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 AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 HENRY NEELE. 
 
 Fair Poesy! 
 I cannot burst thy bonds — it is but lift 
 Thy blue eyes to that deep bespangled vault, 
 Wreathe thy enchanted tresses round thine arm, 
 And mutter some obscure and charmed rhyme, 
 And I could follow thee on thy night's work, 
 Up to the regions of thrice chastened fire, 
 Or in the caverns of the ocean depths, 
 Thrid the light mazes of thy volant foot. 
 
 Kirke White. 
 
 ftottBOtt : 
 PRINTED FOR SHERWOOD, NEELY, AND JONES, 
 
 PATERNOSTER ROW. 
 
 1816. 
 

 am. 
 
 W. L. Shoem**t©r 
 7 S '06 
 
 11. Edwards, Printer, 
 Crane-court, Fleet-street, London. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 If Poetry be indeed the power of giving to 
 " airy nothing a local habitation and a name," 
 then lyric poetry is of all others that which 
 best deserves the title. It dwells in a crea- 
 tion of its own ; its actors are the visionary 
 and unsubstantial train of fancy; and the com- 
 panions by which it is surrounded are 
 
 " Calling shapes and beckoning shadows dire, 
 And airy tongues that syllable mens names." 
 
 When it descends to humanity, its intercourse 
 is with the heart, and not with the actions of 
 man ; with his abstract feelings and passions, 
 and not with the part which he plays on the 
 
VI PREFACE. 
 
 world's great theatre. Fancy is its dominion, 
 and the deep and abundant sources of de- 
 scription, allegory, and sentiment, are pecu- 
 liarly its own. 
 
 After our Dramatists, who interspersed 
 their works with occasional lyrical pieces of 
 considerable beauty, Cowley is the first name 
 of eminence in the history of English lyric 
 poetry, and it is principally in reading his odes 
 that we lament those metaphysical conceits, 
 which obscure the reputation of a genius of 
 the first rate order. But " the light that led 
 astray was light from heaven ;" — his very 
 faults are the offspring of genius ; they are 
 the exuberance of a mind i( o'erinformed with 
 meaning" — the excrescences of a tree, whose 
 
PREFACE. Vll 
 
 waste foliage, if properly culled and arranged, 
 would form an immortal wreath on the brow 
 of any humbler genius. " But if we wish for 
 a parallel with Pindar's odes," we are told by 
 an eminent critic, " we must seek it in the 
 odes and choruses of Milton." Had that di- 
 vine poet never written his great work, he 
 would have been celebrated as a lyrist; but 
 Paradise Lost has eclipsed the splendour of 
 all his other writings ; and indeed what work 
 of human genius is there which it has not 
 thrown into the shade ? Dryden's celebrated 
 Ode is not equal throughout, otherwise as he 
 himself has said of Shakespeare — " it would 
 be doing it an injustice to compare it with any 
 other." Neither Congreve or Akenside were 
 
V11I PREFACE. 
 
 formed for lyric poets : their odes are all be- 
 low mediocrity. The Wartons were men of 
 refined and elegant taste, rather than of ge- 
 nius. Collins and Gray are our most popular 
 lyrists, and they deserve their popularity. 
 The first especially was one of those who 
 come into the world to excite astonishment 
 and delight in others, while their own lives 
 are lost " amidst inconvenience and distrac- 
 tion, in sickness and in sorrow," — whose songs 
 would have been less sweet, had their sorrows 
 been less poignant, and who kindle at the 
 funeral pile of their own happiness, a torch 
 which will burn to the end of time, the won- 
 der and admiration of mankind. Among more 
 recent poets, Mason has left us many pieces of 
 
PREFACE. IX 
 
 peculiar merit, and the late Henry Kirke 
 White would have excelled in this branch of 
 poetry, but 
 
 " The spoiler swept that soaring lyre away, 
 Which else had sounded an immortal lay." 
 
 To tread in the steps of such men is a bold, 
 and probably a presumptuous attempt, and 
 the public will judge most favourably of the 
 present writer if it can forget his predecessors. 
 Of the following Poems, however, the author 
 will say little, either in recommendation or 
 excuse. The first he leaves them to speak for 
 themselves, and as to the second, if they are 
 unworthy attention, he is conscious that no- 
 thing which he can offer will justify their 
 obtrusion upon the public. At the same 
 
X PREFACE. 
 
 time he may be permitted to observe, that if 
 youth and inexperience are just arguments 
 against the severity of criticism, they may be 
 pleaded in his behalf; and if a maiden per- 
 formance be regarded with less than ordinary 
 rigour ; that he is privileged on the present 
 occasion. These observations he offers, in 
 order to obtain a candid hearing ; not for the 
 purpose of wringing that applause for his 
 writings from public indulgence, which is not 
 due to them from public justice. They must 
 either stand or fall by their own solitary merit, 
 as he would least of all things wish it suspect* 
 ed that he shuns scrutiny, or solicits favour. 
 Kentish Town, January 1st, 1817. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 
 
 . Page 
 
 Stanzas, 
 
 - 
 
 XV 
 
 ODES.- 
 
 -Book I. 
 
 
 Ode I.— To Time, - 
 
 - 
 
 1 
 
 II.— To Hope, - 
 
 - 
 
 8 
 
 III. — To Memory, 
 
 - 
 
 15 
 
 IV.— To Horror, 
 
 - 
 
 20 
 
 V. — To Despair, 
 
 - 
 
 30 
 
 VI.— To the Moon, 
 
 - 
 
 38 
 
Xll CONTENTS. 
 
 ODES.— Book II. 
 
 
 
 Page 
 
 Ode I. — To Enthusiasm, 
 
 - 
 
 49 
 
 II.— The Harp, 
 
 - 
 
 58 
 
 III.— To Fancy, 
 
 - 
 
 64, 
 
 IV.— The Power of Poetry, 
 
 - 
 
 71 
 
 V.— To Pity, 
 
 - 
 
 81 
 
 VI.— To Allegory, 
 
 - 
 
 89 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 
 
 Son. I. — God help thee, weary one, - 99 
 
 II. — Fair Moon, thou travellest - 101 
 
 III. — Why do we love thee, Fame ? 103 
 
 IV. — Traveller, as roaming - 105 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Stanzas, - - - 109 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Xlll 
 
 
 Page 
 
 Disappointment, 
 
 113 
 
 Dirge, 
 
 117 
 
 Huts of the Poor, 
 
 121 
 
 Reason, 
 
 124 
 
 Hope, 
 
 127 
 
 Stanzas, 
 
 129 
 
 Melody, 
 
 131 
 
 The Wanderer's Roundelay, 
 
 134 
 
 Stanzas, 
 
 138 
 
 Melancholy, - 
 
 140 
 
 "'Song, 
 
 142 
 
ERRATA. 
 
 Page 14, line 4, dele " sweetly." 
 
 Page 27, line 8, for "now" read "brow. 
 
 Page 29, line 2 from bottom, dele u all." 
 
STANZAS. 
 
 I. 
 
 Wake, Harp of mine, some lofty ditty ring, 
 Such as shall charm the sullen ear of time, 
 And ere yon rolling planets cease to sing, 
 May mingle with their melodies sublime, 
 Lasting as they, and lovely as their chime; 
 Hope promised me a lay whose notes should sweep 
 Thro" the wide world, echoing in many a clime, 
 When he who woke them lies in slumber deep, 
 A dark and moonless night, a long unstartled sleep. 
 
XVI STANZAS. 
 
 II. 
 
 And tho' that hope be vain — vain as the ray 
 That gleamed, and glared, and dazzled, and was o'er, 
 Yet thou mayest while his life's dull dream away, 
 Charm many a weary hour, the rugged shore 
 Of earthly passage smooth, and when no more 
 His hand can guide thee, or his spirit brave 
 Death's frenzied grasp, but desolate and hoar, 
 The spirits of the blast around thee rave, 
 Whisper one sorrowful note melodious o'er his grave* 
 
 1815. 
 
ODES. 
 
 BOOK THE FIRST. 
 
®®1 l< 
 
 TO TIME. 
 
 Inexorable king- ! thy sway 
 
 Is fix'd on firm but cruel might ; 
 It rolls indeed the radiant day, 
 
 But sinks it soon in deepest night 
 It bids the little flow'ret spring, 
 But while it waves its elfin wing, 
 
 Its fleeting glories go ; 
 It suffers hope to dance a while, 
 Nursing the fondling's fatal smile, 
 
 That tears may faster flow : 
 And only bids fair beauty bloom, 
 At last to blast it in the tomb. 
 
ODE I. 
 
 To Time. 
 
 IL 
 
 Tyrant ! he changes every scene, 
 
 While he himself remains the same ; 
 Old grow the young, and grey the green, 
 
 And cold and cheeriless the flame. 
 With arrow keen he pierces all, 
 Nor stays to see the sufferer fall, 
 
 But wingo his way alone : 
 Oft too he questions fierce and high, 
 And while we pause to make reply, 
 
 The visitor is flown : 
 We only mark the change he brings, 
 And hear the rushing of his wings. 
 
ODE I. 
 
 To Time. 
 
