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And sweet thy voice, as when o'er Laura's bier
Sad music trembled through Vauclusa's glade;
Sweet, as at dawn the love-lorn Serenade
That wafts soft dreams to Slumber's listening ear.
Now patriot rage and indignation high
Swell the full tones! And now thine eye-beams
dance

Meanings of Scorn and Wit's quaint revelry!
Writhes inly from the bosom-probing glance
The Apostate by the brainless rout adored,
As erst that elder Fiend beneath great Michael's
sword.

SONNET VI.

WHAT a loud and fearful shriek was there, As though a thousand souls one death-groan poured!

Ah me! they saw beneath a hireling's sword
Their Kosciusko fall! Through the swart air
(As pauses the tired Cossack's barbarous yell
Of triumph) on the chill and midnight gale
Rises with frantic burst or sadder swell

The dirge of murdered Hope! while Freedom pale
Bends in such anguish o'er her destined bier,
As if from eldest time some Spirit meek
Had gathered in a mystic urn each tear
That ever on a Patriot's furrowed cheek
Fit channel found, and she had drained the bowl
In the mere wilfulness, and sick despair of soul!

SONNET VII.

AS

S when far off the warbled strains are heard That soar on Morning's wing the vales among, Within his cage the imprisoned matin bird Swells the full chorus with a generous song: He bathes no pinion in the dewy light, No Father's joy, no Lover's bliss he shares, Yet still the rising radiance cheers his sight: His fellows' freedom soothes the captive's cares! Thou, Fayette! who didst wake with startling voice Life's better sun from that long wintry night, Thus in thy Country's triumphs shalt rejoice, And mock with raptures high the dungeon's might: For lo! the morning struggles into day, And Slavery's spectres shriek and vanish from the ray!

SONNET VIII.

THOU gentle look, that didst my soul beguile, Why hast thou left me? Still in some fond dream

Revisit my sad heart, auspicious Smile!
As falls on closing flowers the lunar beam :
What time, in sickly mood, at parting day
I lay me down and think of happier years;
Of Joys, that glimmered in Hope's twilight ray,
Then left me darkling in a vale of tears.
O pleasant days of Hope-for ever gone!-
Could I recall you!—But that thought is vain.
Availeth not Persuasion's sweetest tone
To lure the fleet-winged Travellers back again :

Yet fair, though faint, their images shall gleam
Like the bright Rainbow on a willowy stream.

SONNET IX.

PALE Roamer through the night! thou poor

Forlorn!

Remorse that man on his death-bed possess,
Who in the credulous hour of tenderness
Betrayed, then cast thee forth to want and scorn!
The world is pitiless: the chaste one's pride,
Mimic of Virtue scowls on thy distress:
Thy Loves and they that envied thee, deride:
And Vice alone will shelter wretchedness?
O! I could weep to think, that there should be
Cold-bosomed lewd ones, who endure to place
Foul offerings on the shrine of misery,
And force from famine the caress of Love;
May He shed healing on thy sore disgrace,
He, the great Comforter that rules above!

SONNET X.

SW

WEET Mercy! how my very heart has bled To see thee, poor Old Man! and thy grey hairs Hoar with the snowy blast: while no one cares To clothe thy shrivelled limbs and palsied head. My Father! throw away this tattered vest That mocks thy shivering! take my garment-use A young man's arm! I'll melt these frozen dews That hang from thy white beard and numb thy breast.

My Sara too shall tend thee, like a Child:
And thou shalt talk, in our fire-side's recess,
Of purple pride, that scowls on wretchedness.
He did not so, the Galilean mild,

Who met the Lazars turned from rich men's doors,
And called them Friends, and healed their noisome
Sores!

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 of care,

Even as a Mother her sweet infant heir

That, wan and sickly, droops upon her breast!

SONNET XII.

TO THE AUTHOR OF "THE 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
Might stamp me mortal! A triumphant shout
Black Horror screamed, and all her goblin rout
Diminished shrunk from the more withering scene!
Ah! Bard tremendous in sublimity!
Could I behold thee in thy loftier mood,
Wandering at eve with finely frenzied eye,
Beneath some vast old tempest-swinging wood!
Awhile with mute awe gazing I would brood:
Then weep
aloud in a wild ecstasy!

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LINES

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

near

Warble in shade their wild-wood melody:
Far off the unvarying Cuckoo soothes my ear
Up scour the startling stragglers of the Flock
That on green plots o'er precipices browse:
From the deep fissures of the naked rock
The Yew-tree bursts! Beneath its dark green boughs
(Mid which the May-thorn blends its blossoms
white)

Where broad smooth stones jut out in mossy seats,
I rest and now have gained the topmost site
Ah! what a luxury of landscape meets

My gaze! Proud towers, and cots more dear to me,
Elm-shadow'd fields, and prospect-bounding sea!
Deep sighs my lonely heart: I drop the tear:
Enchanting spot! O were my Sara here!

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