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SONNETS.

TO MISS KELLY.

Yon are not, Kelly, of the common strain,
That stoop their prido and female honour down
To please that many-headed beast the town,
And vend their lavish smiles and tricks for gain;
By fortune thrown amid the actors' train,
You keep your native dignity of thought;
The plaudits that attend you come unsought,
As tributes due unto your natural vein.
Your tears have passion in them, and a grace
Of genuine freshness, which our hearts avow;
Your smiles are winds whose ways we cannot

trace,
That vanish and return we know not how—
And please the better from a pensive face,
A thoughtful eye, and a reflecting brow.

ON THE SIGHT OF SWANS IN KENSINGTON GARDEN. Queen-bird that sittest on thy shining-nest, And thy young cygnets without sorrow hatchost, And thou, thou other royal bird, that watchest Lest the white mother wandering feet molest: Shrined are your offspring in a crystal cradle, Brighter than Helen's ere she yet had burst Her shelly prison. They shall be born at first Strong, active, graceful, perfect, swan-like able To tread the land or waters with security. Unlike poor human births, conceived in sin, In grief brought forth, both outwardly and in Confessing weakness, error, and impurity. Did heavenly creatures own succession's line, The births of heaven like to yours would shine.

Was it some sweet device of Faery
That mock'd my steps with many a lonely glade,
And fancied wanderings with a fair-hair'd maid 1
Have these things been? or what rare witchery,
Impregning with delights the charmed air,
Enlighted up the semblance of a smile
In those fine eyes > methought they spake the while
Soft sooth ing things, which might enforce despair
To drop the murdering knife, and let go by
His foul resolve. And does the lonely glade
Still court the footsteps of the fair-hair'd maid?
Still in her locks the gales of summer sigh?
While I forlorn do wander reckless where,
And 'mid my wanderings meet no Anna there.

Methinks how dainty sweet it were, reclined

Beneath the vast out-stretching branches high

Of some old wood, in careless sort to lie,

Nor of the busier scenes we left behind

Aught envying. And, O Anna ! mild-eyed maid!

Beloved ! I were well content to play

With thy free tresses all a summer's day,

Losing the time beneath the greenwood shade.

Or we might sit and tell some tender tale

Of faithful vows repaid by cruel scorn,

A tale of true love, or of friend forgot;

And I would teach thee, lady, how to rail

In gentle sort, on those who practise not

Or love or pity, though of woman born.

When last I roved these winding wood-walks green,
Green winding walks, and shady pathways swoet,
Oft-times would Anna seek the silent scene,
Shrouding her beauties in the lone retreat.
No more I hear her footsteps in the shade:
Her image only in these pleasant ways
Meets me self-wandering, where in happier days
I hold free converse with the fair-hair'd maid.
I pass'd the little cottage which she loved,
The cottage which did once my all contain;
It spake of days which ne'er must come again,
Spake to my heart, and much my heart was moved.
"Now fair befall thee, gentle maid !" said I,
And from the cottage turn'd me with a sigh.

THE FAMILY NAME.

What reason first imposed thee, gentle name, Name that my father bore, and his sire's sire, Without reproach? we trace our stream uo

higher; And I, a childless man, may end the same. Perchance some shepherd on Lincolnian plains, In manners guileless as his own sweet flocks, Received thee first amid the merry mocks And arch allusions of his fellow swains. Perchance from Salem's holier fields rcturn'd, With glory gotten on the heads abhorr'd Of faithless Saracens, some martial lord Took His meek title, in whose zeal ho burn'd, Whato'er the fount whence thy beginnings came, No deed of mine shall shame thee, gentle name.

If from my lips some angry accents fell,
Peevish complaint, or harsh reproof unkind,
'Twas but the error of a sickly mind
And troubled thoughts, clouding the purer well,
And waters clear, of Reason: and for me
Let this my verse the poor atonement be—
My verse, which thou to praise wert ever inclined
Too highly, and with a partial eye to see
No blemish. Thou to me didst ever show
Kindest affection; and would oft-times lend
An ear to the desponding love-sick lay,
Weeping my sorrows with me, who repay
But ill the mighty debt of love I owe,
Mary, to thee, my sister and my friend.

A Timid grace sits trembling in her eye,

As loath to meet the rudeness of men's sight,

Yet shedding a delicious lunar light,

That steeps in kind oblivious ecstacy

The care-crazed mind, like some still melody:

Speaking most plain the thoughts which do

possess Her gentle sprite: peace, and meek quietness, And innocent loves, and maiden purity: A look whereof might heal the cruel smart Of changed friends, or fortune's wrongs unkind; Might to sweet deeds of mercy move the heart Of him who hates his brethren of mankind. Turn'd are those lights from me, who fondly yet Past joys, vain loves, and buried hopes regret.

