While west-winds fanned our temples toil-bedewed:
Then downwards slope, oft pausing, from the mount,
To some low mansion, in some woody dale,
Where smiling with blue eye, domestic bliss
Gives this the husband's, that the brother's kiss.

Thus rudely versed in allegoric lore, The Hill of Knowledge I essayed to trace; That verdurous hill with many a resting-place, And many a stream, whose warbling waters pour To glad, and fertilize the subject plains; That hill with secret springs, and nooks untrod, And many a fancy-blest and holy sod

Where Inspiration, his diviner strains

Low murmuring, lay; and starting from the rocks
Stiff evergreens, whose spreading foliage mocks
Want's barren soil, and the bleak frosts of age,
And Bigotry's mad fire-invoking rage!
O meek retiring spirit! we will climb,
Cheering and cheered, this lovely hill sublime;
And from the stirring world up-lifted high,
(Whose noises, faintly wafted on the wind,
To quiet musings shall attune the mind,
And oft the melancholy theme supply)

There, while the prospect through the gazing eye Pours all its healthful greenness on the soul, We'll smile at wealth, and learn to smile at fame, Our hopes, our knowledge, and our joys the same, As neighbouring fountains image, each the whole: Then when the mind hath drunk its fill of truth, We'll discipline the heart to pure delight, Rekindling sober joy's domestic flame.

They whom I love shall love thee, honoured youth! Now may Heaven realize this vision bright!

1796.

L

LINES

TO W. L. ESQ. WHILE HE SANG A SONG TO
PURCELL'S MUSIC.

HILE my young cheek retains its health-
ful hues,

And I have many friends who hold me
dear;

- methinks, I would not often hear
Such melodies as thine, lest I should lose
All memory of the wrongs and sore distress,
For which my miserable brethren weep!
But should uncomforted misfortunes steep
My daily bread in tears and bitterness;
And if at death's dread moment I should lie
With no beloved face at my bed-side,
To fix the last glance of my closing eye,

Methinks, such strains, breathed by my angelguide,

Would make me pass the cup of anguish by,

Mix with the blest, nor know that I had died!

ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG MAN OF
FORTUNE

WHO ABANDONED HIMSELF TO AN INDOLENT AND
CAUSELESS MELANCHOLY.

ENCE that fantastic wantonness of woe,
O Youth to partial fortune vainly dear!
To plundered want's half-sheltered hovel
go,

Go, and some hunger-bitten infant hear
Moan haply in a dying mother's ear:

Or when the cold and dismal fog-damps brood O'er the rank church-yard with sear elm-leaves strewed,

Pace round some widow's grave, whose dearer part Was slaughtered, where o'er his uncoffined limbs The flocking flesh-birds screamed! Then, while thy heart

Groans, and thine eye a fiercer sorrow dims, Know (and the truth shall kindle thy young mind) What nature makes thee mourn, she bids thee heal! O abject! if, to sickly dreams resigned, All effortless thou leave life's common-weal A prey to tyrants, murderers of mankind.

SONNET TO THE RIVER OTTER.

EAR native brook! wild streamlet of the
West!

How many various-fated years have past,
What happy, and what mournful hours,
since last

I skimmed the smooth thin stone along thy breast, Numbering its light leaps! yet so deep imprest Sink the sweet scenes of childhood, that mine eyes I never shut amid the sunny ray,

But straight with all their tints thy waters rise,

Thy crossing plank, thy marge with willows grey, And bedded sand that, veined with various dyes, Gleamed through thy bright transparence! On my Visions of childhood! oft have ye beguiled [way, Lone manhood's cares, yet waking fondest sighs: Ah! that once more I were a careless child!

SONNET.

COMPOSED ON A JOURNEY HOMEWARD; THE AUTHOR

HAVING RECEIVED INTELLIGENCE OF THE

BIRTH OF A SON, SEPT. 20, 1796.

FT o'er my brain does that strange fancy roll Which makes the present (while the flash doth last)

Seem a mere semblance of some unknown

past,

Mixed with such feelings, as perplex the soul

R

Self-questioned in her sleep: and some have said*
We lived, ere yet this robe of flesh we wore.

O my sweet baby! when I reach my door,
If heavy looks should tell me thou art dead
(As sometimes, through excess of hope, I fear)
I think, that I should struggle to believe

Thou wert a spirit, to this nether sphere Sentenced for some more venial crime to grieve; Did'st scream, then spring to meet Heaven's quick reprieve,

While we wept idly o'er thy little bier!

SONNET,

TO A FRIEND WHO ASKED HOW I FELT WHEN THE NURSE

FIRST PRESENTED MY INFANT TO ME.

HARLES! my slow heart was only sad, when first

I scanned that face of feeble infancy:
For dimly on my thoughtful spirit burst

All I had been, and all my child might be!
But when I saw it on its mother's arm,
And hanging at her bosom (she the while
Bent o'er its features with a tearful smile)
Then I was thrilled and melted, and most warm
Impressed a father's kiss: and all beguiled
Of dark remembrance and presageful fear,
I seemed to see an angel-form appear-

* Ην που ἡμῶν ἡ ψύχη πρὶν ἐν τῷδε τῷ ἀνθρωπίνῳ εἴδει γενέσθαι. PLAT. in Phædon.