And at times like a lamb in a low grassy vale,

Stretch'd in peace on its verdant pillow.

But no image of gloom, or of care, or of strife,

Hath it e'er given birth to, one minute; For lamented in death, as beloved in life,

Was he who now slumbers within it.

He was one, who, in youth, on the stormy seas,

Was a far and a fearless ranger; Who, borne on the billow, and blown by the

breeze, Had deem'd lightly of death or of danger.

Yet in this rude school had his heart still kept

All the freshness of gentlest feeling; Nor in woman's warm eye hath a tear ever slept

More of softness and kindness revealing.

And here, when the bustle of youth was past,

He liv’d, -and he lov’d,--and he died too ;0! why was affection, which death could out-last,

A more lengthen'd enjoyment denied to ?

But here he slumbers! and many there are

Who love that lone tomb, and revere it; And one far off, who, like eve's dewy star,

Tho' at distance, in fancy dwells near it,

THE WEEPING WILLOW.

MRS ROBINSON.

BENEATH a weeping willow

A frantic maiden mourn'd,
The mossy bank her pillow,

With drooping flowers adorn’d.

The stream was gently flowing

Beneath her downcast eyes; The breezes, softly blowing,

Were mingled with her sighs,

My love, said she, lies dreaming

Beneath yon foamy deep, Where lonely sea-birds screaming,

With restless pinions sweep, Ah! where is now the laurel

That bound his golden hair? He wears a crown of coral,

Qf pearls and jewels rare,

A syren nymph adores him,

She sings him to repose; While weeping love implores him

To shun impending woes.
I see him wak’d, reclining

Upon his silver bed,
A wreath of sea-weeds twining,

To deck her beauteous head.

Her emerald tresses flowing,

Illume the crystal flood, Resplendent rays bestowing

From many a brilliant stud. Her eyes like sapphires beaming,

Her white robe floats around, Her breast with rapture teeming,

With bands of rubies bound.

Ah! now he beckons smiling,

Enamour'd of her charms; Her syren voice beguiling,

Allures him to her arms,

Upon the green wave gliding

To Neptune's sparry cell,
Each ruffling breeze deriding,

The Tritons bear her shell.

Then fare thee well, false rover,

'Tis now too late to save;
My grief will soon be over-

She plung'd amidst the wave.
Still Echo chants her ditty,

The stream its murmuring keeps
The willow, bow'd in pity,

Adorns her grave, and weeps.

CANZONET.

JOHN BOWDLER, JUN. ESQ.

'Tis sweet, when in the glowing west

The sun's bright wheels their course are leaving, Upon the azure ocean's breast

To watch the dark wave slowly heaving.

And oh! at glimpse of early morn,

When holy monks their beads are telling, 'Tis sweet to hear the hunter's horn

From glen to mountain wildly swelling. And it is sweet, at mid-day hour,

Beneath the forest oak reclining, To hear the driving tempest pour

Each sense to fairy dreams resigning.

'Tis sweet, where nodding rocks around

The night-shade dark is wildly wreathing,

To listen to some solemn sound,

From harp or lyre divinely breathing. And sweeter yet the genuine glow

Of youthful friendship's high devotion, Responsive to the voice of woe,

When heaves the breast with strong emotion.

And youth is sweet, with many a joy,

That frolics by in artless measure ; And age is sweet, with less alloy,

In tranquil thought and silent pleasure.

For He who gave the life we share,

With every charm his gift adorning, Bade eve her pearly dew-drops wear,

And dress'd in smiles the blush of morning.

MADNESS.

Written on a cliff at Cromer.

NORGATE.

Hush, hush, Eliza-hush, my love, nor wake,
With heedless step, yon melancholy form
In moody trance that sits—let no rude noise
Invade the solemn stillness of his soul!
Mark his wild front, Eliza, and his brows
That o'er twin glaring eye-balls grimly roll.
List-how the bleak winds whistle round his head,
Lash bis grey locks, and chill his feeble form!
'Tis Madness' self, that sighs the livelong night,
And to the pale moon pours his sorrowing song !

'Twas erst, an aged ghost embroild the night, When Julia, 'midst the sinking sea-men's hpwl, Alone was silent--was alone resign'd, And in a world of waters made her grave. The shattered vessel sunk,--this wretch escap'd, And no one liv'd to tell the fearful tale, Saye his lorn self!But ever since, on yonder craggy cliff, When Night rolls darkness from her hundred bills, Bereft of reason, this poor piteous soul Stalks fearless on the brink, and calls for Julia ! Sometimes, when heaven and earth should seem

convuls'd, When every toughest oar lies cleft in twain ; When the rough breakers ciimb against the rock, And drink the ragged splinters as they burst; This child of frenzy loves to sit alone, Weave the light sea-weed for his Julia's brow, Or careless scatter round the silvery sand. And oft I've seen him too, in horrid joy, Play with the forked lightning's deadly flash, And with wild step to the deep thunder dance.

Sometimes, when silence settles on the sea,
And peaceful billows rock the world to sleep,
With bosom bare, and haggard eye, pale cheek,
And all the dread accompaniments of woe,
He tears his flesh, hurls the astonish'd flock
Down the deep beach, and with ungrateful tooth
He gnaws the staff that saved him from destruc-

tion!
See, see, Eliza! now he bends his knee-
Now he calls Julia—now again he runs
To clasp a phantom : see, with fond embrace
He kisses it, and now, my love, he's happy!
Ah! he starts back, and, with an anger'd arm,
Beats the insulting blast. He feels, alas !