Suff'rer wan Beholds no hand outstretcht to save,

Fair, as the bosom of the Swan That rises graceful o'er the wave, I've seen your breast with pity heave, And therefore love I you, sweet Genevieve!

Absence, a Farewell Ode

Where grac'd with many a classic spoil Cam rolls his reverend stream along, I haste to urge the learned toil That sternly chides my love-lorn song: Ah me! too mindful of the days Illum'd by Passion's orient rays, When Peace, and Chearfulness, and Health Enrich'd me with the best of wealth.

Ah fair Delights that o'er my soul On Mem'ry's wing, like shadows, fly!

Ah Flowers! which Joy from Eden stole While Innocence stood smiling by!— But cease, fond heart! this bootless moan. Those hours on rapid Pinions flown Shall yet return, by Absence Crown'd, And scatter livelier roses round.

The Sun, who ne'er remits his fires On heedless eyes may pour the day: The Moon, that oft from Heav'n retires, Endears her renovated ray. What tho' she leave the sky unblest To mourn awhile in murky vest? When she relumes her lovely Light, We Bless the Wanderer of the Night.

Lines to a beautiful Spring

Once more, sweet Stream! with slow foot wand'ring near, I bless thy milky waters cold and clear. Escap'd the flashing of the noontide hours, With one fresh garland of Pierian flowers (Ere from thy zephyr-haunted brink I turn) My languid hand shall wreath thy mossy urn. For not thro' pathless grove with murmur rude Thou soothest the sad wood-nymph, Solitude: Nor thine unseen in cavern depths to well, The Hermit-fountain of some dripping cell!

Pride of the Vale! thy useful streams supply The scatter'd cots and peaceful hamlet nigh. The elfin tribe around thy friendly banks With infant uproar and soul-soothing pranks, Releas'd from school, their little hearts at rest, Launch paper navies on thy waveless breast. The rustic here at eve with pensive look Whistling lorn dittics leans upon his crook, Or starting pauses with hope-mingled dread To list the much-lov'd maid's accustom'd tread: She, vainly mindful of her Dame's command, Loiters, the long-fill'd pitcher in her hand. Unboastful stream! thy fount with pebbled falls The faded form of past delight recalls, What time the morning sun of Hope arose, And all was joy; save when another's woes A transient gloom upon my soul imprest, Like passing clouds impictur'd on thy breast.

Life's current then ran sparkling to the noon Or silv'ry stole beneath the pensive Moon: Ah! now it works rude brakes and thorns among, Or o'er the rough rock bursts and foams along!

Written in Early Youth

WRITTEN THE TIME, AN AUTUMNAL EVENING.

O thou wild Fancy, check thy wing! No more Those thin white flakes, those purple clouds explore! Nor there with happy spirits speed thy flight Bath'd in rich amber-glowing floods of light; Nor in yon gleam, where slow descends the day, With western peasants hail the morning ray! Ah! rather bid the perish'd pleasures move, A shadowy train, across the soul of Love!

O'er Disappointment's wintry desart fling Each flower, that wreath'd the dewy locks of Spring, When blushing, like a bride, from Hope's trim bower She leapt, awaken'd by the pattering shower.

Now sheds the sinking Sun a deeper gleam, Aid, lovely Sorceress! aid thy Poet's dream! With faery wand O bid the Maid arise, Chaste Joyance dancing in her bright-blue eyes; As erst when from the Muses' calm abode I came, with Learning's meed not unbestow'd: When, as she twin'd a laurel round my brow, And met my kiss, and half return'd my vow, O'er all my frame shot rapid my thrill'd heart, And every nerve confess'd the electric dart. O dear Deceit! I see the Maiden rise, Chaste Joyance dancing in her bright blue Eyes,

When first the lark high-soaring swells his throat, Mocks the tir'd eye, and scatters the loud note, I trace her footsteps on the accustom'd lawn, I mark her glancing mid the gleams of dawn. When the bent flower beneath the night-dew weeps And on the lake the silver lustre sleeps, Amid the paly radiance soft and sad She meets my lonely path in moon-beams clad. With her along the streamlet's brink I rove; With her I list the warblings of the grove; And seems in each low wind her voice to float Lone-whispering Pity in each soothing note!

Spirits of Love! ye heard her name! Obey The powerful spell, and to my haunt repair, Whether on clust'ring pinions ye are there, Where rich snows blossom on the Myrtle trees,

Or with fond languishment around my fair Sigh in the loose luxuriance of her hair; O heed the spell, and hither wing your way, Like far-off music, voyaging the breeze! Spirits! to you the infant Maid was given Form'd by the wond'rous Alchemy of Heaven! No fairer Maid does Love's wide empire know, No fairer Maid e'er heav'd the bosom's snow. A thousand Loves around her forehead fly; A thousand Loves sit melting in her eye; Love lights her smile—in Joy's bright nectar dips The flamy rose, and plants it on her lips! Tender, serene, and all devoid of guile, Soft is her soul, as sleeping infant's smile: She speaks and hark that passion-warbled song— Still, Fancy still those mazy notes prolong, Sweet as th' angelic harps, whose rapturous falls Awake the soften'd echoes of Heaven's Halls!

