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Now walks mute Midnight, darkling o'er the plain, These scenes of bliss, no more upbraid my fate,
Torture my pining thought, and rouze my hate.
The leaf-clad forest, and the tufted grove, These all-asleep, me all-awake they find;
Erewhile the safe retreats of happy love, Nor rest, nor silence, charm the lover's mind. Stript of their honours, naked, now appear; Already, I a thousand torments prove,
This is my soul! the winter of their year!
The little, noisy songsters of the wing,
Let no intrusive joy my dead repose
In this moss-cover'd cavern, hopeless laid, These pale the cheek, and cloud the cheerless eye, On the cold cliff, I'll lean my aching head; Swell the swift tear, and heave the frequent sigh: And, pleas'd with Winter's waste, unpitying, see These reach the heart, and bid the health decline; All nature in an agony with me! And these, O Mira ! these are truly mine.
Rough, rugged rocks, wet marshes, ruin'd towers, She, whose sweet smile would gladden all the Bare trees, brown brakes, bleak heaths, and rushy grove,
moors, Whose mind is music, and whose looks are love;
Dead floods, huge cataracts, to my pleas'd eyesShe, gentle power! victorious softness !-She, (Now I can smile!)-in wild disorder rise : Mira, is far from hence, from love, and me; And now, the various dreadfulness combin'd, Yet, in my every thought, her form I find, Black Melancholy comes, to doze my mind. Her looks, her words-her world of charms com- See! Night's wish'd shades rise, spreading through Sweetness is her's, and unaffected ease; [bin'd!
the air, The native wit, that was not tanght to please.
And the lone, hollow gloom, for me prepare ! Whatever softly animates the face,
Hail ! solitary ruler of the grave !
Parent of terrours ! from thy dreary cave!
But hark! a sudden howl invades my ear!
The phantoms of the dreadful hour are near.
Stop, flying Time! repose thy restless wing;
A WINTER'S DAY.
WRITTEN IN A STATE OF MELANCHOLY.
THE MASQUE OF BRITANNIA,
A SAILOR, FUDDLED AND TALKING TO HIMSELF.
He enters, singing,
“ How pleasant a sailor's life passes"
A sailor, half seas o'er—'s a pretty fellow;
[To the pit. Mountainous clouds, in rude confusion, roll: No-tight and trim-I scud before the galeIn dismal pomp, now, hovering on their way,
[He staggers forward, then stops. To a sick twilight, they reduce the day.
But softly though—the vessel seems to heel : And hark ! imprison'd winds, broke loose, arise, Steady! my boy-she must not show her keel. And roar their haughty triumph through the skies. And now, thus ballasted-what course to steer? While the driven clouds, o'ercharg'd with floods of Shall I again to sea—and bang mounseer? rain,
Or stay on shore, and toy with Sall and SueAnd mingled lightning, burst upon the plain. Dost love 'em, boy? - By this right hand, I do! Now see sad Earth-like thine, her alter'd state, A well-rigg'd girl is surely most inviting: Like thee, she mourns her sad reverse of Fate! Tbere's nothing better, faith-save flip and fighting: Her smile, her wanton looks--where are they now? For shall we sons of beef and freedom stoop, Faded ber face, and wrapt in clonds her brow! Or lower our fag to slavery and soup?
No more, th' ungrateful verdure of the plain; No more, the wealth-crown'd labours of the swain; I Some of the lines too were written by him.
What! shall these parly-vous make such a racket, From art, from jealousy secure;
Fair Thames, along thy flowery side,
[Pulls out a play bill. All their tender hours improving,
[Takes some tobacco. He reads the play-bill of Zara, which was acted that
TO MR. THOMSON, evening.–At the The-atre-Royal— Drury-Lane
ON HIS PUBLISHING THE SECOND EDITION OF HIS POEM, will be presenta-ted a tragedy called
Charm'd, and instructed, by thy powerful song, I'm glad 'tis Sarah-Then our Sall may see
I have, unjust, withheld my thanks too long : Her namesake's tragedy: and as for me,
This debt of gratitude, at length, receive, I'll sleep as sound, as if I were at sea.
Warmly sincere, 'tis all thy friend can give.
Thy worth new lights the poet's darken'd name, To which will be added—a new Masque.
And shows it, blazing, in the brightest fame. Zounds! why a Mask? We sailors hate grimaces: Through all thy various Winter, full are found Ahore-board all, we scorn to hide our faces. Magnificence of thought, and pomp of sound, But what is here, so very large and plain?
Clear depth of sense, expression's heightening grace, Bri-ta-nia-oh Britania !--good again
And goodness, eminent in power, and place! Huzza, boys! by the Royal George I swear,
For this, the wise, the knowing few, commend Tom Coxen, and the crew, shall straight be there. With zealous joy-for thou art Virtue's friend: All free-born souls must take Bri-ta-nia's part, Ev'n Age, and Truth severe, in reading thee, And give ber three round cheers, with hand and That Heaven inspires the Muse, convinc'd, agree. heart. [Going off, he stops.
