But, ah! the soothing scene is o'er! On middle flight we cease to soar, For now the Muse assumes a bolder sweep, Now, now the rising fire thrills high, The soul entranc'd, on mighty wings, Till all alarmed at the giddy height, And lulls the wearied soul to soft repose. TO THE MUSE. WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN. I. ILL-FATED maid, in whose unhappy train Chill poverty and misery are seen, Anguish and discontent, the unhappy bane Of life, and blackener of each brighter scene. Why to thy votaries dost thou give to feel So keenly all the scorns-the jeers of life? Why not endow them to endure the strife With apathy's invulnerable steel, Or self-content and ease, each torturing wound to heal? II. Ah! who would taste your self-deluding joys, That lure the unwary to a wretched doom, That bid fair views and flattering hopes arise, What is the charm which leads thy victims on III. Yet can I ask what charms in thee are found; I, who have drank from thine etherial rill, And tasted all the pleasures that abound Upon Parnassus, lov'd Aonian hill ? 1, through whose soul the Muses' strains aye thrill! Oh! I do feel the spell with which I'm tied; And though our annals fearful stories tell, How Savage languish'd, and how Otway died, Yet must I persevere, let whate'er will betide. TO LOVE. I. WHY should I blush to own I love? II. Why should I seek the thickest shade, Lest Love's dear secret be betrayed? Why the stern brow deceitful move, When I am languishing with love? III. Is it weakness thus to dwell THE WANDERING BOY, A SONG. I. WHEN the winter wind whistles along the wild moor, And the cottager shuts on the beggar his door ; When the chilling tear stands in my comfortless eye, Oh, how hard is the lot of the Wandering Boy! II. The winter is cold, and I have no vest, And my heart it is cold as it beats in my breast; For I am a parentless Wandering Boy. III. Yet I had a home, and I once had a sire, A mother who granted each infant desire; IV. But my father and mother were summon'd away, V. The wind it is keen, and the snow loads the gale, And no one will list to my innocent tale; I'll go to the grave where my parents both lie, And death shall befriend the poor wandering boy. FRAGMENT. -THE western gale, Mild as the kisses of connubial love, Plays round my languid limbs, as all dissolv'd, I lie, exhausted with the noontide heat : VOL. I. |