 III. 
 
 Oh ! he has many borne away, 
 
 Who seera'd not meant to go so soon, 
 Who might have hop'd for closing day, 
 
 But fell before th' approach of noon. 
 Scarce had their fame been whisper'd round, 
 Before its shrill and mournful sound 
 
 Was whistling o'er their tomb : 
 Scarce did the laurel 'gin to grow 
 Around each early honoured brow, 
 
 Before its grateful bloom 
 Was changed to cypress sear and brown, 
 Whose garlands mock the head they crown. 
 
6 ODE I. 
 
 To Time. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Some linger on forlorn, till life 
 
 Becomes a load they long to leave ; 
 The aged finds its folly rife, 
 
 That flatters only to deceive. 
 The tree beneath whose cooling shade 
 His youthful limbs were blithely laid, 
 
 Sinks with the weight of years ; 
 The friends he lov'd, the tales he told, 
 The very fields are growing old, 
 
 And cheerless all appears ; 
 While he himself is fading fast, 
 And death (deliverer !) comes at last. 
 
ODE I. 
 
 To Time. 
 
 V. 
 
 A few more lays be sung and o'er, 
 
 The hand is cold, the harp unstrung" ; 
 The hand that swept shall sweep no more, 
 
 The harp that rang no more be rung. 
 The sun that warm'd the minstrel's heart, 
 And kindred fervour would impart, 
 
 Then gleams upon his sod ; 
 The breeze that used around him wave, 
 Shakes the lorn thistle o'er his grave, 
 
 But cannot wake the clod : 
 Tir'd nature nestles in the shroud* 
 Tho' requiem winds are piping loud. 
 
 1815. 
 
@®i m, 
 
 TO HOPE. 
 
 Sun of another world, whose rays 
 
 At distance gladden ours ; 
 Soul of a happier sphere, whose praise 
 
 Surpasses mortal powers ; 
 Mysterious feeling, taught to roll 
 
 Resistless o'er the breast, 
 Beyond embrace, above controul, 
 The strangest, sweetest of the soul, 
 
 Possessing, not possest. 
 
ODE IT. 9 
 
 To Hope. 
 
 II. 
 
 Deceiver, hail ! around whose throne 
 
 Such numerous votaries bend ; 
 The form to all but thee unknown, 
 
 The wretch without a friend : 
 Youth when his cherish'd best is dead, 
 
 Makes what is living thine ; 
 Age, hoping when his all is fled, 
 Still totters on with eager tread, 
 
 And dies before thy shrine. 
 
JO ODE II. 
 
 To Hope. 
 
 III. 
 
 Yet what art thou ? a tottering hall 
 
 That crumbles while we walk ; 
 A flower so soon decreed to fall, 
 
 And wither on its stalk ; 
 A gather'd rose-bud, but that pride 
 
 Of crimson o'er it spread, 
 'Tis our own life-blood's precious tide, 
 That as we pluck'd it, gushing wide, 
 
 Has dyed the pale flower red. 
 
ODE II. 11 
 
 To Hope. 
 
 IV. 
 
 'Tis all a dream ! the forms we love, 
 
 Elude the eager clasp ; 
 The pleasures that we long to prove, 
 
 Vanish within the grasp ; 
 They're disappointment, death, despair, 
 
 Aught but the good they seem ; 
 We love, we hate, we joy, we care,, 
 And hope is sweet, and life is fair, 
 
 And yet — 'tis all a dream ! 
 
12 ODE II. 
 
 To Hope. 
 
 A fiend is sitting on our heart, 
 
 We slumb'ring thro' the night, 
 And every heave, and every start, 
 
 He marks with fierce delight : 
 Tis death : he loves his watch to keep 
 
 By life's decreasing stream, 
 And soon in thrilling accents deep, 
 His potent call shall burst our sleep, 
 
 And prove it all a dream f 
 
ODE II. 13 
 
 To Hope. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Yet wherefore mourn ? since Hope at best, 
 
 Tho' fair, was always vain ; 
 Her promises were ever rest, 
 
 Her guerdons ever pain : 
 Why mourn the absence of that light, 
 
 That only led astray ? 
 It lur'd the steps, perplex'd the sight, 
 And yet 'twas bright, 'twas wond'rous bright, 
 
 And gilded all the way. 
 
14 ODE ir. 
 
 To Hope. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Yes ; he who roams in deserts bare, 
 
 That were not always wild, 
 Will sigh to think how sweetly there 
 
 Full many a flow'ret sweetly smil'd, 
 Will pause to mark th' uncherish'd beam, 
 
 The tree uprooted torn, 
 And sit, immers'd in pensile dream, 
 By many a now deserted stream, 
 
 To meditate and mourn. 
 
 1815. 
 
©bi m 
 
 TO MEMORY. 
 
 Will no remorse, will no decay, 
 Memory, soothe thee into peace ? 
 
 When life is ebbing fast away, 
 
 Will not thy hungry vultures cease % 
 Ah no ! as weeds from fading free, 
 
 Noxious and rank, still verdantly 
 Twine round a rnin'd tow'r ; 
 
 So to the heart untam'd, will cling 
 
 The memory of an evil thing, 
 In life's departing hour : 
 
 Green is the weed when grey the wall, 
 
 And thistles rise while turrets fall. 
 
16 ODE III. 
 
 To Memory. 
 
 II. 
 
 Yet open Memory's book again, 
 
 Turn o'er the lovlier pages now, 
 And find that balm for present pain, 
 
 Which past enjoyment can bestow : 
 Delusion all, and void of power, 
 For e'en in thought's serenest hour, 
 
 When past delights are felt, 
 And Memory shines on scenes of woe, 
 ? Tis like the moonbeam on the snow, 
 
 That gilds but cannot melt; 
 That throws a mockery lustre o'er, 
 But leaves it cheerless as before. 
 
ODE III. 17 
 
 To Memory. 
 
 III. 
 
 Her sweetest song will only tell 
 
 Of long departed noon ; 
 Of things we lov'd, alas ! how well ; 
 
 And lost, alas ! how soon ; 
 For feelings blasted, hopes deferr'd, 
 And secret woes unseen, unheard 
 
 By the cold crowd around ; 
 Will rise, and make their plaintive moan, 
 And mingle with her softest tone, 
 
 Till in their murmurs drown'd, 
 Her lyre shall lose its soothing flow, 
 And only tell a tale of woe. 
 
18 ODE III. 
 
 To Memory. 
 
 IV. 
 Tho' hope's bright scenes be false and vain, 
 
 Her's is the beauty of deceit ; 
 Tho' pleasure's cup hold dregs of pain, 
 
 One sip upon the brim is sweet : 
 Yes, they have charms, tho' false and few, 
 Tho' soon they vanish from the view, 
 
 Impalpable as air : 
 But Memory soothes not, charms not, brings 
 No balm, or true or false, for stings 
 
 Inflicted by despair ; 
 But still some new device will find, 
 
 To torture more the suffrer's mind. 
 
ODE III. 19 
 
 To Memory. 
 
 V. 
 She, worm-obscene her form will roll 
 
 Beneath the rose-bed where he lies, 
 Or crawl from out the jovial bowl, 
 
 And coil before his eyes : 
 Or find him as he lies asleep, 
 That waking, he may wake to weep, 
 
 And chide the coming day : 
 A poisoned shaft once fix'd by her, 
 'Tis vain to soothe, 'tis pain to stir, 
 
 'Tis death to pluck away, 
 And ev'ry struggle, every start, 
 But sends it deeper to the heart. 
 
 C 2 1816. 
 
®®S JVc 
 
 TO HORROR. 
 
 I.— 1. 
 
 Where dost thou wander, haggard Queen, 
 
 To shun the agony of light ? 
 Why dost thou hate the morning's radiant sheue, 
 
 And with dark footsteps haunt the shades of night? 
 Why do the lustre and the roses fail 
 In thy sunk eye, and cheek so pale ? 
 Human footsteps shun and fear thee, 
 Human voices are not near thee. 
 
ODE IV. 21 
 
 To Horror. 
 
 Only shadowy shapes are found, 
 And still, small sounds that murmur round. 
 What are those shapes, those accents drear, 
 Still flitting o'er thy path, still ringing in thy ear. 
 
 I.— 2. 
 
 Oh ! she has gaz'd on unholy rite, 
 Till her cheek it grew pale, and her eye lost its light, 
 And she has danc'd by the light of the moon, 
 With the spectres that shrink from the lustre of noon. 
 She blasts in the desert, she whelms in the sea ; 
 The spirit that raves on the night-wind is she. 
 She rides on the thunder, 
 When tempests roll under, 
 
22 ODE IV. 
 
 To Horror. 
 
 With the beldams of darkness she sits and confers, 
 
 The sigh and the languish, 
 
 The pang and the anguish, 
 
 The heave, and the start, and the death-shriek are hers. 
 
 1—3. 
 But mark her melancholy train, 
 This blights the eye, that fires the brain, 
 These creep unmark'd into the cheek, 
 And blast it with a paleness bleak ; 
 And yonder come the spectre guard, 
 Who gibber in the dark church-yard, 
 Obscure the moon's refulgent ray, 
 And scare the traveller from his way. 
 And now they come a sweeping train, 
 From fell, from flood, from fire, from rain, 
 
ODE IV. 23 
 
 To Horror. 
 
