I'll lightly hold the lady's heart,
That is but lightly won;

I'll steel my breast to beauty's art,

And learn to live alone.

The flaunting torch soon blazes out,
The diamond's ray abides;
The flame its glory hurls about,

The gem its lustre hides;

Such gem I fondly deemed was mine,
And glowed a diamond stone,

But, since each eye may see it shine,
I'll darkling dwell alone.

No waking dreams shall tinge my thought
With dyes so bright and vain,
No silken net so slightly wrought
Shall tangle me again:

No more I'll pay so dear for wit,

I'll live upon mine own,

Nor shall wild passion trouble it,

I'll rather dwell alone.

And thus I'll hush my heart to rest,

"Thy loving labour's lost;

Thou shalt no more be wildly blest,

To be so strangely crost:

The widowed turtles mateless die,

The phoenix is but one;

They seek no loves

no more will I —

I'll rather dwell alone.'

EPITAPH

DESIGNED FOR A MONUMENT IN LICHFIELD CATHEDRAL, AT THE BURIAL-PLACE OF THE FAMILY OF MISS SEWARD

1809

AMID these aisles where once his precepts showed
The heavenward pathway which in life he trode,
This simple tablet marks a Father's bier,
And those he loved in life in death are near;

For him, for them, a Daughter bade it rise,
Memorial of domestic charities.

Still wouldst thou know why o'er the marble spread
In female grace the willow droops her head;
Why on her branches, silent and unstrung,
The minstrel harp is emblematic hung;
What poet's voice is smothered here in dust
Till waked to join the chorus of the just,
Lo! one brief line an answer sad supplies,
Honoured, beloved, and mourned, here SEWARD lies!
Her worth, her warmth of heart, let friendship say,
Go seek her genius in her living lay.

PROLOGUE

TO MISS BAILLIE'S PLAY OF 'THE FAMILY LEGEND'

1810

'T is sweet to hear expiring Summer's sigh,

Through forests tinged with russet, wail and die; 'T is sweet and sad the latest notes to hear

Of distant music, dying on the ear;

But far more sadly sweet on foreign strand
We list the legends of our native land,
Linked as they come with every tender tie,
Memorials dear of youth and infancy.

Chief thy wild tales, romantic Caledon, Wake keen remembrance in each hardy son. Whether on India's burning coasts he toil Or till Acadia's winter-fettered soil,

He hears with throbbing heart and moistened eyes,

And, as he hears, what dear illusions rise!

It opens on his soul his native dell,

The woods wild waving and the water's swell;

Tradition's theme, the tower that threats the plain,

The mossy cairn that hides the hero slain;

The cot beneath whose simple porch were told

By grey-haired patriarch the tales of old,

The infant group that hushed their sports the while,
And the dear maid who listened with a smile.

The wanderer, while the vision warms his brain,
Is denizen of Scotland once again.

Are such keen feelings to the crowd confined, And sleep they in the poet's gifted mind? O no! For she, within whose mighty page Each tyrant Passion shows his woe and rage, Has felt the wizard influence they inspire, And to your own traditions tuned her lyre. Yourselves shall judge - whoe'er has raised the sail By Mull's dark coast has heard this evening's tale. The plaided boatman, resting on his oar,

Points to the fatal rock amid the roar

Of whitening waves, and tells whate'er to-night
Our humble stage shall offer to your sight;
Proudly preferred that first our efforts give
Scenes glowing from her pen to breathe and live;
More proudly yet, should Caledon approve

The filial token of a daughter's love.