Thus I dare sing of merit, faintly known,
And wealth enlarges not the narrow mind,
Or hope reward, by daring to excell?
Unskilful of the age ! untaught to gain
Those favours, which the fawning base obtain ! WITH no one talent that deserves applause;
A thousand shameful arts, to thee unknown, With no one aukwardness that laughter draws; Falsehood, and flattery, must be first thy own. Who thinks not, but just echoes what we say;
If thy lov'd country lingers in thy breast, A clock, at morn, wound up, to run a day:
Thou must drive out th' unprofitable guest : His larum goes in one smooth, simple strain;
Extinguish each bright aim, that kindles there, He stops : and then, we wind him up again.
And centre in thyself thy every care. Still hovering round the fair at fifty-four,
But hence that vileness-pleas'd to charm manUnfit to love, unable to give o'er;
kind, A flesh-fly, that just flutters on the wing,
Cast each low thought of interest far behind: Awake to buz, but not alive to sting;
Neglected into noble scorn-away Brisk where he cannot, backward where he can;
From that worn path, where vulgar poets stray: The teazing ghost of the departed man.
Inglorious herd ! profuse of venal lays !
By Virtue guided, and by Glory fir'd,
And, by reluctant Envy, slow admir'd,
Dare to do well, and in thy boundless mind,
Embrace the general welfare of thy kind :
Enrich them with the treasures of thy thought, WHERE Thames, along the daisy'd meads, What Heaven approves, and what the Muse has His ware, in lucid mazes, leads,
taught. Silent, slow, serenely flowing,
Where thy power fails, unable to go on, Wealth on either shore bestowing:
Ambitious, greatly will the good undone. There, in a safe, though small retreat,
So sball thy name, through ages, brightening shine, Content and Love have fix'd their seat :
And distant praise, from worth unborn, be thine; Lore, that counts his duty, pleasure;
So shalt thou, happy! merit Heaven's regard, Content, ibat knows and hugs his treasure. And Gind a glorious, though a late reward.
“ But, hark! the cock has warn'd me hence;
A long and late adieu !
Come, see, false man, how low she lies,
Who dy'd for love of you.”
The lark sung loud; the morning smild, 'Twas at the silent, solemn hour
With beams of rosy red : When night and morning meet;
Pale William quak'd in every limb, In glided Margaret's grimly ghost,
And raving left his bed. And stood at William's feet.
He hy'd him to the fatal place Her face was like an April-morn,
Where Margaret's body lay; Clad in a wintry cloud;
And stretch'd him on the green-grass turf, And clay-cold was her lily-hand,
That wrapp'd her breathless clay. That held her sable shroud.
And thrice he call'd on Margaret's name, So shall the fairest face appear,
And thrice he wept full sore; When youth and years are flown:
Then laid his cheek to her cold grave, Such is the robe that kings must wear,
And word spoke never more! When Death has reft their crown.
Her bloom was like the springing flower,
That sips the silver dew;
Just opening to the view.
Consum'd her early prime:
She dy'd before her time.
Come from her midnight-grave; Now let thy pity hear the maid,
Thy love refus'd to save.
N. B. In a comedy of Fletcher, called the Knight
And all were fast asleep,
And stood at William's feet.
This was probably the beginning of some ballad, commonly known, at the time when that author wrote; and is all of it, I believe, that is any where to be met with. These lines, naked of ornament, and simple as they are, struck my fancy: and, bringing fresh into my mind an unhappy adventure, much talked of formerly, gave birth to the foregoing poem; which was written many years ago. Mallet.
An elegant Latin imitation of this ballad is printed in the works of Vincent Bourne. N.
“ This is the dumb and dreary hour,
When injur'd ghosts complain;
To haunt the faithless swain.
“ Bethink thee, William, of thy fault,
Thy pledge and broken oath! And give me back my maiden-vow,
And give me back my troth.
Why did you promise love to me,
And not that promise keep?
Yet leave those eyes to weep?
And yet that face forsake?
Yet leave that heart to break?
Dear to the wise and good, disprais'd by none,
“Why did you say, my lip was sweet,
And made the scarlet pale?
Believe the flattering tale?
“ That face, alas! no more is fair,
Those lips no longer red :
And every charm is fled.
EPITAPH ON A YOUNG LADY.
“ The hungry worm my sister is;
This winding-sheet I wear:
Till that last morn appear.
Tuis humble grave though no proud structures
Oscap'd from life! O safe on that calm shore, And while they warble from each spray,
Like them improve the hour that flies;