 Around the mystic fire to trip, 
 
 Lay the lean finger on the lip, 
 
 To look the tale that none must speak, 
 
 To hide the deed that none must seek, 
 
 And bow, in withering circles down, 
 
 Before the Mistress Demon's throne. 
 
 II.— 1. 
 
 But who is he advancing first, 
 
 With blood-stain'd banner wide unfurl'd l 
 
 With eye that looks like some red meteor burst, 
 
 Pouring its dark sides o'er a trembling world* 
 
 Revenge ! revenge ! hark, with what loud acclaim, 
 
 The echoes catch the dreaded name. 
 
24 ODE IV. 
 
 To Horror. 
 
 Hark! the curses howling o'er him, 
 
 See ! the forms that fly before him, 
 
 Mercy seeks her native skies, 
 
 Pity sinks and Freedom dies. 
 
 Sorrow alone survives his reign, 
 
 Like one lorn thistle left upon the blasted plain. 
 
 II.— 2. 
 
 Next Guilt, son of darkness and death, rushes by, 
 With hope in his step, but despair in his eye; 
 Behind him scowls Memory, before him stalks Fear, 
 And they mingle the flame of their torches so drear. 
 Fool ! fool ! tho' that flame and those bearers be dire, 
 He walks in its light, nor reflects on its fire. 
 
ODE IV. 25 
 
 To Horror. 
 
 Tho' the rays he recline on, 
 
 Fire all that they shiue on ; 
 
 Tho' they scatter that lurid and far-streaming glare, 
 
 To delude and confound him, 
 
 Till the flames rush around him, 
 
 Till they rise from his garments, and hiss in his hair. 
 
 II— 3. 
 
 Behold where Frenzy wanders wild, 
 
 Dead Expectation's orphan child ! 
 
 Wilder'd and weary as she goes. 
 
 She tells a tale — a tale of woes, 
 
 And as she tells her voice grows loud, 
 
 Her brow more dark, her step more proud, 
 
26 ODE IV. 
 
 To Horror. 
 
 And Horror wild, and fervour high, 
 
 Have lit her dark disorder'd eye, 
 
 And thrown one flush, one quivering streak, 
 
 A moment o'er her livid cheek. 
 
 She raves, she storms, she pauses now — 
 
 The darkness passes from her brow ; 
 
 She gazes on the calm moon ray, 
 
 And that has charm'd her tears away : 
 
 Then sings, forgot her untold pains, 
 To the wild rattling of her chains. 
 
 III.— 1. 
 
 See Death, the mightiest of all, 
 Yet not the direst of the train ! 
 
ODE IV. 27 
 
 To Horror. 
 
 To deck him for the ghastly festival, 
 
 He gathers a dark garland from the plain, 
 
 Of flowers whose sweets the worm has suck'd away 
 
 Of eglantine that once was gay, 
 
 Lilies dead, and wither'd roses, 
 
 Blooming once in fragrant posies, 
 
 Nauseous and unlovely now, 
 
 Rotting on his fleshless now ; 
 
 He smiles when finish'd his employ, 
 
 And waves his bony hand, and laughs a horrid joy. 
 
 III.— 2. 
 
 Next him stalks Superstition, the hand on her' heart: 
 Is red with the gore it has order'd to start ; 
 
28 ODE IV. 
 
 To Horror. 
 
 The eye that she raises as placid on high, 
 
 Is wild with the horrors before it that fly; 
 
 And the incense she offers as pure and sublime, 
 
 Has been rais'd from delirium, and nurtur'd in crime. 
 
 Oh hide thee, thou blaster, 
 
 Than happiness faster, 
 
 Than life and hope surer, from human breast fly ; 
 
 Thy music is madness, 
 
 Thy pleasure is sadness, 
 
 And baleful and black is the scowl of that eye. 
 
 III. — 3- 
 
 These, Horror, these, the circle dire, 
 Who form around thy midnight fire, 
 
ODE IV. 29 
 
 To Horror. 
 
 Where side by side, a withering band, 
 
 Plying their mystic trade they stand ; 
 
 Thy influence on those nights of fear, 
 
 Binds high and low, spreads far and near, 
 
 Thy step is seen on every glade, 
 
 Thy voice is heard from every shade, 
 
 The timid weep, the pensive sigh, 
 
 The infant starts it knows not why, 
 
 The dreamer wakes from pangs so deep, 
 
 So fierce, he fears again to sleep, 
 
 The traveller trembling, totters on, 
 
 Breathes many a prayer, heaves many a groan,' 
 
 Fears all all he hears, doubts all he sees, 
 
 And starts and shakes with every breeze. 
 
 1815. 
 
X T< 
 
 TO DESPAIR. 
 
 It was Despair, 
 
 He roll'd his large red eye around, 
 
 And laid his wither'd hand upon the 1 y 
 
 Then woke that strain so wildly terrible, 
 
 That Madness 
 
 Ceas'd for a while her idiot grin, and Fear 
 
 Call'd Disappointment from his iron cell, 
 
 To pause and listen, while his own pale cheek 
 
 Grew paler 
 
ODE V. 31 
 
 To Despair, 
 
 II. 
 
 It was Despair : 
 
 The man of dark imaginings, 
 
 Who sits kirn sullen on some blasted heath, 
 
 Which the pale moon-beani saddens, not relieve 
 
 There raving, 
 
 Fashioning shapes huge, strange, and horrible, 
 
 And starting wild, he points at vacancy, 
 
 And to the spirits of the night-blast tells 
 
 His sorrows. 
 
32 ODE V. 
 
 To Despair. 
 
 III. 
 He asks not aid, 
 
 Nor does the big sigh heave his breast, 
 Nor does the sorrowful tear suffuse his eyes, 
 For sighs and tears bespeak a spirit worn 
 Not withered ; 
 
 Bended, not broken : they are like the rains 
 That bless the plains they deluge, when the flow'rs 
 E'en while they bend beneath their weight, are seen 
 Reviving. 
 
ODE V. 33 
 
 To Despair. 
 
 IV. 
 
 There was a light, 
 
 That us'd to flit across his path, 
 
 Lonely, yet lovely, and it cheer'd his soul, 
 
 And he would cherish it, and call it Hope, 
 
 That vanished — 
 
 And he must wander now despairingly, 
 
 Where never taper lends its little ray, 
 
 Where never moon must soothe, and never sun 
 
 Shall gladden. 
 
ODE V. 
 
 To Despair. 
 
 .y. 
 
 Despair is Death ; 
 
 And though he come not in the storm 
 
 That blasts the roses, yet he lurks unseen, 
 
 Eating their core away, and o'er them sheds 
 
 His mildew : 
 
 While of such sad, sad change, the cause and cure 
 
 Alike unknown, we can but mourn the flow'rs 
 
 That look less lovelily, and count the leaves 
 
 That wither. 
 
ode v. 35 
 
 To Despair. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Thou Sun of heaven ! 
 
 Tho' thou art cheerful, and he dull 
 
 As blackest night, Despair resembles thee ; 
 
 Fierce as thou art, and lasting as thou seem'st, 
 
 His sorrows : 
 
 Thy setting sees the same pale marble cheeks, 
 
 Thy rising radiance vainly strove to gild ; 
 
 The same dull eye's fix'd glare, the same wild s. 
 
 Still wand'ring. 
 
 D 2 
 
36 ODE V. 
 
 To Despai 
 
 VII. 
 
 Yet he can smile 
 
 With seeming careless jollity, 
 
 And o'er the goblet gay will join the Iaugh y 
 
 And strive to play the courtier deftily. 
 
 But vainly — 
 
 The worm that fattens in the dead man's socket, 
 
 Looks not less like the life that glitter'd there, 
 
 Than that faint smile, the heart-exulting mirth 
 
 It mimics. 
 
ODE V. 37 
 
 To Despair. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Oh saddest lot ! 
 
 Thus barely doom'd to breathe and be, 
 
 To wander up and down this care-bound sphere, 
 
 And only know we live, because we feel 
 
 Life's sorrows ; 
 
 And only shrink from death because we fear 
 
 The grave itself may hold some dream like life, 
 
 And even that dark slumber may not be 
 
 Unbroken. 
 
 1815. 
 
®M VB< 
 
 TO THE MOON 
 
 How beautiful on yonder casement pane 
 
 The mild moon gazes ! Mark 
 With what a lonely and majestic step 
 
 She treads the heavenly hills ; 
 And oh] how soft, how silently, she pours 
 Her chasten'd radiance on the scene below, 
 
 And hill, and dale, and tow'r, 
 
 prink the pure flood of light, 
 
ODE VI. 39 
 
 To the Moon. 
 
 II. 
 
 Roll on, roll thus, Queen of the midnight how 
 
 For ever beautiful ! 
 And ill befal the Demon of the Storm, 
 
 When he would seize on thee; 
 When he would lay a hand unhallowed here, 
 Breathe pestilential darkness in thy face, 
 
 And rend those lucid robes, 
 
 Aud tear that silvery hair. 
 
