The Works of Anna Laetitia Barbauld

Front matter

AuxTOC|title=Volumes|

Volume I.

THE WORKS

OF

ANNA LÆTITIA BARBAULD.

VOL. I.

LONDON:

PRINTED BY RICHARD TAYLOR, SHOE-LANE.

Pubd by Longman & Co May 1825.

THE WORKS

OF

ANNA LÆTITIA BARBAULD

WITH A MEMOIR

By LUCY AIKIN.

Bright-eyed Fancy hovering o'er Scatters from her pictured urn Thoughts that breathe and words that burn.

IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. I.

LONDON:

PRINTED FOR

LONGMAN, HURST, REES, ORME, BROWN, AND GREEN, PATERNOSTER-ROW.

1825.

CONTENTS OF VOLUME I.

A Summer Evening's Meditation

A SUMMER EVENING'S MEDITATION.

past! The sultry tyrant of the south Has spent his short-lived rage; more grateful hours Move silent on; the skies no more repell The dazzled sight, but with mild maiden beams Of tempered lustre court the cherished eye To wander o'er their sphere; where hung aloft Dian's bright crescent, like a silver bow New strung in heaven, lifts high its beamy horns Impatient for the night, and seems to push Her brother down the sky. Fair Venus shines Even in the eye of day; with sweetest beam Propitious shines, and shakes a trembling flood

Of softened radiance from her dewy locks. The shadows spread apace; while meekened Eve, Her cheek yet warm with blushes, slow retires Through the Hesperian gardens of the west, And shuts the gates of day. now the hour When Contemplation from her sunless haunts, The cool damp grotto, or the lonely depth Of unpierced woods, where wrapt in solid shade She mused away the gaudy hours of noon, And fed on thoughts unripened by the sun, Moves forward; and with radiant finger points To yon blue concave swelled by breath divine, Where, one by one, the living eyes of heaven Awake, quick kindling o'er the face of ether One boundless blaze; ten thousand trembling fires, And dancing lustres, where the unsteady eye, Restless and dazzled, wanders unconfined O'er all this field of glories; spacious field, And worthy of the Master: he, whose hand With hieroglyphics elder than the Nile

Inscribed the mystic tablet, hung on high To public gaze, and said, "Adore, O man! The finger of thy God." From what pure wells Of milky light, what soft overflowing urn, Are all these lamps so fill'd? these friendly lamps, For ever streaming o'er the azure deep To point our path, and light us to our home. How soft they slide along their lucid spheres! And silent as the foot of Time, fulfill Their destined courses: Nature's self is hushed, And, but a scattered leaf, which rustles through The thick-wove foliage, not a sound is heard To break the midnight air; though the raised ear, Intensely listening, drinks in every breath. How deep the silence, yet how loud the praise! But are they silent all? or is there not A tongue in every star, that talks with man, And woos him to be wise? nor woos in vain: This dead of midnight is the noon of thought, And Wisdom mounts her zenith with the stars.

At this still hour the self-collected soul Turns inward, and beholds a stranger there Of high descent, and more than mortal rank; An embryo God; a spark of fire divine, Which must burn on for ages, when the sun,— Fair transitory creature of a day!— Has closed his golden eye, and wrapt in shades Forgets his wonted journey through the east.

Ye citadels of light, and seats of Gods! Perhaps my future home, from whence the soul, Revolving periods past, may oft look back With recollected tenderness on all The various busy scenes she left below, Its deep-laid projects and its strange events, As on some fond and doting tale that soothed Her infant hours—O be it lawful now To tread the hallowed circle of your courts, And with mute wonder and delighted awe Approach your burning confines. Seized in thought,

On Fancy's wild and roving wing I sail, From the green borders of the peopled Earth, And the pale Moon, her duteous fair attendant; From solitary Mars; from the vast orb Of Jupiter, whose huge gigantic bulk Dances in ether like the lightest leaf; To the dim verge, the suburbs of the system, Where cheerless Saturn 'midst his watery moons Girt with a lucid zone, in gloomy pomp, Sits like an exiled monarch: fearless thence I launch into the trackless deeps of space, Where, burning round, ten thousand suns appear, Of elder beam, which ask no leave to shine Of our terrestrial star, nor borrow light From the proud regent of our scanty day; Sons of the morning, first-born of creation, And only less than Him who marks their track, And guides their fiery wheels. Here must I stop, Or is there aught beyond? What hand unseen Impells me onward through the glowing orbs

