The stealing tear-drop stagnates in the eye,
The sudden sigh by friendship's bosom proved,
I mark them rise-I mark the general sigh!
Unhappy youth! and wert thou so beloved?

On thee, as lone I trace the Trent's green brink,
When the dim twilight slumbers on the glade;
On thee my thoughts shall dwell, nor Fancy shrink
To hold mysterious converse with thy shade.

Of thee, as early, I, with vagrant feet,

Hail the gray-sandalled morn in Colwick's vale,
Of thee my sylvan reed shall warble sweet,
And wild-wood echoes shall repeat the tale.

And, oh! ye nymphs of Pæon! who preside
O'er running rill and salutary stream.
Guard ye in future well the halcyon tide

From the rude death-shriek and the dying scream

95

INSCRIPTION FOR A MONUMENT TO THE
MEMORY OF COWPER.

READER! if with no vulgar sympathy
Thou view'st the wreck of genius and of worth,
Stay thou thy footsteps near this hallowed spot.
Here Cowper rests. Although renown have made
His name familiar to thine ear, this stone
May tell thee that his virtues were above

The common portion:- that the voice, now hushed

EPIGRAM ON ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.

BLOOMFIELD, thy happy-omened name
Ensures continuance to thy fame;

Both sense and truth this verdict give,
While fields shall bloom, thy name shall live!

ELEGY

OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF MR. GILL, WHO WAS DROWNED IN THE RIVER TRENT, WHILE

BATHING, 9TH AUGUST, 1802.

HE sunk, the impetuous river rolled along,
The sullen wave betray'd his dying breath;
And rising sad the rustling sedge among,

The gale of evening touched the cords of death.

Nymph of the Trent! why didst thou not appear To snatch the victim from thy felon wave! Alas! too late thou camest to embalm his bier, And deck with waterflags his early grave.

Triumphant, riding o'er its tumid prey,

Rolls the red stream in sanguinary pride; While anxious crowds, in vain, expectant stay, And ask the swoln corse from the murdering tide.

The stealing tear-drop stagnates in the eye,
The sudden sigh by friendship's bosom proved,
I mark them rise-I mark the general sigh!

Unhappy youth! and wert thou so beloved?

On thee, as lone I trace the Trent's green brink, When the dim twilight slumbers on the glade; On thee my thoughts shall dwell, nor Fancy shrink To hold mysterious converse with thy shade.

Of thee, as early, I, with vagrant feet,

Hail the gray-sandalled morn in Colwick's vale,
Of thee my sylvan reed shall warble sweet,
And wild-wood echoes shall repeat the tale.

And, oh! ye nymphs of Pæon! who preside
O'er running rill and salutary stream.
Guard ye in future well the halcyon tide

From the rude death-shriek and the dying scream

INSCRIPTION FOR A MONUMENT TO THE MEMORY OF COWPER.

READER! if with no vulgar sympathy Thou view'st the wreck of genius and of worth, Stay thou thy footsteps near this hallowed spot. Here Cowper rests. Although renown have made His name familiar to thine ear, this stone

May tell thee that his virtues were above

The common portion:

-

that the voice, now hushed

In death, was once serenely querulous
With pity's tones, and in the ear of woe
Spake music. Now, forgetful, at thy feet,
His tired head presses on its last long rest,
Still tenant of the tomb; -and on the cheek,
Once warm with animation's lambent flush,
Sits the pale image of unmarked decay.
Yet mourn not. He had chosen the better part;
And, these sad garments of Mortality

Put off, we trust, that to a happier land
He went a light and gladsome passenger.
Sigh'st thou for honours, reader? Call to mind
That glory's voice is impotent to pierce
The silence of the tomb! but virtue blooms
Even on the wreck of life, and mounts the skies.
So gird thy loins with lowliness, and walk
With Cowper on the pilgrimage of Christ.

"I'M PLEASED, AND YET I'M SAD.

WHEN twilight steals along the ground,
And all the bells are ringing round,
One, two, three, four, and five,

I at my study window sit,

And, wrapped in many a musing fit,
To bliss am all alive.

But though impressions calm and sweet
Thrill round my heart a holy heat,

And I am inly glad;

1

The tear-drop stands in either eye, And yet I cannot tell thee why,

I'm pleased, and yet I'm sad.

The silvery rack that flies away,
Like mortal life or pleasure's ray,
Does that disturb my breast?
Nay, what have I, a studious man,
To do with life's unstable plan,
Or pleasure's fading vest?

Is it that here I must not stop,
But o'er yon blue hill's woody top
Must bend my lonely way?

No, surely no! for give but me
My own fireside, and I shall be
At home where'er I stray.

Then is it that yon steeple there,
With music sweet shall fill the air,

When thou no more canst hear?
Oh, no! oh, no! for then, forgiven,
I shall be with my God in heaven,
Released from every fear.

Then whence it is I cannot tell,
But there is some mysterious spell

That holds me when I'm glad;
And so the tear-drop fills my eye,
When yet in truth I know not why,
Or wherefore I am sad.