40 ODE VI. 
 
 To the Moon. 
 
 III. 
 
 Thou shinest on a world of wretchedness, 
 
 On one vast sepulchre, 
 Where man is dancing on his father's grave, 
 
 And of the creeping worms, 
 That crawl innumerous from his father's mould, 
 The fool is forming rings to deck himself, 
 
 And round his fingers twines, 
 
 The coiling slimy brood. 
 
ODE VI. 41 
 
 To the Moon. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Yes, man is wasting life and hope away, 
 
 To add a wing to time ; 
 (Whom nature gave but one, of small avail,) 
 
 And when the work's complete, 
 When his well-fledg'd companion soars away, 
 Oh then man gazes wild and vacantly, 
 
 With idiot stare around, 
 
 And wonders how he flew. 
 
42 ODE VI. 
 
 To the Moon. 
 
 Although thou lookest on such misery, 
 
 All has not dimm'd thy ray, 
 Or torn one silver ringlet from thy brow ; 
 
 And yet thy peaceful light 
 Beaming such beauty on a world of woe, 
 Ts like the bloom upon consumption's chee 
 All loveliness without, 
 While ruin guaws within. 
 
ODE VI. 43 
 
 To the Moon. 
 
 VI. 
 
 What art thou 1 from thy orbit come those hordes 
 
 Of wild fantastic forms, 
 (Their crowns of pearly evening dew, their robes 
 
 Wrought by the gossamer,) 
 Who sport beneath thy beam ? or is it there 
 That angels strike their silver harps, and call 
 
 The listening spheres around, 
 To join the mazy dance ? 
 
44 ODE VI. 
 
 To the Moon. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Perhaps thou art the future residence 
 
 Of genius, wretched here : 
 Perhaps the poet and the minstrel, who 
 
 Have suffer'd, sunk, and died, 
 Releas'd from mortal shackles flee to thee, 
 And warbling soft seraphic melodies 
 
 Their gentle spirits rove 
 
 At peace in thy mild sphere. 
 
ODE VI. 45 
 
 To the Moon. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 If so, oh for some lunar paradise 
 
 Where I may think no more 
 Of earth and earthliness, unless, perchance, 
 
 When evening glooms below, 
 
 Sometimes to wander downward on thy beam, 
 To flit across the scenes I once admir'd, 
 
 And hover, and protect 
 
 The heads of those I iov'd. 
 
 1815. 
 
ODES. 
 
 BOOK THE SECOND. 
 
@B1 !L 
 
 TO ENTHUSIASM. 
 
 Come, rapt Enthusiasm, come, 
 Descend in all thy power, 
 
 And leave thy wild aerial home, 
 To bless thine earthly bower ! 
 
 She comes, in heav'nly garb array'd, 
 
 A musing melancholy maid. 
 
 E 
 
50 ODE I. 
 
 To Enthusiasm. 
 
 She loves the deep tempestuous roar, 
 When angry ocean beats the shore ; 
 She loves the wild portentous cry, 
 When livid lightnings round her fly, 
 And tho' sometimes her seat she take 
 Beside the cool translucid lake, 
 She more delights with Fancy still, 
 To haunt the overhanging hill, 
 To see the gathering tempest low'r, 
 And hear the deep-ton'd thunder roar. 
 
 Now o'er a yawning chasm thrown, 
 Wrapt in creations all her own, 
 
ODE I. 51 
 
 To Enthusiasm. 
 
 Beneath her feet the surges beat, 
 
 Above her head the rocks are spread, 
 
 And all around is fairy ground, 
 
 With nature's wild luxuriance crown'd, 
 
 Hark ! with what ecstatic fire, 
 
 She strikes the deep resounding lyre : 
 Wake ! all ye pow'rs of earth and air, 
 Or great, or grand, or wild, or fair, 
 Wake ! winds and waters ; vocal be, 
 And mingle with the melody. 
 Winds in hollow cadence roaring, 
 Waves in eddying torrents pouring. 
 e 2 
 
52 ODE I. 
 
 To Enthusiasm. 
 
 Rocks the angry surges beating, 
 Echo hoarse the note repeating, 
 Soft combining sounds assailing, 
 Moaning, pining, wand'ring, wailing, 
 Raise the soul to heights refin'd, 
 And loftier lift th' exalted mind. 
 
 On every rock the echo rung, 
 
 On every hill the cadence hung, 
 And universal nature smil'd 
 On scenes so fair, on notes so wild. 
 So soft she sung, she smil'd so fair, 
 So sweetly wav'd her radiant haiiy 
 
ODE I. 53 
 
 To Enthusiasm. 
 
 The passions lingering on their way. 
 Hung o'er the soft seraphic lay ; 
 Mirth stopt his circle's giddy round, 
 To listen to the solemn sound ; 
 And Rapture raised her hands on high, 
 And roll'd her eyes in ecstasy. 
 
 Enthusiasm can bestow 
 
 A heav'nly antidote to woe : 
 
 When real ills- our peace destroy, 
 
 She forms imaginary joy ; 
 
 When galling chains the body bind, 
 
 She boasts the freedom of the mind 
 
,54 ODE I. 
 
 To Enthusiasm. 
 
 And when (the day of life o'ercast) 
 Man droops beneath the howling* blast, 
 She bids his sinking spirit spring, 
 On fancy's bold and daring wing, 
 And soar beyond" the wheeling pole, 
 In all the vigour of the soul. 
 
 Come then, Enthusiasm, spread, 
 Thy pinions o'er a suppliant's head, 
 For I have wander'd in thy bow'r, 
 And pluck 'd each fond inviting flow'r 
 
 That pleas'd th' eclectic eye, 
 Have heard the balmy breezes blow, 
 Have seen the limpid waters flow, 
 
ODE I. 55 
 
 To Enthusiasm. 
 
 And felt th' enthusiastic glow. 
 Thy wild retreats supply. 
 
 Descend from heaven, celestial guest, 
 Descend, and fill this vacant breast, 
 These eyes have roll'd beneath thy ray, 
 And cannot bear the sober day ; 
 If truth I follow, truth displays 
 A barren, bleak, bewilder'd maze : 
 There virtue groans beneath the rod, 
 While vice assumes the sovereign nod ; 
 There innocence in durance pines, 
 While guilt in courts conspicuous shines 
 
56 ODE I. 
 
 To Enthusiasm. 
 
 Concealed from retribution's eye, 
 In power's imperious panoply. 
 
 Come then, Enthusiasm, dwell 
 A heavenly guest with me ; 
 
 And many a plaintive tale I'll tell, 
 And song I'll sing to thee. 
 
 When morning gilds the eastern skies, 
 
 Of thee the strain shall be, 
 And when the shades of evening rise* 
 
 I'll tune my harp to thee. 
 

 ODE I. 57 
 
 To Enthusiasm. 
 
 To thee shall youth devote her lays, 
 
 Till health and pleasure flee ; 
 And age in broken accents raise, 
 
 A votive strain to thee. 
 
 And when at last the hour shall come, 
 
 That sets my spirit free ; 
 With joy I'll leave my earthly home, 
 
 And soar to heaven with thee. 
 
 1813. 
 
®bi hil 
 
 THE HARP. 
 
 Awake, wild harp, to rapture wake, 
 And pour the sacred strain along-, 
 
 Bid hill, and dale, and fen, and brake, 
 Responsive echo to the song. 
 
 Awake to joy, wild harp, awake, 
 And Inspiration's accents take. 
 
ODE 11. 59 
 
 To the Harp. 
 
 Too long the song remains unsung, 
 Too long the lyre remains unstrung, 
 Too long the strain has ceas'd to flow, 
 Or only echo'd notes of woe : 
 Then Inspiration's accents take, 
 Awake to joy, wild harp, awake. 
 
 Oh Collins ! Fear's seraphic swain, 
 Where is thy heaven-strung lyre ? 
 
 Oh ! but to sweep a transient strain, 
 Or strike a wandering wire. 
 
 The power should wake, the rapture roll, 
 
 The deep impression seize the soul, 
 
60 ODE II. 
 
 To the Harp. 
 
 And Pity start from Sorrow's shrine, 
 To own the meanest note divine : 
 But thy seraphic lay is o'er, 
 Thy airy reed shall sound no more, 
 Beneath the sod that covers thee, 
 Sleep all the powers of harmony. 
 
 And is there none to sweep the string, 
 Not one to rise on rapture's wing, 
 And shall the heavenly harp be found 
 Unstrung and useless on the ground ? 
 Oh ! might a trembling votary dare 
 To touch the chords neglected there, 
 
ODE II. ft! 
 
 To the Harp. 
 
 Methinks one moment to beguile. 
 
 Success the daring deed should crown, 
 
 And tho' the Muses did not smile, 
 
 They could not, would not wear a frown. 
 
 i 
 Then wake, wild harp, thy boldest strain, 
 
 And bid the poet live again ; 
 
 Oh bid revive that sacred lay, 
 
 Which tun'd creation's natal day, 
 
 Which spread the earth from pole to pole, 
 
 And taught the planets how to roll. 
 