Of habitable nature, far remote, To the dread confines of eternal night, To solitudes of vast unpeopled space, The deserts of creation, wide and wild; Where embryo systems and unkindled suns Sleep in the womb of chaos? fancy droops, And thought astonished stops her bold career. But thou mighty mind! whose powerful word Said, thus let all things be, and thus they were, Where shall I seek thy presence? how unblamed Invoke thy dread perfection? Have the broad eyelids of the morn beheld thee? Or does the beamy shoulder of Orion Support thy throne? O look with pity down On erring, guilty man! not in thy names Of terror clad; not with those thunders armed That conscious Sinai felt, when fear appalled The scattered tribes;—thou hast a gentler voice, That whispers comfort to the swelling heart, Abashed, yet longing to behold her Maker.

But now my soul, unused to stretch her powers In flight so daring, drops her weary wing, And seeks again the known accustomed spot, Drest up with sun, and shade, and lawns, and streams, A mansion fair, and spacious for its guest, And full replete with wonders. Let me here, Content and grateful, wait the appointed time, And ripen for the skies: the hour will come When all these splendours bursting on my sight Shall stand unveiled, and to my ravished sense Unlock the glories of the world unknown.

An Address to the Deity

AN ADDRESS TO THE DEITY.

God of my life! and author of my days! Permit my feeble voice to lisp thy praise; And trembling, take upon a mortal tongue That hallowed name to harps of seraphs sung. Yet here the brightest seraphs could no more Than veil their faces, tremble, and adore. Worms, angels, men, in every different sphere Are equal all,—for all are nothing here. All nature faints beneath the mighty name, Which nature's works though all their parts proclaim. I feel that name my inmost thoughts controul, And breathe an awful stillness through my soul;

As by a charm, the waves of grief subside; Impetuous Passion stops her headlong tide: At thy felt presence all emotions cease, And my hushed spirit finds a sudden peace, Till every worldly thought within me dies, And earth's gay pageants vanish from my eyes; Till all my sense is lost in infinite, And one vast object fills my aching sight.

But soon, alas! this holy calm is broke; My soul submits to wear her wonted yoke; With shackled pinions strives to soar in vain, And mingles with the dross of earth again. But he, our gracious Master, kind as just, Knowing our frame, remembers man is dust. His spirit, ever brooding o'er our mind, Sees the first wish to better hopes inclined; Marks the young dawn of every virtuous aim, And fans the smoking flax into a flame.

His ears are open to the softest cry, His grace descends to meet the lifted eye; He reads the language of a silent tear, And sighs are incense from a heart sincere. Such are the vows, the sacrifice I give; Accept the vow, and bid the suppliant live: From each terrestrial bondage set me free; Still every wish that centres not in thee; Bid my fond hopes, my vain disquiets cease, And point my path to everlasting peace.

If the soft hand of winning Pleasure leads By living waters, and through flowery meads, When all is smiling, tranquil, and serene, And vernal beauty paints the flattering scene, O teach me to elude each latent snare, And whisper to my sliding heart—Beware! With caution let me hear the syren's voice, And doubtful, with a trembling heart, rejoice.

If friendless, in a vale of tears I stray, Where briars wound, and thorns perplex my way, Still let my steady soul thy goodness see, And with strong confidence lay hold on thee; With equal eye my various lot receive, Resigned to die, or resolute to live; Prepared to kiss the sceptre or the rod, While God is seen in all, and all in God.

I read his awful name, emblazoned high With golden letters on the illumined sky; Nor less the mystic characters I see Wrought in each flower, inscribed in every tree; In every leaf that trembles to the breeze I hear the voice of God among the trees; With thee in shady solitudes I walk, With thee in busy crowded cities talk; In every creature own thy forming power, In each event thy providence adore.

Thy hopes shall animate my drooping soul, Thy precepts guide me, and thy fears controul: Thus shall I rest, unmoved by all alarms, Secure within the temple of thine arms; From anxious cares, from gloomy terrors free, And feel myself omnipotent in thee.

Then when the last, the closing hour draws nigh, And earth recedes before my swimming eye; When trembling on the doubtful edge of fate I stand, and stretch my view to either state: Teach me to quit this transitory scene With decent triumph and a look serene; Teach me to fix my ardent hopes on high, And having lived to thee, in thee to die.

An Inventory of the Furniture in Dr. Priestley's Study

AN INVENTORY OF THE FURNITURE IN DR. PRIESTLEY'S STUDY.

