[Footnote: After a Tragedy, performed for her benefit, at the Theatre Royal in Drury-lane, April 27, 1795.]

To - - - - -

Go--you may call it madness, folly; You shall not chase my gloom away.

There's such a charm in melancholy, I would not, if I could, be gay.

Oh, if you knew the pensive pleasure That fills my bosom when I sigh, You would not rob me of a treasure Monarchs are too poor to buy.

THE SAILOR.

The Sailor sighs as sinks his native sh.o.r.e, As all its lessening turrets bluely fade; He climbs the mast to feast his eye once more, And busy Fancy fondly lends her aid.

Ah! now, each dear, domestic scene he knew, Recall'd and cherish'd in a foreign clime, Charms with the magic of a moonlight-view; Its colours mellow'd, not impair'd, by time,

True as the needle, homeward points his heart, Thro' all the horrors of the stormy main; This, the last wish that would with life depart, To meet the smile of her he loves again.

When Morn first faintly draws her silver line, Or Eve's grey cloud descends to drink the wave; When sea and sky in midnight darkness join, Still, still he views the parting look she gave.

Her gentle spirit, lightly hovering o'er, Attends his little bark from pole to pole; And, when the beating billows round him roar, Whispers sweet hope to sooth his troubled soul.

Carv'd is her name in many a spicy grove, In many a plaintain-forest, waving wide; Where dusky youths in painted plumage rove, And giant palms o'er-arch the golden tide.

But lo, at last he comes with crowded sail!

Lo, o'er the cliff what eager figures bend!

And hark, what mingled murmurs swell the gale!

In each he hears the welcome of a friend.

--'Tis she, 'tis she herself! she waves her hand!

Soon is the anchor cast, the canva.s.s furl'd; Soon thro' the whitening surge he springs to land, And clasps the maid he singled from the world.

TO AN OLD OAK.

Immota manet; multosque nepotes, Multa virum volvens durando saecula, vincit. VIRG.

Round thee, alas, no shadows move!

From thee no sacred murmurs breathe!

Yet within thee, thyself a grove, Once did the eagle scream above, And the wolf howl beneath.

There once the steel-clad knight reclin'd, His sable plumage tempest-toss'd; And, as the death-bell smote the wind, From towers long fled by human kind, His brow the hero cross'd!

Then Culture came, and days serene, And village-sports, and garlands gay.

Full many a pathway cross'd the green; And maids and shepherd-youths were seen, To celebrate the May.

Father of many a forest deep, (Whence many a navy thunder-fraught) Erst in their acorn-cells asleep, Soon destin'd o'er the world to sweep, Opening new spheres of thought!

Wont in the night of woods to dwell, The holy druid saw thee rise; And, planting there the guardian-spell, Sung forth, the dreadful pomp to swell Of human sacrifice!

Thy singed top and branches bare Now straggle in the evening sky; And the wan moon wheels round to glare On the long corse that shivers there Of him who came to die!

FRAGMENTS FROM EURIPIDES.

Dear is that valley to the murmuring bees.

The small birds build there; and, at summer-noon, Oft have I heard a child, gay among flowers, As in the shining gra.s.s she sate conceal'd, Sing to herself.

There is a streamlet issuing from a rock.

The village-girls, singing wild madrigals, Dip their white vestments in its waters clear, And hang them to the sun. There first I saw her.

Her dark and eloquent eyes, mild, full of fire, 'Twas heav'n to look upon; and her sweet voice, As tuneable as harp of many strings, At once spoke joy and sadness to my soul!

TWO SISTERS. [Footnote]

Well may you sit within, and, fond of grief, Look in each other's face, and melt in tears.

Well may you shun all counsel, all relief.

Oh she was great in mind, tho' young in years!

Chang'd is that lovely countenance, which shed Light when she spoke; and kindled sweet surprise, As o'er her frame each warm emotion spread, Play'd round her lips, and sparkled in her eyes.

Those lips so pure, that mov'd but to persuade, Still to the last enliven'd and endear'd.

Those eyes at once her secret soul convey'd, And ever beam'd delight when you appear'd.

Yet has she fled the life of bliss below, That youthful Hope in bright perspective drew?

False were the tints! false as the feverish glow That o'er her burning cheek Distemper threw!

And now in joy she dwells, in glory moves!

(Glory and joy reserv'd for you to share.) Far, far more blest in blessing those she loves, Than they, alas! unconscious of her care.

[Footnote: On the death of a younger sister.]

WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT.

1786.

While thro' the broken pane the tempest sighs, And my step falters on the faithless floor, Shades of departed joys around me rise, With many a face that smiles on me no more; With many a voice that thrills of transport gave, Now silent as the gra.s.s that tufts their grave!