 Alas ! that heavenly strain is gone, 
 
 On wings of winds the Muse is flown, 
 
62 ODE II. 
 
 To the Harp. 
 
 The song is sung, the lay is o'er, 
 The harp has slept to wake no more. 
 
 Yes, it has slept to wake no more, 
 No more to all that charm'd before. 
 No more to strains the heavens inspire, 
 No more to all the poet's fire. 
 Some still with feet unhallow'd tread 
 The chambers of th' illustrious dead, 
 And, unreflecting where they stray, 
 Mimic the mighty master's lay. 
 But these are mortal, these are men, 
 Their harps but wake to sleep again. 
 
ODE II. 63 
 
 To the Harp. 
 
 While his has shook the dome of fame, 
 And erown'd him with a lofty name, 
 Which proudly registered on high, 
 Shall never perish, never die. 
 
 1814. 
 
©ids oil 
 
 TO FANCY. 
 
 Far away, despair, dismay, 
 Care and anguish, far away ; 
 Fancy's charms withstand them all. 
 Fancy rules the rolling ball. 
 All the fairest forms we see, 
 Are not half so fair as she : 
 
ODE III. 65 
 
 To Fancy. 
 
 Ever lovely, ever young", 
 
 Goddess, listen to my song ; 
 
 Tune the harp, and smooth the lays, 
 
 Sooth and suit them to thy praise, 
 
 That the tribute may not be 
 
 Unacceptable to thee ; 
 
 So may sweeter sacrifice 
 
 Hourly on thy altars rise, 
 
 So may greener garlands twine 
 
 Round about thy sacred shrine. 
 
 How wild the haunts where Fancy lives, 
 How sweet the joys which Fancy gives, 
 
G6 ODE III. 
 
 To Fancy. 
 
 How soft the soul, to guile unknown, 
 Which Fancy forms, and calls her own ; 
 There every virtue blossoms fair, 
 And every geuerous germ is there, 
 There truth presides in fiction drest, 
 And nature dwells a constant guest, 
 And love, and joy, and art combine, 
 To rear their lovely sovereign's shrine. 
 
 The Passions, they who rule o'er all, 
 Themselves are rul'd at Fancy's call, 
 Revenge in midnight murders dyed, 
 And guilt and anger near allied, 
 
ODE III. 67 
 
 To Fancy. 
 
 Consuming grief, corroding care, 
 And withering rage, and black despair, 
 All, all, submit to Fancy's chain, 
 And strive to burst their bonds in vain. 
 
 What are the thousand ills of life, 
 
 Bewildering woe, and care, and strife, 
 
 The miseries which mankind distress, 
 
 To him whom Fancy loves to bless ? 
 
 For she can bid the desert bloom, 
 
 With fairest flowers of sweet perfume, 
 
 Transform the dens where darkness reigns, 
 
 To flowery fields and fertile plains, 
 f Q 
 
(58 ODE in. 
 
 To Fancy. 
 
 And make the pensive prisoner's cell, 
 A place for freedom's self to dwell. 
 
 Where Fancy waves her magic wand, 
 Rich fruits adorn the barren land, 
 And Ceres spreads her golden store, 
 Where desolation rul'd before, 
 The dismal caves, and yawning graves. 
 Where envy pines, and madness raves, 
 By Fancy touch'din scenes abound 
 With nature's greenest glories crown'd, 
 And rising hill, and verdant vale, 
 With joy the sweet magician hail. 
 
ODE III. 69 
 
 To Fancy. 
 
 Happy he whom Fancy leads, 
 Thro' her wild sequester'd meads, 
 Over valley, over hill, 
 By the torrent, by the rill, 
 She will lead him to her bow'rs, 
 Cull for him the fairest flow'rs, 
 Sweetest pleasures he shall find, 
 Greenest bays his temples bind, 
 All throughout the livelong day, 
 She will sing his cares away, 
 And her notes of soft delight, 
 Lull his soul to rest by night, 
 
70 ODE III, 
 
 To Fancy. 
 
 By the torrent, by the rill, 
 Over valley, over hill, 
 Thro' her wild sequester'd meads, 
 Happy he whom Fancy leads. 
 
 1814. 
 
®B1 I7< 
 
 THE POWER OF POETRY. 
 
 Hark, what mild mellifluous measures, 
 Sacred source of purest pleasures ! 
 Now exulting, now in anguish, 
 Now they swell, and now they languish, 
 Ever sweet, but ever varying, 
 Hoping now, and now despairing, 
 
72 ODE IV. 
 
 The Power of Poetry. 
 
 Highest joy, and deepest care, 
 Love and frantic hate are there, 
 Pleasure sweeps the string along, 
 But sorrow mingles in the song. 
 
 Who now descends to lead the choir ? 
 What mighty hand has struck the lyre ? 
 I see, I see, for who but she, 
 The bold energic soul can be, 
 To pour a song so wild, so strong, 
 So heaven-replete with harmony. 
 No trembler treads yon mountain's brow. 
 No son of song enraptures now ; 
 
ODE IV. 73 
 
 The Power of Poetry. 
 
 The mighty mother's self descends, 
 Adoring nature prostrate bends. 
 
 She shakes her golden locks — she smiles, 
 
 And scatters roses round ; 
 Her smile the tear of guilt beguiles, 
 
 And heals affliction's wound. 
 She traces on the ductile sand, 
 A circle for her airy band, 
 And mutters many a magic sound, 
 That soft and solemn murmurs round 
 Then waves her wand, and calls on all 
 The mystic powers that rule the ball, 
 
74 ODE IV. 
 
 The Power of Poetry. 
 
 The shadowy shapes of dawning day, 
 That flutter in the noontide ray, 
 That haunt the gloomy midnight hour, 
 That court her smile, or own her power. 
 
 She paus'd, and swift obedient to the spell, 
 A thousand airy forms fantastic glide, 
 Some on the sunbeam red, exulting ride, 
 And field, and fen, and brake, and flowery del 1 
 Gave up their wandering spirits all, 
 Obedient to the potent call : 
 And first, adorn'd with smiling bays, 
 Love trod the circle's magic maze, 
 
ODE IV. 75 
 
 The Power of Poetry. 
 
 With eyes uprolled, and arms enfold, 
 And loosely flowing locks of gold, 
 And as he trod with looks profound 
 And gestures wild the mystic round, 
 He warbled forth with artless ease, 
 In sweet melodious cadences, 
 A song replete with joy and care, 
 Of mingled rapture and despair. 
 
 Next came a strange disordered strain, 
 Came Pride and Pity, Peace and Pain, 
 Exulting hope breath'd all her fire, 
 Wild ardour rush'd to seize the lyre. 
 
76 ODE IV. 
 
 The Power of Poetry. 
 
 Fear would have sought the deep profound. 
 But durst not disobey the sound ; 
 Nay, withering Guilt and wrinkled Care, 
 And fierce infuriate Horror there, 
 Came darkly smiling, hand in hand, 
 To mingle with the motley band. 
 
 Despair came latest wandering wide 
 With gaze of mingled pain and pride, 
 With eye that shot infectious flame, 
 With dark and sullen cheek he came : 
 Hope never cheer'd his prospect dim, 
 Affection had no charm for him, 
 
ODE IV. 77 
 
 The Power of Poetry. 
 
 And when arose the sweetest song, 
 That ever swept the lyre along-, 
 Grief threw her cypress wreath away, 
 And rapture kindled at the lay ; 
 
 Still sad despair 
 
 With frenzied air, 
 And hurried footstep pac'd the round, 
 
 And his dark hue, 
 
 The darker grew,, 
 The sweeter swell'd the sound. 
 
 How does all nature honour thee, 
 Oh ! heaven descended Poesy ! 
 
78 ODE IV. 
 
 The Power of Poetry. 
 
 The hill, the dale, the heath, the grove, 
 The voice of nature and of love, 
 The burning* thought, the breathing line, 
 That melts, that thrills, all, all are thine ! 
 In every shape, in every vest, 
 Come, welcome to a votary's breast. 
 Come as a goddess, parent, king, 
 I'll worship, honour, homage, bring ; 
 A helpless weeping fondling be, 
 A foster dear I'll prove to thee ; 
 Or come a wandering harper wild, 
 By night and pathless plains beguil'd, 
 
ODE IV. 79 
 
 The Power of Poetry. 
 
 Strike at ray soul for entrance fair, 
 
 And Love and Joy shall greet thee there. 
 
 The poet ! hallow 'd, honour'd name 
 The dearest, eldest child of fame, 
 While life remains green laurels grow, 
 A garland for the poet's brow, 
 But oh ! what fairer flowers shall bloom. 
 Eternal round the poet's tomb : 
 The fairies all shall leave their cells, 
 Where love with peace and plenty dwells, 
 The mossy cave and sylvan grot, 
 To weep around the hallowed spot ;■ 
 
SO ODE IV. 
 
 The Power of Poetry. 
 