A map of every country known, With not a foot of land his own. A list of folks that kicked a dust On this poor globe, from Ptol. the First; He hopes,—indeed it is but fair,— Some day to get a corner there. A group of all the British kings, Fair emblem! on a packthread swings. The Fathers, ranged in goodly row, A decent, venerable show, Writ a great while ago, they tell us, And many an inch o'ertop their fellows.

A Juvenal to hunt for mottos; And Ovid's tales of nymphs and grottos. The meek-robed lawyers, all in white; Pure as the lamb,—at least, to sight. A shelf of bottles, jar and phial, By which the rogues he can defy all,— All filled with lightning keen and genuine, And many a little imp he'll pen you in; Which, like Le Sage's sprite, let out, Among the neighbours makes a rout; Brings down the lightning on their houses, And kills their geese, and frights their spouses. A rare thermometer, by which He settles, to the nicest pitch, The just degrees of heat, to raise Sermons, or politics, or plays. Papers and books, a strange mixed olio, From shilling touch to pompous folio; Answer, remark, reply, rejoinder, Fresh from the mint, all stamped and coined here;

Like new-made glass, set by to cool, Before it bears the workman's tool. A blotted proof-sheet, wet from Bowling. —"How can a man his anger hold in?"— Forgotten rimes, and college themes, Worm-eaten plans, and embryo schemes;— A mass of heterogeneous matter, A chaos dark, nor land nor water;— New books, like new-born infants, stand, 'Waiting the printer's clothing hand;— Others, a motley ragged brood, Their limbs imfashioned all, and rude, Like Cadmus' half-formed men appear; One rears a helm, one lifts a spear, And feet were lopped and fingers torn Before their fellow limbs were born; A leg began to kick and sprawl Before the head was seen at all, Which quiet as a mushroom lay Till crumbling hillocks gave it way;

And all, like controversial writing, Were born with teeth, and sprung up fighting.

"But what is this," I hear you cry, "Which saucily provokes my eye?"— A thing unknown, without a name, Born of the air and doomed to flame.

Characters

CHARACTERS.

O born to soothe distress and lighten care, Lively as soft, and innocent as fair! Blest with that sweet simplicity of thought So rarely found, and never to be taught; Of winning speech, endearing, artless, kind, The loveliest pattern of a female mind; Like some fair spirit from the realms of rest, With all her native heaven within her breast; So pure, so good, she scarce can guess at sin, But thinks the world without like that within; Such melting tenderness, so fond to bless, Her charity almost becomes excess.

Wealth may be courted, Wisdom be revered, And Beauty praised, and brutal Strength be feared; But Goodness only can affection move, And love must owe its origin to love.

Illam quicquid agit, quoquo vestigia flectit, Componit furtim, subsequiturque decor. >>Tibul.

Of gentle manners, and of taste refined, With all the graces of a polished mind; Clear sense and truth still shone in all she spoke, And from her lips no idle sentence broke. Each nicer elegance of art she knew; Correctly fair, and regularly true. Her ready fingers plied with equal skill The pencil's task, the needle, or the quill; So poised her feelings, so composed her soul, So subject all to reason's calm controul,—

One only passion, strong and unconfined, Disturbed the balance of her even mind: One passion ruled despotic in her breast, In every word, and look, and thought confest:— But that was love; and love delights to bless The generous transports of a fond excess.

Happy old man! who stretched beneath the shade Of large grown trees, or in the rustic porch With woodbine canopied, where linger yet The hospitable virtues, calm enjoy'st Nature s best blessings all;—a healthy age Ruddy and vigorous, native cheerfulness, Plain-hearted friendship, simple piety, The rural manners and the rural joys Friendly to life. O rude of speech, yet rich In genuine worth, not unobserved shall pass

Thy bashful virtues! for the Muse shall mark, Detect thy charities, and call to light Thy secret deeds of mercy; while the poor, The desolate and friendless, at thy gate, A numerous family, with better praise Shall hallow in their hearts thy spotless name.

Such were the dames of old heroic days, Which faithful story yet delights to praise; Who, great in useful works, hung o'er the loom,— The mighty mothers of immortal Rome: Obscure, in sober dignity retired, They more deserved than sought to be admired; The household virtues o'er their honoured head Their simple grace and modest lustre shed: Chaste their attire, their feet unused to roam, They loved the sacred threshold of their home;

Yet true to glory, fanned the generous flame, Bade lovers, brothers, sons aspire to fame; In the young bosom cherished Virtue's seed, The secret springs of many a godlike deed. So the fair stream in some sequestered glade With lowly state glides silent through the shade; Yet by the smiling meads her urn is blest, With freshest flowers her rising banks are drest, And groves of laurel, by her sweetness fed, High o'er the forest lift their verdant head.

