_SONNET_.

... "_gives to airy nothing A local habitation and a name_."

Though narrow be that Old Man's cares, and near The poor Old Man is greater than he seems: For he hath waking empire, wide as dreams; An ample sovereignty of eye and ear.

Rich are his walks with supernatural chear; The region of his inner spirit teems With vital sounds, and monitory gleams Of high astonishment and pleasing fear.

He the seven birds hath seen that never part, Seen the SEVEN WHISTLERS in their nightly rounds, And counted them: and oftentimes will start-- For overhead are sweeping GABRIEL'S HOUNDS, Doom'd, with their impious Lord, the flying Hart To chase for ever, on aerial grounds.

_SONNET_.

A PROPHECY.

Feb. 1807.

High deeds, O Germans, are to come from you!

Thus in your Books the record shall be found, "A Watchword was p.r.o.nounced, a potent sound, ARMINIUS!--all the people quaked like dew Stirr'd by the breeze--they rose, a Nation, true, True to itself--the mighty Germany, She of the Danube and the Northern sea, She rose,--and off at once the yoke she threw.

All power was given her in the dreadful trance-- Those new-born Kings she wither'd like a flame."

--Woe to them all! but heaviest woe and shame To that Bavarian, who did first advance His banner in accursed league with France, First open Traitor to her sacred name!

_SONNET_, TO THOMAS CLARKSON, On the final pa.s.sing of the Bill for the Abolition of the Slave Trade, March, 1807.

Clarkson! it was an obstinate Hill to climb; How toilsome, nay how dire it was, by Thee Is known,--by none, perhaps, so feelingly; But Thou, who, starting in thy fervent prime, Didst first lead forth this pilgrimage sublime, Hast heard the constant Voice its charge repeat, Which, out of thy young heart's oracular seat, First roused thee.--O true yoke-fellow of Time With unabating effort, see, the palm Is won, and by all Nations shall be worn!

The b.l.o.o.d.y Writing is for ever torn, And Thou henceforth shalt have a good Man's calm, A great Man's happiness; thy zeal shall find Repose at length, firm Friend of human kind!

Once in a lonely Hamlet I sojourn'd In which a Lady driv'n from France did dwell; The big and lesser griefs, with which she mourn'd, In friendship she to me would often tell.

This Lady, dwelling upon English ground, Where she was childless, daily did repair To a poor neighbouring Cottage; as I found, For sake of a young Child whose home was there.

Once did I see her clasp the Child about, And take it to herself; and I, next day, 10 Wish'd in my native tongue to fashion out Such things as she unto this Child might say: And thus, from what I knew, had heard, and guess'd, My song the workings of her heart express'd.

"Dear Babe, thou Daughter of another, One moment let me be thy Mother!

An Infant's face and looks are thine; And sure a Mother's heart is mine: Thy own dear Mother's far away, At labour in the harvest-field: 20 Thy little Sister is at play;-- What warmth, what comfort would it yield To my poor heart, if Thou wouldst be One little hour a child to me!"

"Across the waters I am come, And I have left a Babe at home: A long, long way of land and sea!

Come to me--I'm no enemy: I am the same who at thy side Sate yesterday, and made a nest 30 For thee, sweet Baby!--thou hast tried.

Thou know'st, the pillow of my breast: Good, good art thou; alas! to me Far more than I can be to thee."

"Here little Darling dost thou lie; An Infant Thou, a Mother I!

Mine wilt thou be, thou hast no fears; Mine art thou--spite of these my tears.

Alas! before I left the spot, My Baby and its dwelling-place; 40 The Nurse said to me, 'Tears should not Be shed upon an Infant's face, It was unlucky'--no, no, no; No truth is in them who say so!"

"My own dear Little-one will sigh, Sweet Babe! and they will let him die.

'He pines,' they'll say, 'it is his doom, And you may see his hour is come.'

Oh! had he but thy chearful smiles, Limbs stout as thine, and lips as gay, 50 Thy looks, thy cunning, and thy wiles, And countenance like a summer's day, They would have hopes of him--and then I should behold his face again!"

"'Tis gone--forgotten--let me do My best--there was a smile or two, I can remember them, I see The smiles, worth all the world to me.

Dear Baby! I must lay thee down; Thou troublest me with strange alarms; 60 Smiles hast Thou, sweet ones of thy own; I cannot keep thee in my arms, For they confound me: as it is, I have forgot those smiles of his."

"Oh! how I love thee! we will stay Together here this one half day.

My Sister's Child, who bears my name, From France across the Ocean came; She with her Mother cross'd the sea; The Babe and Mother near me dwell: 70 My Darling, she is not to me What thou art! though I love her well: Rest, little Stranger, rest thee here; Never was any Child more dear!"

"--I cannot help it--ill intent I've none, my pretty Innocent!

I weep--I know they do thee wrong, These tears--and my poor idle tongue.

Oh what a kiss was that! my cheek How cold it is! but thou art good; 80 Thine eyes are on me--they would speak, I think, to help me if they could.

Blessings upon that quiet face, My heart again is in its place!"

"While thou art mine, my little Love, This cannot be a sorrowful grove; Contentment, hope, and Mother's glee.

I seem to find them all in thee: Here's gra.s.s to play with, here are flowers; I'll call thee by my Darling's name; 90 Thou hast, I think, a look of ours, Thy features seem to me the same; His little Sister thou shalt be; And, when once more my home I see, I'll tell him many tales of Thee."

_FORESIGHT_.

Or the Charge of a Child to his younger Companion.

That is work which I am rueing-- Do as Charles and I are doing!

Strawberry-blossoms, one and all, We must spare them--here are many: Look at it--the Flower is small, Small and low, though fair as any: Do not touch it! summers two I am older, Anne, than you.

Pull the Primrose, Sister Anne!

Pull as many as you can. 10 --Here are Daisies, take your fill; Pansies, and the Cuckow-flower: Of the lofty Daffodil Make your bed, and make your bower; Fill your lap, and fill your bosom; Only spare the Strawberry-blossom!

Primroses, the Spring may love them-- Summer knows but little of them: Violets, do what they will, Wither'd on the ground must lie; 20 Daisies will be daisies still; Daisies they must live and die: Fill your lap, and fill your bosom, Only spare the Strawberry-blossom!

_A COMPLAINT_.

There is a change--and I am poor; Your Love hath been, nor long ago, A Fountain at my fond Heart's door, Whose only business was to flow; And flow it did; not taking heed Of its own bounty, or my need.