 The seasons as they wander by, 
 With liberal hand and sparkling eye, 
 Shall pause to gaze on scene so faLr, 
 And strew their sweetest garlands there ; 
 And oft amid the night profound. 
 When solemn stillness reigns around, 
 The mystic music of the spheres, 
 Reveal'd alone the gifted ears, 
 In dirgres due and clear shall toll, 
 The knell of that departed soul. 
 
OBX Y< 
 
 TO PITY. 
 
 Heart-soothing power, who lov'st to dwell 
 With sorrow in the secret cell, 
 I twine the garland for thy brow, 
 For thee I sweep the wild harp now. 
 
 And wake the plaintive air ; 
 Friend of the poor, the sad, the weak, 
 Heart-soothing Pity, offspring meek 
 
 Of Mercy and Despair ; 
 
82 ODE V. 
 
 
 To Pity. 
 
 Mercy the darling" child of heaven, 
 The dearest boon to mortals given, 
 Of Mercy, modest, gentle, fair, 
 The first of virtues, and Despair : 
 Despair who walks the waves along, 
 Who calls the whirlwind's howl his song, 
 Delighted hears the tempest's crash, 
 And basks beneath the lightning-flash. 
 
 Who is the stranger wandering wide, 
 With Want and Misery at her side, 
 With Penury disease opprest, 
 And Terror clinging to her breast ? 
 
ODE V. 83 
 
 To Pity. 
 
 Her cheek is fair, but chill and cale_, 
 And wither'd to a deadly pale, 
 That once defied compare ; 
 
 
 Her eye is bright and lifted high. 
 But not with pleasure, not with joy, 
 
 'Tis anguish sparkles there ; 
 And tho' her features heav'nly mild, 
 Proclaim her Mercy's gentlest child, 
 
 They're mingled so with care, 
 So worn with pain, so wan with woe, 
 That all who meet the stranger, know 
 
 The daughter of Despair. 
 
 G 2 
 
84 ODE V. 
 
 
 To Pity. 
 
 
 'Tis Pity ! mildest, meekest, best, 
 The wounded's balm, the troubled's rest, 
 The dew that bathes the drooping flower, 
 The breeze that fans the sultry hour, 
 The lovely moon, whose silver shene 
 Smiling the stormy clouds between, 
 Gilds the black summits towering high, 
 Sleeps where. the peaceful valleys lie, 
 And bids those waves that crept before, 
 Dark, dull, along the viewless shore, 
 Spring from their beds in beauty bright, 
 And roll a flood of liquid light. 
 
 
ODE V. 85 
 
 To Pity. 
 
 Yes, yonder moon that now I see, 
 
 Pity, is emblem fair of thee : 
 
 Like thee, her beams are cold and pale, 
 
 And cheer, like thine, the earth's dim vale ; 
 
 Like thee, she loves retiring far 
 
 From busy life's discordant jar, 
 
 To shed her generous ray alone, 
 
 iAs thou thy tear, unseen, unknown ; 
 
 And even now a cloud obscures 
 
 That beauty half a world allures, 
 
 And dims her pure benignant shine, 
 
 As many an envious slander thine, 
 
86 ODE V. 
 
 To Pity. 
 
 She like the lily breathes the air, 
 
 As soft, as lowly, and as fair, 
 
 Or rather, like the lily dead, 
 
 That drops the leaves, and hangs the head. 
 
 Tho' pride heed not, remembrance will, 
 
 Tho' beauty faded, beauty still : 
 
 Yet she is mortal, and her doom 
 
 To sleep for ever in the tomb : 
 
 When man lies down the worm to woo, 
 
 Pity shall sink, and slumber too, 
 
 But not when man awakes, shall she 
 
 Respring to life and ecstasy : 
 
 The Muse who above time can tow'r, 
 
 Whose heart is flame, whose hand is pow'r, 
 
ODE V. 87 
 
 To Pity. 
 
 E'en now, with inspiration pale, 
 
 Has torn aside the shadowy vale, 
 
 Whose mystic foldings ambient cast, 
 
 Divide the future from the past : 
 
 There frowns the hoary deep, the billows strong 
 
 Of everlasting ages roll along; 
 
 Those waves that with resistless sway, 
 
 Hare swept the world and all its toys away ; 
 
 Its charms, its cares, its follies, and its guilt, 
 
 And on whose bosom, halcyon-built, 
 
 Smiling amid the dreary gloom, 
 
 By angels rear'd is Pity's tomb. 
 
 There in oblivion deep are laid 
 
 The ashes of the mortal maid, 
 
88 
 
 ODE V. 
 
 To Pity. 
 
 Who tho' too soft, too good to know 
 The horrors of her sire below, 
 Had too much sorrow in her frame, 
 With Mercy heavenly joys to claim : 
 Yet rest thee, rest thee, o'er thy grave 
 Celestial willows weeping wave, 
 Thy sister virtues toll'd thy knell, 
 Seraphs awoke the sounding shell, 
 Thy dirge was rung, ere time was o'er, 
 From harps that never mourn'd before ; 
 And tears were shed for thee in vain, 
 By eyes that ne'er shall weep again. 
 
 1815. 
 
©BE V1L 
 
 TO ALLEGORY. 
 
 Dark-smiling Maid, I love thee well, 
 For thou art not the flaunting fair, 
 Who makes externals all her care, 
 Content to seem what others are ; 
 No, lovely mistress of the spell, 
 Thy charms are soft, and all prevail, 
 Tho' shrouded in a mystic veil, 
 
 
90 ODE VI. 
 
 To Allegory. 
 
 Conceal'd indeed from vulgar eyes, 
 The more we know, the more we prize, 
 The better seen, the better lov'd, 
 The deeper search'd,the fairer prov'd, 
 Enchantress ! who thy charms can tell ? 
 Dark smiling maid ! I love thee well. 
 
 About thy cave the fairies bound, 
 And dance their gay fantastic round, 
 
 And shadowy circles form, 
 While riding through the midnight air, 
 Come goblins gaunt, and sylphids fair, 
 
 And spirits of the storm ; 
 
ODE VI. 91 
 
 To Allegory. 
 
 And oft they form a warbling choir, 
 
 And strike the little elfin lyre, 
 
 While to their melodies divine, 
 
 I sweep these wandering wires of mine, 
 
 These feeble strings whose lowly lays 
 
 But mock the hand that o'er them strays. 
 
 Charmer ! 'tis true thy beauties fade, 
 When low thy votary's head is laid 
 
 They cannot animate anew ; 
 Are dimly seen, and quickly past, 
 Yet are they lovely while they last, 
 
 And unpolluted too : 
 
92 ODE VI. 
 
 To Allegory. 
 
 And since so many joys are vain, 
 And life has less of joy than pain, 
 Oh who shall blame, amid the maze, 
 Th' enthusiast, who delighted strays ? 
 
 Thou, thou alone, couldst reconcile 
 Those form'd to differ and revile, 
 And honour Truth, thy heavenly guest, 
 Yet press fair Fiction to thy breast. 
 Hail, Truth and Fiction ! loveliest pair, 
 Best, brightest, most divine, most fair, 
 Long, long, each ranked in adverse throng, 
 And shunned, and scorned, and hated long. 
 
ODE VI. Q3 
 
 To Allegory. 
 
 At length she came, the dark-haired maid. 
 In robes of cloudy blue arrayed, 
 With girdle formed of wandering rays, 
 Caught from the sun's refulgent blaze, 
 And that mysterious veil, so wrought 
 By artful spirits heavenly taught, 
 Its mystic beauties only yield 
 To the fair features it concealed. 
 
 Th' Enchantress came, she came in pow'r, 
 Mistress of that transforming hour, 
 She breath'd a wild mysterious lay, 
 And sang and smiled their hate away. 
 
94 ODE VI. 
 
 To Allegory. 
 
 O'er truth's fair form a robe she threw, 
 To clothe her with attraction new, 
 And plucked from fiction's pinions gay, 
 The vainer, gaudier plumes away, 
 Then bade her re-assume her pride, 
 And soar as lofty, not as wide : 
 Each paused, each strange affection knew, 
 And wondered whence their hatred grew, 
 Felt fresh delight, beheld new charms, 
 And sunk into each other's arms : 
 Since then together will they stray, 
 And sing the same impassioned lay, 
 
ODE VI. 95 
 
 To Allegory. 
 
 The flower that fiction's garden drest, 
 Blushes on truth's celestial breast ; 
 The wires that truth has strung rejoice, 
 In unison with fiction's voice ; 
 They seek the same romantic groves, 
 Each loves the haunts the other loves ; 
 They climb the steep, explore the dell, 
 Together roam, together dwell. 
 
 Hail, loveliest pair ; hail, happiest hour, 
 And hail, all hail, transforming power ; 
 There's many a willing tribute paid, 
 In virtue's bane and vice's aid ; 
 
96 ODE VI. 
 
 To Allegory. 
 
 There's many a garland gay supplied. 
 
 For baseness, luxury, and pride, 
 
 For me ! the song I raise shall be 
 
 Devoted to the muse and thee ; 
 
 My garlands shall not, cannot twine 
 
 Around a brighter brow than thine. 
 