Is there whom genius and whom taste adorn With rare but happy union; in whose breast Calm, philosophic, thoughtful, largely fraught With stores of various knowledge, dwell the powers That trace out secret causes, and unveil Great Nature's awful face? Is there whose hours

Of still domestic leisure breathe the soul Of friendship, peace, and elegant delight Beneath poetic shades, where leads the Muse Through walks of fragrance, and the fairy groves Where young ideas blossom?—Is there one Whose tender hand, lenient of human woes, Wards off the dart of death, and smooths the couch Of torturing anguish? On so dear a name May blessings dwell, honour, and cordial praise; Nor need he be a brother to be loved.

Champion of Truth, alike through Nature's field, And where in sacred leaves she shines revea'd,— Alike in both, eccentric, piercing, bold, Like his own lightnings, which no chains can hold; Neglecting caution, and disdaining art, He seeks no armour for a naked heart:—

Pursue the track thy ardent genius shows, That like the sun illumines where it goes; Travel the various map of Science o'er, Record past wonders, and discover more; Pour thy free spirit o'er the breathing page, And wake the virtue of a careless age. But O forgive, if touched with fond regret Fancy recalls the scenes she can't forget, Recalls the vacant smile, the social hours Which charmed us once, for once those scenes were ours! And while thy praises through wide realms extend, We sit in shades, and mourn the absent friend. So where the' impetuous river sweeps the plain, Itself a sea, and rushes to the main; While its firm banks repel conflicting tides, And stately on its breast the vessel glides; Admiring much the shepherd stands to gaze, Awe-struck, and mingling wonder with his praise: Yet more he loves its winding path to trace Through beds of flowers, and Nature's rural face,

While yet a stream the silent vale it cheered, By many a recollected scene endeared, Where trembling first beneath the poplar shade He tuned his pipe, to suit the wild cascade.

Corsica

POEMS.

CORSICA.

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1769.

…A manly race Of unsubmitting spirit, wise and brave; Who still through bleeding ages struggled hard To hold a generous undiminished state; Too much in vain! >>Thomson.

Hail, generous Corsica! unconquered isle! The fort of freedom; that amidst the waves Stands like a rock of adamant, and dares The wildest fury of the beating storm.

And are there yet, in this late sickly age, Unkindly to the towering growths of virtue,

Such bold exalted spirits? Men whose deeds, To the bright annals of old Greece opposed, Would throw in shades her yet unrivaled name, And dim the lustre of her fairest page! And glows the flame of Liberty so strong In this lone speck of earth! this spot obscure, Shaggy with woods, and crusted o'er with rock, By slaves surrounded, and by slaves oppressed! What then should Britons feel? should they not catch The warm contagion of heroic ardour, And kindle at a fire so like their own?

Such were the working thoughts which swelled the breast Of generous Boswel; when with nobler aim And views beyond the narrow beaten track By trivial fancy trod, he turned his course From polished Gallia's soft delicious vales, From the grey reliques of imperial Rome, From her long galleries of laureled stone, Her chiseled heroes and her marble gods,

Whose dumb majestic pomp yet awes the world, To animated forms of patriot zeal; Warm in the living majesty of virtue; Elate with fearless spirit; firm; resolved; By fortune nor subdued, nor awed by power.

How raptured fancy burns, while warm in thought I trace the pictured landscape; while I kiss With pilgrim lips devout the sacred soil Stained with the blood of heroes. Cyrnus, hail! Hail to thy rocky, deep indented shores, And pointed cliffs, which hear the chafing deep Incessant foaming round their shaggy sides. Hail to thy winding bays, thy sheltering ports And ample harbours, which inviting stretch Their hospitable arms to every sail: Thy numerous streams, that bursting from the cliffs Down the steep channeled rock impetuous pour With grateful murmur: on the fearful edge Of the rude precipice, thy hamlets brown

And straw-roofed cots, which from the level vale Scarce seen, amongst the craggy hanging cliffs Seem like an eagle's nest aerial built. Thy swelling mountains, brown with solemn shade Of various trees, that wave their giant arms O'er the rough sons of freedom; lofty pines, And hardy fir, and ilex ever green, And spreading chesnut, with each humbler plant, And shrub of fragrant leaf, that clothes their sides With living verdure; whence the clustering bee Extracts her golden dews: the shining box, And sweet-leaved myrtle, aromatic thyme, The prickly juniper, and the green leaf Which feeds the spinning worm; while glowing bright Beneath the various foliage, wildly spreads The arbutus, and rears his scarlet fruit Luxuriant, mantling o'er the craggy steeps; And thy own native laurel crowns the scene. Hail to thy savage forests, awful, deep; Thy tangled thickets, and thy crowded woods,