O (have I sigh'd) were mine the wizard's rod, Or mine the power of Proteus, changeful God! A flower-entangled Arbour I would seem To shield my Love from Noontide's sultry beam: Or bloom a Myrtle, from whose od'rous boughs My Love might weave gay garlands for her brows. When Twilight stole across the fading vale, To fan my Love I'd be the Evening Gale; Mourn in the soft folds of her swelling vest, And flutter my faint pinions on her breast! On Seraph wing I'd float a Dream, by night, To soothe my Love with shadows of delight:— Or soar aloft to be the Spangled Skies, And gaze upon her with a thousand eyes!

As when the Savage, who his drowsy frame Had bask'd beneath the Sun's unclouded flame,

Awakes amid the troubles of the air, The skiey deluge, and white lightning's glare— Aghast he scours before the tempest's sweep, And sad recalls the sunny hour of sleep:— So tost by storms along Life's wild'ring way Mine eye reverted views that cloudless day, When by my native brook I wont to rove While Hope with kisses nurs'd the Infant Love.

Dear native brook! like Peace, So placidly Smoothing thro' fertile fields thy current meek! Dear native brook! where first young Poesy Star'd wildly-eager in her noontide dream, Where blameless Pleasures dimple Quiet's check, As water-lilies ripple a slow stream! Dear native haunts! where Virtue still is gay: Where Friendship's fix'd star sheds a mellow'd ray;

Where Love a crown of thornless roses wears: Where soften'd Sorrow smiles within her tears; And Mem'ry, with a Vestal's chaste employ, Unceasing feeds the lambent flame of Joy! No more your sky-larks melting from the sight Shall thrill th' attuned heart-string with delight:— No more shall deck your pensive Pleasures sweet With wreaths of sober hue my evening seat. Yet dear to Fancy's eye your varied scene Of wood, hill, dale, and sparkling brook between! Yet sweet to Fancy's ear the warbled song, That soars on Morning's wing your vales among.

Scenes of my Hope! the aking eye ye leave Like yon bright hues that paint the clouds of eve! Tearful and sad'ning with the sadden'd blaze Mine eye the gleam pursues with wistful gaze;

Sees shades on shades with deeper tint impend, Till chill and damp the moonless night descend.

To a young Lady

TO A With a POEM on the FRENCH REVOLUTION.

Much on my early youth I love to dwell, Ere yet I bade that friendly dome farewell, Where first, beneath the echoing cloisters pale, I heard of guilt and wonder'd at the tale! Yet tho' the hours flew by on careless wing, Full heavily of Sorrow would I sing. Aye as the star of evening flung its beam In broken radiance on the wavy stream, My soul amid the pensive twilight gloom.

Mourn'd with the breeze, O Lee Boo! o'er thy tomb. Where'er I wander'd, Pity still was near, Breath'd from the heart and glisten'd in the tear: No knell that toll'd, but fill'd my anxious eye, And suffering Nature wept that one should die!

Thus to sad sympathies I sooth'd my breast, Calm, as the rainbow in the weeping West: When slumb'ring Freedom rous'd by high Disdain With giant fury burst her triple chain! Fierce on her front the blasting Dog-star glow'd; Her Banners, like a midnight Meteor, flow'd;

Amid the yelling of the storm-rent skies She came, and scatter'd battles from her eyes! Then Exultation wak'd the patriot fire, And swept with wilder hand th' Alcœean lyre: Red from the Tyrants' wound I shook the lance, And strode in joy the reeking plains of France!

Fall'n is th' oppressor, friendless, ghastly, low, And my heart akes tho' Mercy struck the blow. With wearied thought once more I seek the shade, Where peaceful Virtue weaves the Myrtle braid. And ô! if Eyes, whose holy glances roll, Swift messengers, and eloquent of soul; If Smiles more winning, and a gentler Mien, Than the love-wilder'd Maniac's brain hath seen Shaping celestial forms in vacant air, If these demand th' empassion'd Poet's care—

If Mirth, and soften'd Sense, and Wit refin'd, The blameless features of a lovely mind; Then haply shall my trembling hand assign No fading wreath to Beauty's saintly shrine. Nor, Sara! thou these early flowers refuse2 Ne'er lurk'd the snake beneath their simple hues: No purple bloom the Child of Nature brings From Flatt'ry's night-shade: as he feels, he sings.

September, 1794.

Imitated from Ossian

IMITATED

The stream with languid murmur creeps, In Lumin's flowery vale: Beneath the dew the Lily weeps Slow-waving to the gale.

"Cease, restless gale! it seems to say, "Nor wake me with thy sighing! "The honors of my vernal day "On rapid wing are flying.

"To-morrow shall the Trav'ller come "Who late beheld me blooming: "His searching eye shall vainly roam "The dreary vale of Lumin."

