TO THE AUTHOR OF THE ROBBERS."
SCHILLER! that hour I would have wished to die,
If through the shuddering midnight I had sent
From the dark dungeon of the tower time-rent
That fearful voice, a famished Father's cry-
Lest in some after moment aught more mean
Might stamp me mortal! A triumphant shout
Black Horror screamed, and all her goblin rout
Diminished shrunk from the more withering scene!
Ah! Bard tremendous in sublimity !
Could I behold thee in thy loftier mood
Wandering at eve with finely frenzied eye
Beneath some vast old tempest-swinging wood!
Awhile with mute awe gazing I would brood:
Then weep
aloud in a wild ecstasy!
COMPOSED WHILE CLIMBING THE LEFT ASCENT OF BROCKLEY COOMB, SOMERSETSHIRE,
WITH many a pause and oft reverted eye
I climb the Coomb's ascent: sweet songsters near
Warble in shade their wild-wood melody:
Far off the unvarying Cuckoo soothes my ear.
Up scour the startling stragglers of the Flock
That on green plots o'er precipices browse :
From the deep fissures of the naked rock
The Yew tree bursts! Beneath its dark green boughs (Mid which the May-thorn blends its blossoms white)
Where broad smooth stones jut out in mossy seats, I rest-and now have gained the topmost site. Ah! what a luxury of landscape meets
My gaze! Proud towers, and cots more dear to me, Elm-shadow'd fields, and prospect-bounding sea! Deep sighs my lonely heart: I drop the tear: Enchanting spot! O were my Sara here!
IN THE MANNER OF SPENSER.
O PEACE, that on a lilied bank dost love
To rest thine head beneath an olive tree,
I would, that from the pinions of thy dove
One quill withouten pain yplucked might be !
For O! I wish my Sara's frowns to flee,
And fain to her some soothing song would write,
Lest she resent my rude discourtesy,
Who vowed to meet her ere the morning light, But broke my plighted word—ah! false and recreant wight!
Last night as I my weary head did pillow
With thoughts of my dissevered Fair engrost,
Chill Fancy drooped wreathing herself with willow,
As though my breast entombed a pining ghost.
"From some blest couch, young Rapture's bridal
Rejected Slumber! hither wing thy way;
But leave me with the matin hour, at most!
As night-closed floweret to the orient ray,
My sad heart will expand, when I the Maid survey."
But Love, who heard the silence of my thought,
Contrived a too successful wile, I ween:
And whispered to himself, with malice fraught-
"Too long our Slave the Damsel's smiles hath seen:
To-morrow shall he ken her altered mien !"
He spake, and ambushed lay, till on my bed
The morning shot her dewy glances keen,
When as I 'gan to lift my drowsy head
Now, Bard! I'll work thee woe!" the laughing Elfin said.
Sleep, softly-breathing God! his downy wing
Was fluttering now, as quickly to depart;
When twanged an arrow from Love's mystic string,
With pathless wound it pierced him to the heart.
Was there some magic in the Elfin's dart?
Or did he strike my couch with wizard lance?
For straight so fair a Form did upwards start
(No fairer decked the bowers of old Romance)
That Sleep enamoured grew, nor moved from his
My Sara came, with gentlest look divine;
Bright shone her eye, yet tender was its beam:
I felt the pressure of her lip to mine!
Whispering we went, and Love was all our theme-
Love pure and spotless, as at first, I deem,
He sprang from Heaven! Such joys with Sleep did
That I the living image of my dream ['bide,
Fondly forgot. Too late I woke, and sigh'd-
"O! how shall I behold my Love at even-tide !"
THE stream with languid murmur creeps,
In Lumin's flowery vale :
Beneath the dew the Lily weeps
Slow-waving to the gale.
"Cease, restless gale! it seems to say,
Nor wake me with thy sighing!
The honours of my vernal day
On rapid wing are flying.
"To-morrow shall the Traveller come
Who late beheld me blooming:
His searching eye shall vainly roam
The dreary vale of Lumin.”
With eager gaze and wetted cheek
My wonted haunts along,
Thus, faithful Maiden! thou shalt seek
The Youth of simplest song.
But I along the breeze shall roll
The voice of feeble
And dwell, the Moon-beam of thy soul,
In Slumber's nightly hour.
THE COMPLAINT OF NINATHÓMA.
How long will ye round me be swelling, blue-tumbling waves of the sea? Not always in caves was my dwelling,
Nor beneath the cold blast of the tree. Through the high-sounding halls of Cathlóma In the steps of my beauty I strayed; The warriors beheld Ninathóma,
And they blessed the white-bosomed Maid!
A Ghost! by my cavern it darted!
In moon-beams the Spirit was drest-
For lovely appear the departed
When they visit the dreams of my rest!
But disturbed by the tempest's commotion
Fleet the shadowy forms of delight-
Ah cease, thou shrill blast of the Ocean!
To howl through my cavern by night.
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