 I'll breathe thy praise, while praise has breath, 
 
 I'll love and cherish thee till death ; 
 
 Till then I'm garlanding thy brow, 
 
 Till then I'll honour thee as now, 
 
 And then— farewell, dissolving spell, 
 
 Dark smiling maid ! farewell, farewell ! 
 
 1815. 
 
 
SONNETS, 
 
SONNETS. 
 I. 
 
 God help thee, weary one, thy cheek is pale, 
 
 And phreuzy fires that wildly wandering eye ; 
 Hop'st thou to find repose in yonder vale 1 
 
 Alas ! poor maniac, death is not so nigh, 
 The breeze will only mock thy burning brain, 
 
 The flow'rs that flourish, flourish not for thee, 
 Bliss is not lovely to the eye of pain, 
 
 The bliss we cannot cherish, tho' we see, 
 
 LOFC 
 
100 SONNETS. 
 
 The Maniac. 
 
 There's many a burden thou must yet sustain, 
 And many an impulse to the rising sigh : 
 
 Till death forbids thy sorrows to complain, 
 And thou and they alike unconscious lie, 
 
 Weary and wan, wild muttering thou must go, 
 
 With long and lingering pace, and tottering 
 footsteps slow. 
 
 1815. 
 
SONNETS. 101 
 
 To the Moon. 
 
 I. 
 
 Fair Moon, thou travellest in thy silvery sky, 
 Unmarked by slaves of fashion and of trade, 
 The wily plodders mute and artless lie, 
 
 And mimic brightness plays round grandeur's head. 
 Yet to thy beam is nobler tribute paid, 
 
 Devotion soars and rolls with thee on high, 
 Soft sensibility invokes thy aid, 
 
 And the warm'd Poet lifts tb' enraptured eye : 
 
102 SONNETS. 
 
 To the 3Io'm. 
 
 Thus would I wander through life's devious maze, 
 Content, if valued by the nobler few, 
 
 Nor heed the many's censures or their praise, 
 Their present fame, or after dirges due, 
 
 So friendship's blessings round my path be rolled, 
 
 And one warm tear embalm my breathless mould. 
 
 1815. 
 
SONNETS. 103 
 
 Love of Fame. 
 
 III. 
 
 Why do we love thee, Fame ? thou art not sweet ; 
 
 If sweetness dwell with softness and repose; 
 Thou art not fair, if beauty be replete 
 
 With peace and tenderness, and ease from woes : 
 Thou art not faithful, for thy power and flame 
 
 To fierce extremes the maddening votary urge, 
 And oft the winds that should his bliss proclaim, 
 
 Swell but the chorus of his funeral dirge : 
 
104 SONNETS. 
 
 Love of Fame. 
 
 Yet we do love thee — love thee till the blood 
 Wasted for thee, forsakes the heart thy shrine ; 
 
 Till happiness is past, and toil withstood, 
 And life itself poured idly forth — for thine 
 
 13 that mysterious witchery that beguiles 
 
 The soul it stabs, and murders while it smiles. 
 
 1815. 
 
SONNETS. 105 
 
 Frailty of Man. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Traveller, as roaming over vales and steeps, 
 Thou hast, perchance, beheld in foliage fair, 
 A willow bending o'er a brook — it weeps 
 
 Leaf after leaf into the stream, till bare 
 Are the best boughs, the loveliest and the highest ; 
 Oh sigh, for well thou mayest, yet as thou sighest 
 
 Think not 'tis o'er imaginary woe ; 
 I tell thee, traveller, such is mortal man, 
 
106 SONNETS. 
 
 Frailty of 3 Ian. 
 
 And so he hangs o'er fancied bliss, and so, 
 While life is verging to its shortest span, 
 
 Drop one by one his dearest joys away, 
 
 Till hope is but the ghost of something fair, 
 
 Till joy is mockery, till life is care, 
 
 Till he himself is unreflecting clay. 
 
 1815. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
STANZAS. 
 
 Man giveth up the ghost, and where is he ? — Job v. 
 
 And where is he ? not by the side 
 
 Whose every want he loved to tend ; 
 Not o'er those valleys wandering wide, 
 
 Where sweetly lost, he oft would wend ; 
 That form beloved he marks no more, 
 
 Those scenes admired no more shall see, 
 Those scenes are lovely as before, 
 
 And she as fair — but where is he ? 
 
110 POEMS. 
 
 Stanzas. 
 
 II. 
 
 No, no, the radiance is not dim, 
 
 That used to gild his favourite hill, 
 The pleasures that were dear to him, 
 
 Are dear to life and nature still ; 
 But ah ! his home is not as fair, 
 
 Neglected must bis gardens be, 
 The lilies droop and wither there, 
 
 And seem to whisper, " where is he f 9 
 
POEMS. HI 
 
 Stanzas. 
 
 III. 
 
 His was the pomp, the crowded hall, 
 
 But where is now this proud display ? 
 His riches, honours, pleasures, all 
 
 Desire could frame— but where are they ? 
 And he, as some tall rock that stands 
 
 Protected by the circling sea, 
 Surrounded by admiring bands, 
 
 Seemed proudly strong— and where is he ? 
 
J 12 POEMS. 
 
 Stanzas. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The church-yard bears an added stone, 
 
 The fire-side shews a vacant chair, 
 Here sadness dwells and weeps alone, 
 
 And death displays his banner there ; 
 The life is gone, the breath has fled, 
 
 And what has been no more shall be, 
 The well-known form, the welcome tread, 
 
 Oh where are they, and where is he ? 
 
 1815. 
 
DISAPPOINTMENT. 
 
 I. 
 
 If life were but a bitter cup, 
 
 'Twere but to drink, and all were o'er, 
 But (strange affection !) every sup 
 
 Tho' poison, makes us long for more : 
 And still we drink, nor thought afford 
 
 The fever that consumes us fast, 
 And linger o'er the dregs, and hoard 
 
 That drop, because it is the last. 
 
114 POEMS. 
 
 Disappointment. 
 
 II. 
 
 There is a feeling- strong and proud, 
 
 That clings to all we wish away ; 
 'Tis like the suffrage of the crowds 
 
 That all despise, and all obey ; 
 And fetters we might instant break, 
 
 We hug, and will not end our fears, 
 For every rattling sound they make, 
 
 Is more than music to our ears. 
 
POEMS. 115 
 
 Disappointment. 
 
 III. 
 
 Life is a fair, nay charming form, 
 
 Of nameless grace and tempting sweets, 
 
 But disappointment is the worm, 
 That cankers every bud she meets ; 
 
 And when she finds a flower, the chief 
 Of others ; more divine, more fair, 
 
 She crawls upon its loveliest leaf, 
 
 And feeds, and breeds, and rottens there. 
 
 i 2 
 
116 POEMS. 
 
 Disappointment. 
 
 IV. 
 
 O heart ! it is a sad employ, 
 
 The flowers we dare not cull to count, 
 From deserts gaze at fields of joy, 
 
 Barred from approach by main and mount ; 
 To dream of bliss to come or past, 
 
 Of cheerful hearths and peopled halls, 
 Then wake and hear the hollow blast, 
 
 Moan mournful through the ruined walls. 
 
 1815. 
 
DIRGE. 
 
 I. 
 
 The worm that crawls about our way, 
 And dies beneath our feet, 
 
 Is happy in its little day, 
 And finds existence sweet. 
 
1 18 POEMS. 
 
 Dirge. 
 
 II. 
 
 The brutes which perish too enjoy 
 
 A short but happy reign, 
 Delight unmingled with alloy, 
 
 And pleasure free from pain. 
 III. 
 The winged tenants of the air 
 
 On pleasure's pinions borne, 
 Live thoughtless and devoid of care, 
 
 But man was made to mourn. 
 
POEMS. X19 
 
 Dirge. 
 
 IV. 
 
 His infancy is weak and vain, 
 
 His youth the passions rend, 
 jHis prime of life is care and pain, 
 
 And death, cold death, his end., 
 V. 
 The empty blast of noisy air 
 
 Which sweeps the valleys o'er, 
 Rages and swells a moment there, 
 
 And then is heard no more. 
 
120 POEMS. 
 
 Dirge. 
 
 VI. 
 Such is the life of man, a blast 
 
 Unmeaning and forlorn, 
 Which but proclaims this truth at last, 
 
 That man was made to mourn. 
 
 1815. 
 
HUTS OF THE POOR, 
 
 I. 
 
 Too long do the mazes of ignorance hide 
 The hovels where poverty's children reside, 
 And truth to the wealthy disclosing her store, 
 Has past by, and forgotten the huts of the poor. 
 
122 POEMS. 
 
 Huts of the Poor. 
 
 II. 
 
 Oh why should those treasures to others revealed, 
 From the lowly lodged peasant alone be concealed, 
 And wisdom enchanting the great with her lore, 
 Despise and be banished the huts of the poor. 
 
 III. 
 The heavens o'er their heads are extended as fair, 
 The rill ripples round as pellucid and clear, 
 And the sun that enlivens the monarch's proud door, 
 Shines as cheerful and bright on the huts of the poor. 
 
POEMS. 123 
 
 Huts of the Poor. 
 
 IV. 
 
