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My Sara too shall tend thee, like a Child :
SONNET XI. THOU bleedest, my poor Heart! and thy distress
Reasoning I ponder with a scornful smile, And probe thy sore wound sternly, though the
while Swoln be mine eye and dim with heaviness. Why didst thou listen to Hope's whisper bland ? Or, listening, why forget the healing tale, When Jealousy with feverous fancies pale Jarred thy fine fibres with a maniac's hand ? Faint was that Hope, and rayless !-Yet 'twas fair, And soothed with many a dream the hour of rest; Thou shouldst have loved it most, when most opprest, And nursed it with an agony
care, Even as a Mother her sweet infant heir That, wan and sickly, droops upon her breast !
SONNET XII. TO THE AUTHOR OF 66THE ROBBERS." SCHILLER! that hour I would have wished to die
If through the shuddering midnight I had sent From the dark dungeon of the tower time-rent, That fearful voice, a famished Father's cry
Lest in some after moment aught more mean
COMPOSED WHILE CLIMBING THE LEFT ASCENT OF
BROCKLEY COOMB, SOMERSETSHIRE, MAY, 1795.
WITH many a pause and oft reverted eye
I climb the Coomb's ascent: sweet songsters
Warble in shade their wild-wood melody :
IN THE MANNER OF SPENSER.
O PEACE, that on a lilied bank dost love
To rest thine head beneath an olive tree, I would that from the pinions of thy dove One quill withouten pain yplucked might be! For O! I wish my Sara's frowns to flee, And fain to her some soothing song would write, Lest she resent my rude discourtesy, Who vowed to meet her ere the morning light, But broke my plighted word—ah! false and recreant
wight! Last night as I my weary head did pillow With thoughts of my dissevered Fair engrost, Chill Fancy drooped wreathing herself with willow, As though my breast entombed a pining ghost. “From some blest couch, young Rapture's bridal
boast, Rejected Slumber! hither wing thy way; But leave me with the matin hour, at most! As night-closed floweret to the orient ray, My sad heart will expand, when I the Maid survey."
But Love, who heard the silence of my thought,
Sleep, softly-breathing God! his downy wing
sweet trance !
My Sara came, with gentlest look divine;
IMITATED FROM OSSIAN.
THE stream, with languid murmur creeps,
In Lumin's flowery vale:
Slow-waving to the gale.
Cease, restless gale!" it seems to say,
“ Nor wake me with thy sighing ! The honors of my vernal day
On rapid wing are flying.
“ To-morrow shall the traveller come
Who late beheld me blooming :
The dreary vale of Lumin.”
My wonted haunts along,
The Youth of simplest song.
The voice of feeble power ;
In slumber's nightly hour.
THE COMPLAINT OF NINATHOMA. HOW long will ye round me be swelling, To ye
blue-tumbling waves of the sea ? Not always in caves was my dwelling,
Nor beneath the cold blast of the tree. Through the bigh-sounding halls of Cathlóma
In the steps of my beauty I strayed ; The warriors beheld Ninathóma,
And they blessed the white-bosomed Maid !
A Ghost ! by my cavern it darted !
In moon-beams the Spirit was drestFor lovely appear the departed
When they visit the dreams of my rest ! But disturbed by the tempest's commocion
Fleet the shadowy forms of delightAh cease, thou shrill blast of the Ocean !
To howl through my cavern by night.