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As one, who, long by wasting sickness worn,

Weary has watched the lingering night, and heard,

Heartless, the carol of the matin-bird, Salute his lonely porch, now first at morn Goes forth, leaving his melancholy bed;

He the green slope and level meadow views,

Delightful bathed in slow ascending dews;
Or marks the clouds, that o'er the mountain's head,
In varying forms fantastic wander white,

Or turns his ear to every random song,

Heard the green river's winding marge along, The whilst each sense is steeped in still delight: With such delight o'er all my heart I feel, Sweet Hope, thy fragrance pure and healing incense

steal!

NETLEY ABBEY.

Fall'n pile! I ask not what has been thy fate;

But when the weak winds, wafted from the main,

Through each rent arch, like spirits that complain,
Come hollow to my ear, I meditate
On this world's passing pageant, and the lot

Of those who once full proudly in their prime

And beauteous might have stood, till bowed by time Or injury, their early boast forgot, They may have fallen like thee : pale and forlorn,

Their brows, besprent with thin hairs, white as snow,

They lift, majestic yet, as they would scorn
This short-lived scene of vanity and woe:
Whilst on their sad looks, smilingly, they bear
The trace of creeping age, and the dim hue of care !

WRITTEN

A

AT TYNEMOUTH, NORTHUMBERLAND, AFTER

TEMPESTUOUS VOYAGE.

As slow I climb the cliff's ascending side,

Much musing on the track of terror past,

When o'er the dark wave rode the howling blast,
Pleased I look back and view the tranquil tide,
That laves the pebbled shore : and now the beam

Of evening smiles on the g grey battlement,
And
yon

forsaken tower that Time has rent:-
The lifted oar far off, with silver gleam
Is touched, and hushed is all the billowy deep!

Soothed by the scene, thus on tired Nature's breast

A stillness slowly steals, and kindred rest;
While sea-sounds lull her as she sinks to sleep,
Like melodies which mourn upon the lyre,
Waked by the breeze, and as they mourn, expire.

TO THE RIVER ITCHIN.

ITchin, when I behold thy banks again,

Thy crumbling margin, and thy silver breast,

On which the self-same tints still seem to rest, Why feels my heart the shivering sense of pain? Is it—that many a summer's day has past

Since in life's morn I carolled on thy side?

Is it—that oft, since then, my heart has sighed, As youth, and Hope's delusive gleams, flew fast?

Is it—that those, who circled on thy shore,

Companions of my youth, now meet no more?
Whate'er the cause, upon thy banks I bend,

Sorrowing, yet feel such solace at my heart,
As at the meeting of some long-lost friend,
From whom, in happier hours, we wept to part.

ON THE RHINE.

'Twas morn, and beauteous on the mountain's brow,

(Hung with the beamy clusters of the vine)

Streamed the blue light, when on the sparkling Rhine We bounded, and the white waves round the prow In murmurs parted, varying as we go.

Lo! the woods open, and the rocks retire,

Some convent's ancient walls, or glistening spire, 'Mid the bright landscape's track, unfolding slow. Here dark, with furrowed aspect, like despair,

Frowns the bleak cliff-there on the woodland's side

The shadowy sunshine pours its streaming tide;
Whilst Hope, enchanted with the scene so fair,
Would wish to linger many a summer's day,
Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds away.

TO THE RIVER CHERWELL, OXFORD.

CHERWELL! how pleased along thy willowed hedge

Erewhile I strayed, or when the morn began

To tinge the distant turret's gleamy fan,
Or evening glimmered o'er the sighing sedge!
And now reposing on thy banks once more,

I bid the pipe farewell, and that sad lay

Whose music on my melancholy way
I wooed : amid thy waving willows hoar
Seeking awhile to rest—till the bright sun

Of joy return, as when Heaven's beauteous bow

Beams on the night-storm's passing wings below:
Whate'er betide, yet something have I won
Of solace, that may bear me on serene,
Till eve's last hush shall close the silent scene.

As o'er these hills I take my silent rounds,

Still on that vision which is flown I dwell!

On images I loved (alas, too well!)
Now past, and but remembered like sweet sounds
Of yesterday! Yet in my breast I keep

Such recollections, painful though they seem,

And hours of joy retrace, till from my dream I wake, and find them not: then I could weep To think that Time so soon each sweet devours;

To think so soon life's first endearments fail,

And we are still misled by Hope's smooth tale ! Who, like a flatterer, when the happiest hours Are past, and most we wish her cheering lay, Will fly, as faithless, and as fleet as they !

How blest with thee, the path could I have trod

Of quiet life, above cold Want's hard fate,

(And little wishing more) nor of the great Envious, or their proud name! But it pleased God To take thee to His mercy: thou didst go

In youth and beauty, go to thy death-bed;

Ev'n while on dreams of bliss we fondly fed,
Of years to come of comfort !-Be it so.
Ere this I have felt sorrow; and e'en now,

(Though sometimes the unbidden thought must start,

And half unman the miserable heart),
The cold dew I shall wipe from my sad brow,
And say, since hopes of bliss on earth are vain,
“Best friend, farewell, till we do meet again!"

ON REVISITING OXFORD.

I never hear the sound of thy glad bells,

Oxford! and chime harmonious, but I say,

(Sighing to think how Time has worn away,) “Some spirit speaks in the sweet tone that swells, Heard after years of absence, from the vale Where Cherwell winds.” Most true it speaks the tale

Of days departed, and its voice recals
Hours of delight and hope in the gay tide

Of life, and many friends now scattered wide
By many fates.—Peace be within thy walls !
I have scarce heart to visit thee; but yet,

Denied the joys sought in thy shades,--denied
Each better hope, since my poor

died, What I have owed to thee, my heart can ne'er forget!

I TURN these leaves with thronging thoughts, and say:

“Alas! how many friends of youth are dead,

How many visions of fair hope have fled,
Since first, my Muse, we met:”-So speeds away

Life, and its shadows; yet we sit and sing,
Stretched in the noontide bower, as if the day
Declined not, and we yet might trill one lay,

Beneath the pleasant morning's purple wing
That fans us, while aloft the gay clouds shine!

O, ere the coming of the long cold night,
Religion, may we bless thy purer light,
That still shall warm us, when the tints decline
O’er earth's dim hemisphere, and sad we gaze ,
On the vain visions of our passing days !

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