And bids compassion seek the realms of woe
To heal the wounded, and to raise the low.

She comes! she comes! the meek ey'd power
I see

With liberal hand that loves to bless; The clouds of sorrow at her presence flee; Rejoice! rejoice! ye children of distress! The beams that play around her head Thro' want's dark vale their radiance spread : The young uncultur'd mind imbibes the ray, And vice reluctant quits th' expected prey.

Cease, thou lorn mother! cease thy wailings drear;

Ye babes! the unconscious sob forego; Or let full gratitude now prompt the tear Which erst did sorrow force to flow.

Unkindly cold and tempest shrill

In life's morn oft the traveller chill,

But soon his path the sun of Love shall warm; And each glad scene look brighter for the storm!

1789.

TIME, REAL AND IMAGINARY.

AN ALLEGORY.

On the wide level of a mountain's head,

(I knew not where, but 'twas some faery place) Their pinions, ostrich-like, for sails outspread, Two lovely children run an endless race,

A sister and a brother!

That far outstripp'd the other;

Yet ever runs she with reverted face,

And looks and listens for the boy behind:
For he, alas! is blind!

O'er rough and smooth with even step he passed,
And knows not whether he he first or last.

MONODY ON THE DEATH OF CHATTERTON.

O WHAT a wonder seems the fear of death,
Seeing how gladly we all sink to sleep,
Babes, Children, Youths, and Men,

Night following night for threescore years and ten!
But doubly strange, where life is but a breath
To sigh and pant with, up Want's rugged steep.

Away, Grim Phantom! Scorpion King, away!
Reserve thy terrors and thy stings display
For coward Wealth and Guilt in robes of State !
Lo! by the grave I stand of one, for whom

A prodigal Nature and a niggard Doom
(That all bestowing, this withholding all,)
Made each chance knell from distant spire or dome
Sound like a seeking Mother's anxious call,
Return, poor Child! Home, weary Truant, home!

Thee, Chatterton! these unblest stones protect

From want, and the bleak freezings of neglect. Too long before the vexing Storm-blast driven Here hast thou found repose! beneath this sod! Thou! O vain word! thou dwell'st not with the clod! Amid the shining Host of the Forgiven

Thou at the throne of Mercy and thy God The triumph of redeeming Love dost hymn (Believe it, O my Soul!) to harps of Seraphim.

Yet oft, perforce, ('tis suffering Nature's call)

I

weep, that heaven-born Genius so should fall; And oft, in Fancy's saddest hour, my soul Averted shudders at the poisoned bowl. Now groans my sickening heart, as still I view Thy corse of livid hue;

Now indignation checks the feeble sigh,

[eye!

Or flashes through the tear that glistens in mine

Is this the land of song-ennobled line?

Is this the land, where Genius ne'er in vain
Poured forth his lofty strain?

Ah me! yet Spenser, gentlest bard divine,
Beneath chill Disappointment's shade,
His weary limbs in lonely anguish laid;
And o'er her darling dead

Pity hopeless hung her head,

While "mid the pelting of that merciless storm," Sunk to the cold earth Otway's famished form!

Sublime of thought, and confident of fame,

From vales where Avon winds the Minstrel' came.

Light-hearted youth! aye, as he hastes along,
He meditates the future song,

How dauntless Ella fray'd the Dacyan foe;
And while the numbers flowing strong
In eddies whirl, in surges throng,
Exulting in the spirits' genial throe
In tides of power his life-blood seems to flow.

And now his cheeks with deeper ardors flame,
His eyes have glorious meanings, that declare
More than the light of outward day shines there,
A holier triumph and a sterner aim !
Wings grow within him; and he soars above
Or Bard's or Minstrel's lay of war or love.
Friend to the friendless, to the Sufferer health,
He hears the widow's prayer, the good man's

praise;

To scenes of bliss transmutes his fancied wealth,
And young and old shall now see happy days.
On many a waste he bids trim Gardens rise,
Gives the blue sky to many a prisoner's eyes;
And now in wrath he grasps the patriot steel,
And her own iron rod he makes Oppression feel.

Sweet Flower of Hope! free Nature's genial child!
That didst so fair disclose thy early bloom,
Filling the wide air with a rich perfume!
For thee in vain all heavenly aspects smil'd;

1 Avon, a river near Bristol; the birth-place of Chatterton.

From the hard world brief respite could they winThe frost nipp'd sharp without, the canker prey'd

within!

Ah! where are fled the charms of vernal Grace,
And Joy's wild gleams that lighten'd o'er thy face?
Youth of tumultuous soul, and haggard eye!
Thy wasted form, thy hurried steps I view,
On thy wan forehead starts the lethal dew,
And oh the anguish of that shuddering sigh!

Such were the struggles of the gloomy hour, When Care, of withered brow, Prepared the poison's death-cold power: Already to thy lips was raised the bowl, When near thee stood Affection meek

(Her bosom bare, and wildly pale her cheek)

Thy sullen gaze she bade thee roll

On scenes that well might melt thy soul;
Thy native cot she flashed upon thy view,
Thy native cot, where still, at close of day,
Peace smiling sate, and listened to thy lay;
Thy Sister's shrieks she bade thee hear,
And mark thy mother's thrilling tear;

See, see her breast's convulsive throe,
Her silent agony of woe!

Ah! dash the poisoned chalice from thy hand!

And thou had'st dashed it, at her soft command, But that Despair and Indignation rose,

And told again the story of thy woes;