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IO

pass lost,

Shoots into port at some well-havened

THE POPLAR FIELD isle, Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons THE poplars are felled ; farewell to the smile,

shade, There sits quiescent on the floods that show And the whispering sound of the cool colonHer beauteous form reflected clear be

nade low,

The winds play no longer and sing in the While airs impregnated with incense play

leaves, Around her, fanning light her streamers Nor Ouse on his bosom their image regay;

ceives. So thou, with sails how swift! hast reached the shore,

Twelve years have elapsed since I first took “ Where tempests never beat nor billows

a view roar."

Of

my favourite field, and the bank where And thy loved consort on the dangerous they grew; tide

And now in the grass behold they are Of life long since has anchored by thy laid, side.

And the tree is my seat that once lent me But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, 100

a shade! Always from port withheld, always distressed

The blackbird has fled to another retreat, Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest Where the hazels afford him a screen from tost,

the heat, Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and com- And the scene where his melody charmed

me before And day by day some current's thwarting Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no force

more. Sets me more distant from a prosperous

My fugitive years are all hasting away, Yet, oh, the thought that thou art safe, and And I must ere long lie as lowly as they, he!

With a turf on my breast, and a stone at That thought is joy, arrive what may to

Ere another such grove shall arise in its My boast is not, that I deduce my birth

stead. From loins enthroned and rulers of the earth;

'Tis a sight to engage me, if anything But higher far my proud pretensions

can, rise

To muse on the perishing pleasures of man; The son of parents passed into the skies ! Though his life be a dream, his enjoyments, And now, farewell — Time unrevoked has

Have a being less durable even than he. 20 His wonted course, yet what I wished is

done. By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,

ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL I seem to have lived my childhood o'er

GEORGE again ; To have renewed the joys that once were

WRITTEN WHEN THE NEWS ARRIVED mine, Without the sin of violating thine :

[Written Sept., 1782] And, while the wings of Fancy still are

To the march in Scipio." free, And I can view this mimic show of thee,

TOLL for the brave ! Time has but half succeeded in his theft

The brave that are no more ! Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me All sunk beneath the wave, left.

Fast by their native shore !

course,

my head,

me.

TIO

I see,

run

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Sing'st thou, sweet Philomel, to me,

For that I also long Have practised in the groves like thee,

Though not like thee, in song ? Or sing'st thou rather, under force

Of some divine command, Commissioned to presage a course

Of bappier days at band ?
Thrice welcome then ! for many a long

And joyless year have I,
As thou to-day, put forth my song

Beneath a wintry sky.
But thee no wintry skies can harm,

Who only need'st to sing,
To make even January charm,

And every season Spring.

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TO MARY

Weigh the vessel up,

Once dreaded by our foes ! And mingle with our cup

The tears that England owes.

[Publ. 1793] The twentieth year is well-nigh past, Since first our sky was overcast; Ah, would that this might be the last !

My Mary! Thy spirits have a fainter flow, I see thee daily weaker grow; 'Twas my distress that brought thee low,

My Mary!

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X

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Whyles, ranging like a roarin lion,

Thence, countra wives, wi' toil an' pain, For prey, a' holes an' corners trying; Whyles, on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin, For o! the yellow treasure's taen

May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain; Tirlin the kirks;

By witching skill;
Whyles, in the human bosom pryin,

An' dawtit, twal-pint hawkie's gaen
Unseen thou lurks.

As yell's the bill.

XI

I've heard my rev'rend graunie say,
In lanely glens ye like to stray;
Or, where auld ruin'd castles grey

Nod to the moon,
Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way

Wi' eldritch croon.

Thence, mystic knots mak great abuse
On

young guidmen, fond, keen an' croose; When the best wark-lume i' the house,

By cantraip wit,
Is instant made no worth a louse,

Just at the bit.

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