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On thee, in pensive mood reclined,
He pour'd his contemplative mind,
Till o'er his eyes with mild controul,
Sleep like a soft enchantment stole,
Charm'd into life his airy schemes,
And realized his waking dreams.

Soon from those waking dreams he woke,
The fairy spell of fancy broke;
In vain he breathed a soul of fire
Through every chord that strung his lyre.
No friendly echo cheer'd his tongue,
Amidst the wilderness he sung ;
Louder and bolder bards were crown'd,
Whose dissonance his music drown'd:
The public ear, the public voice,
Despised his song, denied his choice,
Denied a name,

a life in death, Denied a bubble and a breath.

Stript of his fondest, dearest claim,
And disinherited of fame,
To thee, O PILLOW! thee alone,
He made his silent anguish known;
His haughty spirit scorn'd the blow
That laid his high ambition low;
But ah! his looks assumed in vain
A cold ineffable disdain,
While deep he cherish'd in his breast
The scorpion that consumed his rest.

Yet other secret griefs had he,
O Pillow ! only told to thee:
Say, did not hopeless love intrude
On his poor bosom’s solitude ?
Perhaps on thy soft lap reclined,
In dreams the cruel Fair was kind,
That more intensely he might know
The bitterness of waking woe,

Whate'er those

pangs

from me conceal'd, To thee in midnight groans reveal’d; They stung remembrance to despair ; “ A wounded Spirit who can bear!" Meanwhile Disease, with slow decay, Moulder'd his feeble frame away; And as his evening sun declined, The shadows deepen’d o'er his mind. What doubts and terrors then possess'd The dark dominion of his breast ! How did delirious fancy dwell On Madness, Suicide, and Hell! There was on earth no Power to save :

-But, as he shudder'd o'er the grave, He saw from realms of light descend The friend of him who has no friend, Religion ! Her almighty breath Rebuked the winds and waves of death;

F

She bade the storm of frenzy cease,
And smiled a calm, and whisper'd peace;
Amidst that calm of sweet repose,
To HEAVEN his gentle Spirit rose.

VERSES

TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE JOSEPH BROWNĖ,

OF LOTHERSDALE,

ONE OF THE PEOPLE CALLED QUAKERS,

Who had suffered a long Confinement in the Castle of York, and Loss of all his worldly Property, for

Conscience Sake.

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Spirit, leave thine house of clay;
Lingering Dust, resign thy breath!
Spirit, cast thy chains away;
Dust, be thou dissolved in death !"

Thus thy GUARDIAN ANGEL spoke,
As he watch'd thy dying bed ;
As the bonds of life he broke,
And the ransom'd captive fled.

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