The haunt of herds untamed; which sullen bound From rock to rock with fierce unsocial air, And wilder gaze, as conscious of the power That loves to reign amid the lonely scenes Of unquelled nature: precipices huge, And tumbling torrents; trackless deserts, plains Fenced in with guardian rocks, whose quarries teem With shining steel, that to the cultured fields And sunny hills which wave with bearded grain Defends their homely produce. Liberty, The mountain Goddess, loves to range at large Amid such scenes, and on the iron soil Prints her majestic step. For these she scorns The green enameled vales, the velvet lap Of smooth savannahs, where the pillowed head Of Luxury reposes; balmy gales, And bowers that breathe of bliss. For these, when first This isle emerging like a beauteous gem From the dark bosom of the Tyrrhene main Reared its fair front, she marked it for her own,

And with her spirit warmed. Her genuine sons, A broken remnant, from the generous stock Of ancient Greece, from Sparta's sad remains, True to their high descent, preserved unquenched The sacred fire through many a barbarous age: Whom, nor the iron rod of cruel Carthage, Nor the dread sceptre of imperial Rome, Nor bloody Goth, nor grisly Saracen, Nor the long galling yoke of proud Liguria, Could crush into subjection. Still unquelled They rose superior, bursting from their chains, And claimed man's dearest birthright, liberty: And long, through many a hard unequal strife Maintained the glorious conflict; long withstood, With single arm, the whole collected force Of haughty Genoa, and ambitious Gaul. And shall withstand it—Trust the faithful Muse! It is not in the force of mortal arm, Scarcely in fate, to bind the struggling soul That galled by wanton power, indignant swells

Against oppression; breathing great revenge, Careless of life, determined to be free. And favouring Heaven approves: for see the Man, Born to exalt his own, and give mankind A glimpse of higher natures: just, as great; The soul of council, and the nerve of war; Of high unshaken spirit, tempered sweet With soft urbanity, and polished grace, And attic wit, and gay unstudied smiles: Whom Heaven in some propitious hour endowed With every purer virtue: gave him all That lifts the herb, or adorns the man. Grave him the eye sublime; the searching glance, Keen, scanning deep, that smites the guilty soul As with a beam from heaven; on his brow Serene, and spacious front, set the broad seal Of dignity and rule; then smiled benign On this fair pattern of a God below, High wrought, and breathed into his swelling breast The large ambitious wish to save his country.

O beauteous title to immortal fame! The man devoted to the public, stands In the bright records of superior worth A step below the skies: if he succeed, The first fair lot which earth affords, is his; And if he falls, he falls above a throne. When such their leader, can the brave despair? Freedom the cause, and Paoli the chief! Success to your fair hopes! A British Muse, Though weak and powerless, lifts her fervent voice, And breathes a prayer for your success. O could She scatter blessings as the morn sheds dews, To drop upon your heads! But patient hope Must wait the appointed hour; secure of this, That never with the indolent and weak Will Freedom deign to dwell; she must be seized By that bold arm that wrestles for the blessing: 'Tis Heaven's best prize, and must be bought with blood. When the storm thickens, when the combat burns, And pain and death in every horrid shape

That can appal the feeble, prowl around, Then Virtue triumphs; then her towering form Dilates with kindling majesty; her mien Breathes a diviner spirit, and enlarged Each spreading feature, with an ampler port And bolder tone, exulting, rides the storm, And joys amidst the tempest. Then she reaps Her golden harvest; fruits of nobler growth And higher relish than meridian suns Can ever ripen; fair, heroic deeds, And godlike action. 'Tis not meats and drinks, And balmy airs, and vernal suns and showers, That feed and ripen minds; 'tis toil and danger; And wrestling with the stubborn gripe of fate; And war, and sharp distress, and paths obscure And dubious. The bold swimmer joys not so To feel the proud waves under him, and beat With strong repelling arm the billowy surge; The generous courser does not so exult To toss his floating mane against the wind,

And neigh amidst the thunder of the war, As Virtue to oppose her swelling breast Like a firm shield against the darts of fate. And when her sons in that rough school have learned To smile at danger, then the hand that raised Shall hush the storm, and lead the shining train Of peaceful years in bright procession on. Then shall the shepherd's pipe, the Muse's lyre, On Cyrnus' shores be heard: her grateful sons With loud acclaim and hymns of cordial praise Shall hail their high deliverers; every name To Virtue dear be from oblivion snatched And placed among the stars: but chiefly thine, Thine, Paoli, with sweetest sound shall dwell On their applauding lips; thy sacred name, Endeared to long posterity, some Muse, More worthy of the theme, shall consecrate To after-ages, and applauding worlds Shall bless the godlike man who saved his country.