 But the day is arriving when science shall reign, 
 From the prince to the peer,from the peer to the swain, 
 When her fame shall be blazoned from shore unto 
 
 shore, 
 From the halls of the proud to the huts of the poor. 
 
 1815. 
 
REASON. 
 
 Yes, plain are the lessons which reason bestows, 
 But such at which feeling must weep wheuitknows, 
 And who loves the mirror though polished it be, 
 Which discovers such sights as 'tis misery to see, 
 
 
POEMS. 125 
 
 Reason. 
 
 If. 
 
 Alas ! what avails it to count every spray. 
 Once blooming and lovely, that withers away, 
 What avails it to know every barb in the dart, 
 That is rankling, and ever must rankle the heart 1 
 
 III. 
 Is the lightning less fatal because it is bright ? 
 Is ruin more sweet when surrounded by light 1 
 Or can reason's proud torch, as it flashes on high, 
 Take from death the fierce pang, or from sorrow 
 the sigh 1 
 
326 POEMS. 
 
 Reason. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Ah no ! altho' bright, like a Jatnp in a grave, 
 ? Tis on coffins and mouldering bones it must wave. 
 It may dazzle and glare, but dispels not the gloom ; 
 It may shine unobscured, but it shines on a tomb. 
 
 1815. 
 
HOPE. 
 I. 
 
 Oh why should we seek to anticipate sorrow, 
 
 By throwing the flower of the present away, 
 And gather the black-rolling clouds of to-morrow, 
 
 To darken the generous sun of to-day. 
 II. 
 How often we brood over misery madly, 
 
 Till we murder the hope that was sent to inspire, 
 And pleasure grown old and decrepit, turns sadly 
 
 To shake his grey locks o'er the tomb of his sire, 
 
128 POEMS. 
 
 Hope, 
 
 III. 
 
 Cherish Hope ! and tho' life by affliction be shaded, 
 Still his ray shall shine lovely, and gild the 
 scene o'er, 
 Like the dew-drop that glistens the leaves when 
 
 they're faded, 
 As bright and as clear as it glistened before. 
 
 1815. 
 
STANZAS. 
 
 Oft in a smooth and equal flow, 
 
 The brook unruffled glides, 
 When shapeles is the depth below, 
 
 And rugged are the sides : 
 So life may seem to pass away, 
 
 Without a pang or smart, 
 The laugh be loud, the look be gay, 
 
 But comfortless the heart. 
 
130 POEMS. 
 
 Stanzas. 
 
 II. 
 
 By workings small repeated oft, 
 
 Those sides were rugged made, 
 The very waves that seem so soft, 
 
 Contributed their aid : 
 So too, by frequent, gradual toil, 
 
 A heart is worn away, 
 The effort which produced that smile, 
 
 Has lent its help to slay. 
 
 1815. 
 
MELODY. 
 
 Lovely as the summer flower, 
 
 Peace o'er the mind exerts its pow'r, 
 
 But as the flow'rets beauty dies, 
 
 Peace from the mind too quickly flies ; 
 
 The flow'r no more is sweet and gay, 
 
 And peace has fled away — away : 
 
 Flow'rs again revive and blow, — 
 
 Will peace revive ? ah no ! ah no ! 
 K 2 
 
132 POEMS. 
 
 Melody. 
 
 IT. 
 
 Limpid, crystal, as the rill, 
 Pure honour flows, unstain'd with ill, 
 But like the rill's bright waters too, 
 The slightest spot will tinge its hue ; 
 The stream rolls on a darken'd tide, 
 Honour has lost its fame and pride, 
 Streams again untainted flow, — 
 Is honour cleans'd 'I ah no ! ah no ! 
 
 
POEMS. 133 
 
 Melody. 
 
 III. 
 
 Life's a bright exulting day, 
 Which pleasure gilds with many a ray, 
 But death is like the deep deep sleep, 
 With night that o'er our souls will creep ; 
 Helpless on slumber's couch we lie, 
 Helpless we yield the ghost and die, 
 Night soon passes, slumbers go,— 
 Can death awake ? ah no ! ah no ! 
 
 1815. 
 
THE 
 
 WANDERERS ROUNDELAY. 
 
 I. 
 
 Earth does not bear another wretch, 
 
 So helpless, so forlorn as I, 
 Yet not for me a hand will stretch, 
 
 And not for me a heart will sigh ; 
 The happy in their happiness, 
 
 Will not to woe a thought incline ; 
 The wretched feel a fierce distress, 
 
 Too much their own to think of mine, 
 And few shall be 
 The tears for me, 
 When I am lain beneath the tree. 
 
POEMS. 135 
 
 The Wanderer's Roundelay. 
 
 II. 
 
 There was a time when joy ran high, 
 
 And every sadder thought was weak, 
 Tears did not always dim this eye, 
 
 Or sorrow always stain this cheek ; 
 And even now I often dream, 
 
 When sunk in feverish broken sleep, 
 Of things that were, and things that seem, 
 
 And friends that love, then wake to weep 
 That few must be 
 The tears for me, 
 When I am lain beneath the tree. 
 
J36 POEMS. 
 
 The Wanderer's Roundelay. 
 
 III. 
 
 Travellers lament the clouded skies, 
 
 The moralist the ruined hall, 
 And when th' unconscious lily dies, 
 
 How many mark and mourn its fall 
 But I — no dirge for me will ring*, 
 
 No stone will mark my lowly spot, 
 I am a suffering withering thing, 
 
 Just seen, and slighted, and forgot, 
 And few shall be 
 The tears for me, 
 When I am lain beneath the tree. 
 
POEMS. ]37 
 
 The Wanderer's Roundelay. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Yet welcome hour of parting breath, 
 
 Come sure unerring dart— there's room 
 For sorrow in the arms of death, 
 
 For disappointment in the tomb : 
 What tho' the slumbers there be deep, 
 
 Tho' not by kind remembrance blest, 
 To slumber is to cease to weep, 
 
 To sleep forgotten is to rest ; 
 Oh sound shall be 
 The rest for me, 
 When I am lain beneath the tree. 
 
 1814. 
 
STANZAS. 
 
 Tho' Fancy's witchery be soft, 
 
 There's danger in her smile ; 
 She only lures to disappoint, 
 
 And flatters to beguile : 
 As the halo round night's diadem 
 
 Is beautiful and bland, 
 But it foretels the coming showers 
 
 And storms that are at hand. 
 II. 
 And there are hours when Fancy reigns 
 
 Sole empress of the heart, 
 When the glow she sends is brighter far 
 
 Than reason can impart : 
 
POEMS. 139 
 
 Stanzas. 
 
 Oh ! it comes o'er the musing mind 
 Like the breeze across the flower, 
 
 Refreshing- and reviving 
 All balminess and power. 
 
 III. 
 
 But the breeze is quickly past, and all 
 
 That mark its transient stay, 
 Are the flow'ret's widely scattered leaves 
 
 Its breath has blown away : 
 So the glow of fancy soon departs, 
 
 And nought proclaims its power, 
 But the wreck and ruin of the mind 
 
 It gilded for an hour. 
 
 1816. 
 
MELANCHOLY. 
 
 I. 
 
 The melancholy pleasures bring- 
 
 No healthy genial bloom, 
 Corrupt at root, like flowers that spring 
 
 And bud upon a tomb. 
 If. 
 They raise a joy from grief, but cloy 
 
 The mind that with them strays, 
 And when is vanish'd all the joy 
 
 The grief that caused it stays : 
 
POEMS. 141 
 
 Melancholy. 
 
 III. 
 
 So ruin, when the lightning darts, 
 
 With brightness is combined, 
 « 
 And so the brightness soon departs, 
 
 But leaves the scathe behind. 
 IV. 
 The moon is powerless with her beam, 
 
 To ripen or to warm ; 
 Yet when she gazes on the stream, 
 
 Reflects in it her form. 
 V. 
 So melancholy never tints 
 
 The mind that owns her care 
 With health or warmth ; but only prints 
 
 Her own cold image there, 
 
 1816. 
 
SONG. 
 
 [in imitation of shakspeare.] 
 
 I. 
 
 Moan, moan, ye dying gales ! 
 The saddest of your tales 
 
 Is not so sad as life ; 
 Nor have you e'er began 
 A theme so wild as man, 
 
 Or with such sorrow rife. 
 
POEMS. 143 
 
 Sons:. 
 
 II. 
 
 Fall, fall, thou withered leaf ! 
 Autumn sears not like grief, 
 
 Nor kills such lovely flowers ; 
 More terrible the storm, 
 More mournful the deform, 
 
 When dark misfortune lowers. 
 
 III. 
 
 Hush, hush, thou trembling lyre ! 
 Silence ye vocal choir, 
 
 And thou mellifluous lute : 
 For man soon breathes his last, 
 And all his hope is past, 
 
 And all his music mute. 
 
J 44 POEMS. 
 
 Song. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Then when the gale is sighing, 
 And when the leaves are dying, 
 
 And when the song is o'er, 
 Oh ! let us think of those 
 Whose lives are lost in woes, 
 
 Whose cup of grief runs oe'r. 
 
 1816. 
 
 FINIS. 
 
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