TO JOHN LAMB, ESQ., OF THE SOUTH-SEA-
HOUSE.

John, you were figuring in the gay career
Of blooming manhood with a young man's joy,
When I was yet a little peevish boy—
Though time has made the difference disappear

Betwixt our ages, which then seem'd so great—
And still by rightful custom you retain
Much of the old authoritative strain,
And keep the elder brother up in state.
O ! you do well in this. 'Tis man's worst deed
To let the "things that have been" run to waste,
And in the unmeaning present sink the past:
In whose dim glass even now I faintly read
Old buried forms, and faces long ago,
Which you, and I, and one more, only know.

O ! I could laugh to hear the midnight wind,
That, rushing on its way with careless sweep,
Scatters the ocean waves. And I could weep
Like to a child. For now to my raised mind
On wings of winds comes wild-eyed Phantasy,
And her rude visions give severe delight.
0 winged bark! how swift along the night
Pass'd thy proud keel! nor shall I let go by
Lightly of that drear hour the memory.
When wet and chilly on thy deck I stood,
Unbonnetted, and gazed upon the flood,
Even till it seem'd a pleasant thing to die,—
To be resolv'd into th' elemental wave,
Or take my portion with the winds that rave.

We were two pretty babes, the youngest she,
The youngest, and the loveliest far, I ween,
And Innocence her name. The time has been,
We two did love each other's company;
Time was, we two had wept to have been apart.
But when by show of seeming good beguiled,
I left the garb and manners of a child,
And my first love for man's society,
Defiling with the world my virgin heart—
My loved companion dropp'd a tear, and fled,
And hid in deepest shades her awful head.
Beloved, who shall tell me where thou art—
In what delicious Eden to be found—
That I may seek thee the wide world around 1

BLANK VERSE.

CHILDHOOD.

In my poor mind it is moat sweet to muse

Upon the days gone by; to act in thought

Past seasons o'er, and be again a child;

To sit in fancy on the turf-clad slope,

Down which the child would roll; to pluck gay

flowers, Make posies in the sun, which the child's hand (Childhood offended soon, soon reconciled), Would throw away, and straight take up again, Then fling them to the winds, and o'er the lawn Bound with so playful and so light a foot, That the press'd daisy scarce declined her head.

THE GRANDAME.

On the green hill top, Hard by the houso of prayer, a modest roof, And not distinguish'd from its neighbour-barn, Save by a slender-tapering length of spire, The Grandame sleeps. A plain stone barely tells The name and date to the chance passenger. For lowly born was she, and long had cat, Well-carn'd, the bread of service:—hers was else A mountain spirit, one that entertain'd Scorn of base action, deed dishonourable, Or aught unseemly. I remember well Her reverend image; I remember, too, With what a zeal she served her master's house; And how the prattling tongue of garrulous ago Delighted to recount the oft-told tale Or anecdote domestic. Wise she was, And wondrous skill'd in genealogies, And could in apt and voluble terms discourse Of births, of titles, and alliances; Of marriages, and intermarriages; Relationship remote, or near of kin; Of friends offended, family disgraced— Maiden high-born, but wayward, disobeying Parental strict injunction, and regardless Of unmix'd blood, and ancestry remote, Stooping to wed with one of low degree. But these are not thy praises; and I wrong Thy honour' d memory, recording chiefly Things light or trivial. Better 'twere to tell, How with a nobler zeal, and warmer love, She served her heavenly Matter. I have seen

That reverend form bent down with ago and

pain, And rankling malady. Yet not for this Ceased she to praise her Maker, or withdrew Her trust in him, her faith, an humble hope— So meekly had she learn'd to bear her cross— For she had studied patience in the school Of Christ; much comfort she had thence derived, And was a follower of the Nazaeene.

THE SABBATH BELLS.

The cheerful sabbath bells, wherever heard.

Strike pleasant on the sense, most like the voice

Of one, who from the far-off hills proclaims

Tidings of good to Zion: chiefly when

Their piercing tones fall sudden on the ear

Of the contemplant, solitary man,

Whom thoughts abstruse or high have chanced

to luro Forth from the walks of men, revolving oft, And oft again, hard matter, which eludes And baffles his pursuit—thought-sick and tired Of controversy, where no end appears, No clue to his research, the lonely man Half wishes for society again. Him, thus engaged, the sabbath bells salute Sudden f his heart awakes, his ears drink in The cheering music; his relenting soul Yearns after all the joys of social life, And softens with the love of human kind.

FANCY EMPLOYED ON DIVINE SUBJECTS.

