Or, fancy led-saw Jeremiah mourn
In solemn sorrow o'er Judea's urn.

Then to another shore perhaps would rove,

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With Plato talk in his Ilyssian grove;

Or, wand'ring where the Thespian palace rose,
Weep once again o'er fair Jocasta's woes.

Sweet then to us was that romantic band,

The ancient legends of our native land—
Chivalric Britomart, and Una fair,

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And courteous Constance, doomed to dark despair,
By turns our thoughts engag'd; and oft we talk'd
Of times when monarch superstition stalk'd,
And when the blood-fraught galliots of Rome
Brought the grand Druid fabric to its doom;
While where the wood-hung Meinai's waters flow,
The hoary harpers pour'd the strain of woe.

While thus employ'd, to us how sad the bell

165

Which summon'd us to school! 'Twas Fancy's knell, 170 And sadly sounding on the sullen ear,

It spoke of study pale, and chilling fear.

Yet even then, (for oh, what chains can bind,
What powers control, the energies of mind?)
E'en there we soar'd to many a height sublime,
And many a day-dream charm'd the lazy time.

At evening too, how pleasing was our walk,
Endear'd by Friendship's unrestrained talk,

175

When to the upland heights we bent our way,
To view the last beam of departing day;
How calm was all around! no playful breeze
Sigh'd 'mid the wavy foliage of the trees,
But all was still, save when, with drowsy song,
The grey-fly wound his sullen horn along;
And save when, heard in soft, yet merry glee,

The distant church bells' mellow harmony;

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The silver mirror of the lucid brook,

That 'mid the tufted broom its still course took;

The rugged arch, that clasp'd its silent tides,

With moss and rank weeds hanging down its sides: 190
The craggy rock, that jutted on the sight;
The shrieking bat, that took its heavy flight;
All, all was pregnant with divine delight.
We lov'd to watch the swallow swimming high,
In the bright azure of the vaulted sky;

Or gaze upon the clouds, whose colour'd pride
Was scatter'd thinly o'er the welkin wide,
And ting'd with such variety of shade,

To the charm'd soul sublimest thoughts convey'd.
In these what forms romantic did we trace,
While fancy led us o'er the realms of space!
Now we espied the thunderer in his car,
Leading the embattled seraphim to war,
Then stately towers descried, sublimely high,
In Gothic grandeur frowning on the sky-
Or saw, wide stretching o'er the azure height,
A ridge of glaciers in mural white,

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Hugely terrific.-But those times are o'er,

And the fond scene can charm mine eyes no more;

For thou art gone, and I am left below,

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Alone to struggle thro' this world of woe.

The scene is o'er-still seasons onward roll,

And each revolve conducts me toward the goal;
Yet all is blank, without one soft relief,
One endless continuity of grief;

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And the tir'd soul, now led to thoughts sublime,
Looks but for rest beyond the bounds of time.

Toil on, toil on, ye busy crouds, that pant

For hoards of wealth which ye will never want;

And, lost to all but gain, with ease resign

220

The calms of peace and happiness divine!
Far other cares be mine-Men little crave

In this short journey to the silent grave;

I

And the poor peasant, bless'd with peace and health, envy more than Croesus with his wealth.

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Yet grieve not I, that fate did not decree

Paternal acres to await on me;

She gave me more, she plac'd within my breast

A heart with little pleas'd-with little blest:

I look around me, where, on every side,
Extensive manors spread in wealthy pride;
And could my sight be born to either zone,
I should not find one foot of land my own.

But whither do I wander? shall the muse,
For golden baits, her simple theme refuse :

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Oh, no! but while the weary spirit greets
The fading scenes of Childhood's far-gone sweets,
It catches all the infant's wandering tongue,
And prattles on in desultory song.

That song must close-the gloomy mists of night
Obscure the pale stars' visionary light,

And ebon darkness, clad in vapoury wet,
Steals on the welkin in primæval jet.

The song must close.-Once more my adverse lot
Leads me reluctant from this cherish'd spot;
Again compels to plunge in busy life,

And brave the hateful turbulence of strife.

Scenes of my youth-ere my unwilling feet
Are turn'd for ever from this lov'd retreat,
Ere on these fields, with plenty cover'd o'er,
My eyes are clos'd to ope on them no more,
Let me ejaculate to feeling due,
One long, one last, affectionate adieu.
Grant that, if ever Providence should please
To give me an old age of peace and ease,
Grant that in these sequester'd shades my days

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May wear away in gradual decays:

And oh, ye spirits, who unbodied play,

Unseen upon the pinions of the day,

Kind genii of my native fields benign,
Who were

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FRAGMENT

OF AN

ECCENTRIC DRAMA.

Written at a very early Age.

In a little volume which Henry had copied out, apparently for the press, before the publication of Clifton Grove, the song with which this fragment commences was inserted, under the title of "The Dance of the Consumptives, in imitation of Shakespeare, taken from an Eccentric Drama, written by H. K. W. when very young." The rest was discovered among his loose papers, in the first rude draught, having, to all appearance, never been transcribed. The song was extracted when he was sixteen, and must have been written at least a year before, probably more, by the hand-writing. There is something strikingly wild and and original in the fragment.

THE DANCE OF THE CONSUMPTIVES.

1.

DING-DONG! ding-dong!

Merry, merry, go the bells,

Ding-dong! ding-dong!

Over the heath, over the moor, and over the dale,
"Swinging slow with sullen roar,"

Dance, dance away, the jocund roundelay!
Ding-dong, ding-dong, calls us away.