Author of the " Dying Negro," &c. &c,
YET Once again, in yonder myrtle bowers,
Whence rose-lipp'd zephyrs, hovering, shed perfume,
I weave the painted radiance of the flowers,
And press coy Nature in her days of bloom.
Shall she, benignant, to the wondering eyes
Of the lone hermit all her charms unfold?
Or, gemm'd with dew, bid her gay florets rise
Το grace the rustic master of the fold?
Shall these possess her bright, her fragrant store,
These snatch the wreath, by plastic Nature wove,
Nor wanton summer yield one garland more,
To grace the bosom of the Nymph I love?
For she shall come; with her each sister grace,
With her the kindred powers of harmony,
The deep recesses of the grove shall trace,
And hang with flowers each consecrated tree.
Blythe Fancy too shall spread her glittering plumes,
She loves the white cliffs of Britannia's isle,
She loves the spot where infant Genius blooms,
She loves the spot where Peace and Freedom smile.
Unless her aid the mimic queen bestow,
In vain fresh garlands the low vales adorn;
In vain with brighter tints the florets glow,
Or dew-drops sparkle on the brow of morn.
Opes not one blossom to the spicy gale,
Throws not one elm its moss-wreathed branches wide, Wanders no rill through the luxuriant vale,
Or, glistening, rushes down the mountain side,
But thither, with the morning's earliest ray,
Fancy has winged her ever mazy flight,
To hymn wild carols to returning day,
And catch the fairest beams of orient light.
Proud of the theft she mounts her lucid car,
Her car the rainbow's painted arch supplies;
Her swift-wing'd steeds unnumber'd loves prepare,
And countless zephyrs waft her through the skies.
'There, while her bright wheels pause in cloudless air,
She waves the magic sceptre of command,
And all her flattering visions, wild as fair,
Start into life beneath the potent wand.
Here, proudly nodding o'er the vale below,
High rocks of pearl reflect the morning ray, Whence gushing streams of azure nectar flow, And tinge the trickling herbage on their way. There, cull'd from every mountain, every plain, Perennial flowers the ambient air perfume, Far off stern Boreas holds his drear domain,
Nor chains the streams, nor blights the sacred bloom. Through all the year, in copse and tangled dale, Lone Philomel her song to Venus pours, What time pale Evening spreads the dewy veil, What time the red Morn blushes on the shores.
Illusive visions! O, not here-not here,
Does Spring eternal hold her placid reign,
Already Boreas chills the altering year,
And blasts the purple daughters of the plain.
So fade my promis'd joys!-fair scenes of bliss,
Ideal scenes, too long believed in vain,
Plunged down and swallowed deep in Time's abyss !—
So veering Chance, and ruthless fates ordain.
Thee, Laura, thee, by fount, or mazy stream,
Or thicket rude, unpress'd by human feet,
I sigh, unheeded, to the moon's pale beam;
Thee, Laura, thee the echoing hills repeat.
Oh! long of billows wild, and winds the sport,
Seize, seize, the safe asylum that remains!
Here Truth, Love, Freedom, Innocence resort,
And offer long oblivion to thy pains.
When panting, gasping, breathless, on the strand
The shipwreck'd mariner reclines his breast,
Say, shall he scorn the hospitable hand
That points to safety, liberty, and rest ?
But thou, too soon forgetful of past woe,
Again would'st tempt the winds, and treacherous sea; Ah! shall the raging blast forget to blow, Shall every wintry storm be hush'd for thee?
Not so! I dread the elemental war,
Too soon, too soon the calm, deceitful, flies;
I hear the blast come whistling from afar,
I see the tempest gathering in the skies.
Yet let the tempest roar!-love scorns all harms,
I plunge amid the storm, resolved to save;
This hour, at least, I clasp thee in my arms,
The next let ruin join us in the grave.
ODE TO THE RIVER DERWENT.
Written in a Romantic Valley near its Source.
DERWENT, what scenes thy wandering waves behold,
As bursting from thine hundred springs they stray,
And down these vales, in sounding torrents roll'd,
Seek to the shining East their mazy way!
Here dusky alders, leaning from the cliff,
Dip their long arms, and wave their branches wide; There, as the loose rocks thwart my bounding skiff, White moonbeams tremble on the foaming tide. Pass on, ye waves, where, dress'd in lavish pride, 'Mid roseat bowers, the gorgeous Chatsworth beams, Spreads her smooth lawns along your willowy side, And eyes her gilded turrets in your streams. Pass on, ye waves, where Nature's rudest child, Frowning incumbent o'er the darken'd floods, Rock rear'd on rock, mountain on mountain pil'd, Old Matlock sits, and shakes his crest of woods. But when fair Derby's stately towers you view, When his bright meads your sparkling currents drink, O! should Eliza press the morning dew,
And bend her graceful footsteps to your brink,
Uncurl your eddies, all your gales confine,
And as your scaly nations gaze around,
Bid your gay nymphs pourtray, with pencil fine,
Her radiant form upon your silver ground.
With playful malice, from her kindling cheek
Steal the warm blush, and tinge your passing stream;
Mock the sweet transient dimples as she speaks,
And, as she turns her eye, reflect the beam!
And tell her, Derwent, as you murmur by,
How in these wilds with hopeless love I burn,
Teach your lone vales and echoing caves to sigh
And mix my briny sorrows with your urne
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