The truant Fancy was a wanderer ever,
A lone enthusiast maid. She loves to walk
In the bright visions of empyreal light,
By the green pastures, and the fragrant meads,
Where the perpetual flowers of Eden blow;
By crystal streams, and by the living waters,
Along whose margin grows the wondrous tree
Whose leaves shall heal the nations; underneath
Whoso holy shade a refuge shall be found
From pain and want, and all the ills that wait
On mortal life, from sin and death for ever.

COMPOSED AT MIDNIGHT.

From broken visions of perturbed rest

I wake, and start, and fear to sleep again.

How total a privation of all sounds,

Sights, and familiar objects, man, bird, beast,

Herb, tree, or flower, and prodigal light of

heaven. 'Twere some relief to catch the drowsy cry Of the mechanic watchman, or the noise Of revel reeling home from midnight cups. Those are the moanings of the dying man, Who lies in the upper chamber; restless moans, And interrupted only by a cough Consumptive, torturing the wasted lungs. So in the bitterness of death he lies, And waits in anguish for the morning's light. What can that do for him, or what restore? Short taste, faint sense, affecting notices, And little images of pleasures past, Of health, and active life—health not yet slain, Nor the other grace of life, a good name, sold For sin's black wages. On his tedious bed Ho writhes, and turns him from the accusing

light, And finds no comfort in the sun, but says "When night comes I shall get a little rest." Some few groans more, death comes, and there

an end. 'Tis darkness and conjecture all beyond; Weak Nature fears, though Charity must hope, And Fancy, most licentious on such themes Where decent reverence well had kept her

mute,

'Hath o'er-stock'd hell with devils, and brought

down By her enormous fablings and mad lies, Discredit on the gospel's serious truths And salutary fears. The man of parte, Poet, or prose declaimer, on his couch Lolling, like one indifferent, fabricates A heaven of gold, where he, and such as he, Their heads encompassed with crowns, their

heels With fine wings garlanded, shall tread the stars Beneath their feet, heaven's pavement, far removed From damned spirits, and the torturing cries Of men, his brethren, fashion'd of the earth. As he was, nourish'd with the self-same bread, Belike his kindred or companions onceThrough everlasting ages now divorced, In chains and savage torments to repent Short years of folly on earth. Their groans

unheard In heav'n, the saint nor pity feels, nor care, For those thus sentenced—pity might disturb The delicate sense and most divine repose Of spirits angelical. Blessed be G-od, The measure of his judgments is not fix'd By man's erroneous standard. He discerns No such inordinate difference and vast Betwixt the sinner and the saint, to doom Such disproportion^ fates. Compared with him, No man on earth is holy call'd: they best Stand in his sight approved, who at his feet Their little crowns of virtue cast, and yield To him of his own works the praise, his due.

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ACT THE FIRST.

ScenicA Servants' Apartment in Wootlvil Hall. Servants drinkingTime, the Horning.

A Song, by DANIEL.

11 'When the King enjoys his own again."

Peter. A delicate song. Where didst learn it, fellow?

Dan. Even there, where thou lcarnest thy oaths and thy politics—at our master's tablo.— Where else should a serving-man pick up his poor accomplishments?

Mar. Well spoken, Daniel . O rare Daniel! his oaths and his politics! excellent!

Fran. And where didst pick up thy knavery, Daniel t

Peter. That came to him by inheritance. His family have supplied the shire of Devon, time out of mind, with good thieves and bad servingmen. All of his race have come into the world without their conscience.

Mar. Good thieves, and bad serving-men! Better and better. I marvel what Daniel hath got to say in reply.

Dan. I marvel more when thou wilt say any thing to the purpose, thou shallow serving-man, whose swiftest conceit carries thee no higher

than to apprehend with difficulty the stale jests of us thy compeers. When was't ever known to club thy own particular jest among us?

Mar. Most unkind Daniel, to speak such biting things of me!

Fran. See—if he hath not brought tears into the poor fellow's eyes with the saltness of his rebuke.

Dan. No offence, brother Martin—I meant none. 'Tis true, Heaven gives gifts, and withholds them. It has been pleased to bestow upon me a nimble invention to the manufacture of a jest; and upon thee, Martin, an indifferent bad capacity to understand my meaning.

Mar. Is that all? I am content. Here's my hand.

Fran. Well, I like a little innocent mirth myself, but never could endure bawdry.

Dan. Qiwt homines tot tenlenlim.

Mar. And what is that!

Dan. "Tis Greek, and argues difference of opinion.

Mar. I hope there is none between us.

Dan. Here's to thee, brother Martin. (Drinks.)

Mar. And to thee, Daniel. (Drinks.)

Fran. And to thee, Peter. (Drinks.)

Peter. Thank you, Francis. And here's to thee. (Drinks.)

Mar. I shall be fuddled anon.

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