With eager gaze and wetted cheek My wonted haunts along, Thus, faithful Maiden! thou shalt seek The Youth of simplest song.

But I along the breeze shall roll The voice of feeble power; And dwell, the Moon-beam of thy soul, In Slumber's nightly hour.

The Complaint of Ninathoma

THE COMPLAINT of NINATHOMA.

How long will ye round me be swelling, O ye blue-tumbling waves of the Sea? Not always in Caves was my dwelling, Nor beneath the cold blast of the Tree. Thro' the high-sounding halls of Cathlóma In the steps of my Beauty I stray'd; The Warriors beheld Ninathóma, And they blessed the white-bosom'd Maid!

A Ghost! by my Cavern it darted! In moon-beams the Spirit was drest― For lovely appear the departed When they visit the dreams of my Rest! But disturb'd by the Tempest's commotion Fleet the shadowy forms of Delight― Ah cease, thou shrill blast of the Ocean! To howl thro' my Cavern by Night.

Imitated from the Welch

IMITATED FROM THE WELCH.

If, while my passion I impart, You deem my words untrue, O place your hand upon my heart2 Feel how it throbs for you!

Ah no reject the thoughtless claim In pity to your Lover! That thrilling touch would aid the flame, It wishes to discover.

To a young Ass

To a YOUNG ASS, ITS MOTHER BEING TETHERED NEAR IT.

Poor little Foal of an oppressed Race! I love the languid Patience of thy face: And oft with gentle hand I give thee bread, And clap thy ragged Coat, and pat thy head. But what thy dulled Spirits hath dismay'd, That never thou dost sport along the glade? And (most unlike the nature of things young) That earth-ward still thy moveless head is hung! Do thy prophetic Fears anticipate, Meek Child of Misery! thy future fate?― The starving meal, and all the thousand aches "Which patient Merit of the Unworthy takes?

Or is thy sad heart thrill'd with filial pain To see thy wretched Mother's shorten'd Chain? And truly, very piteous is her Lot2 Chain'd to a Log within a narrow spot Where the close-eaten Grass is scarcely seen, While sweet around her waves the tempting Green! Poor Ass! thy Master should have learnt to shew Pity―best taught by fellowship of Woe! For much I fear me, that He lives, like thee, Half-famish'd in a land of Luxury! How askingly its footsteps hither bend? It seems to say, "And have I then one Friend?" Innocent Foal! thou poor despis'd Forlorn! I hail thee Brother―spite of the fool's scorn! And fain would take thee with me, in the Dell Of Peace and mild Equality to dwell, Where Toil shall call the charmer Health his Bride, And Laughter tickle Plenty's ribless side!

How thou wouldst toss thy heels in gamesome play, And frisk about, as Lamb or Kitten gay! Yea! and more musically sweet to me Thy dissonant harsh Bray of Joy would be, Than warbled Melodies that sooth to rest The aching of pale Fashion's vacant breast!

December, 1794.

To an Infant

TO AN INFANT.

Ah cease thy Tears and Sobs, my little Life! I did but snatch away the unclasp'd Knife: Some safer Toy will soon arrest thine eye, And to quick Laughter change this peevish cry! Poor Stumbler on the rocky coast of Woe, Tutor'd by Pain each source of Pain to know! Alike the foodful fruit and scorching fire Awake thy eager grasp and young desire: Alike the Good, the Ill offend thy sight, And rouse the stormy Sense of shrill Affright! Untaught, yet wise! mid all thy brief alarms Thou closely clingest to thy Mother's arms, Nestling thy little face in that fond breast Whose anxious Heavings lull thee to thy rest!

Man's breathing Miniature! thou mak'st me sigh— A Babe art thou—and such a Thing am I! To anger rapid and as soon appeas'd, For trifles mourning and by trifles pleas'd, Break Friendship's Mirror with a tetchy blow, Yet snatch what coals of fire on Pleasure's altar glow!

O thou that rearest with celestial aim The future Seraph in my mortal frame, Thrice holy Faith! whatever thorns I meet As on I totter with unpractis'd feet, Still let me stretch my arms and cling to thee, Meek Nurse of Souls thro' their long Infancy!

Epitaph on an Infant

EPITAPH

ON

AN INFANT.

Ere Sin could blight or Sorrow fade, Death came with friendly care; The opening bud to Heaven convey'd And bade it blossom there.

Domestic Peace

DOMESTIC PEACE.

Tel me, on what holy ground May Domestic Peace be found? Halcyon Daughter of the skies, Far on fearful wings she flies, From the pomp of scepter'd State, From the Rebel's noisy hate. In a cottaged vale She dwells Lst'ning to the Sabbath bells! Still around her steps are seen Spotless Honor's meeker mien,

Love, the sire of pleasing fears, Sorrow smiling through her tears, And conscious of the past employ Memory, bosom-spring of joy.

Lines on the Man of Ross

LINES

Written at the KING's-ARMS, ROSS,