So vainly wished, so fondly hoped the Muse: Too fondly hoped. The iron fates prevail, And Cyrnus is no more. Her generous sons, Less vanquished than overwhelmed, by numbers crushed, Admired, unaided fell. So strives the moon In dubious battle with the gathering clouds, And strikes a splendour through them; till at length Storms rolled on storms involve the face of heaven And quench her struggling fires. Forgive the zeal That, too presumptuous, whispered better things, And read the book of destiny amiss. Not with the purple colouring of success Is virtue best adorned: the attempt is praise. There yet remains a freedom, nobler far Than kings or senates can destroy or give; Beyond the proud oppressor's cruel grasp Seated secure, uninjured, undestroyed; Worthy of Gods…the freedom of the mind.

Delia. An Elegy

DELIA.

AN ELEGY.

…tecum ut longæ sociarem gaudia vitæ, Inque tuo caderet nostra senecta sinu. >>Tibul.

Yes, Delia loves! My fondest vows are blest: Farewell the memory of her past disdain; One kind relenting glance has healed my breast, And balanced in a moment years of pain.

O'er her soft cheek consenting blushes move, And with kind stealth her secret soul betray; Blushes, which usher in the morn of love, Sure as the reddening east foretells the day.

Her tender smiles shall pay me with delight For many a bitter pang of jealous fear; For many an anxious day and sleepless night, For many a stifled sigh and silent tear.

Delia shall come and bless my lone retreat: She does not scorn the shepherd's lowly life; She will not blush to leave the splendid seat, And own the title of a poor man's wife.

The simple knot shall bind her gathered hair, The russet garment clasp her lovely breast; Delia shall mix among the rural fair, By charms alone distinguished from the rest.

And meek Simplicity, neglected maid, Shall bid my fair in native graces shine; She, only she, shall lend her modest aid, Chaste, sober priestess, at sweet Beauty's shrine!

How sweet to muse by murmuring springs reclined! Or loitering careless in the shady grove, Indulge the gentlest feelings of the mind, And pity those who live to aught but love!

When Delia's hand unlocks her shining hair, And o'er her shoulder spreads the flowing gold; Base were the man who one bright tress would spare For all the ore of India's coarser mold.

By her dear side with what content I'd toil! Patient of any labour in her sight;— Guide the slow plough, or turn the stubborn soil, Till the last lingering beam of doubtful light.

But softer tasks divide my Delia's hours;— To watch the firstlings at their harmless play; With welcome shade to screen the languid flowers That sicken in the summer's parching ray.

Oft will she stoop amidst her evening walk, With tender hand each bruised plant to rear; To bind the drooping lily's broken stalk, And nurse the blossoms of the infant year.

When beating rains forbid our feet to roam, We'll sheltered sit, and turn the storied page; There see what passions shake the lofty dome With mad ambition or ungoverned rage:

What headlong ruin oft involves the great; What conscious terrors guilty bosoms prove; What strange and sudden turns of adverse fate Tear the sad virgin from her plighted love.

Delia shall read, and drop a gentle tear; Then cast her eyes around the low-roofed cot, And own the Fates have dealt more kindly here, That blessed with only love our little lot.

For Love has sworn,—I heard the awful vow,— The wavering heart shall never be his care, That stoops at any baser shrine to bow; And what he cannot rule, he scorns to share.

My heart in Delia is so fully blest, It has no room to lodge another joy; My peace all leans upon that gentle breast, And only there misfortune can annoy.

Our silent hours shall steal unmarked away, In one long tender calm of rural peace, And measure many a fair unblemished day Of cheerful leisure and poetic ease.

The proud unfeeling world their lot shall scorn, Who 'midst inglorious shades can poorly dwell:— Yet if some youth, for gentler passions born, Shall chance to wander near our lowly cell,

His feeling breast with purer flames shall glow;— And leaving pomp, and state, and cares behind, Shall own the world has little to bestow Where two fond hearts in equal love are joined.