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And bids compassion seek the realms of woe
She comes! she comes! the meek ey'd power
With liberal hand that loves to bless;
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!
TIME, REAL AND IMAGINARY.
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 :
O'er rough and smooth with even step he passed,
MONODY ON THE DEATH OF CHATTERTON.
O WHAT a wonder seems the fear of death,
Night following night for threescore years and ten!
Away, Grim Phantom! Scorpion King, away!
A prodigal Nature and a niggard Doom
Thee, Chatterton! these unblest stones protect
From want, and the bleak freezings of neglect.
Yet oft, perforce, ('tis suffering Nature's call)
Now groans my sickening heart, as still I view
Now indignation checks the feeble sigh,
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
Ah me! yet Spenser, gentlest bard divine,
Pity hopeless hung her head,
While "mid the pelting of that merciless storm," Sunk to the cold earth Otway's famished form!
From vales where Avon winds the Minstrel' came.
Light-hearted youth! aye, as he hastes along,
How dauntless Ella fray'd the Dacyan foe;
And now his cheeks with deeper ardors flame,
To scenes of bliss transmutes his fancied wealth,
Sweet Flower of Hope! free Nature's genial child!
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
Ah! where are fled the charms of vernal Grace,
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;
See, see her breast's convulsive throe,
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;