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THE COMPLAINT OF NINATHÓMA.

How long will ye round me be swelling,
O

ye 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 drestFor lovely appear

the DEPARTED When they visit the dreams of my

Rest! But disturbed by the Tempest's commotion

Fleet the shadowy forms of DelightAh cease, thou shrill blast of the Ocean !

To howl through my Cavern by Night.

IMITATED FROM THE WELSH.

IF, while my passion I impart,
You deem

my

words untrue, O place your hand upon my heart

Feel how it throbs for you !

Ah no! reject the thoughtless claim

In pity to your Lover! That thrilling touch would aid the flame,

It wishes to discover.

TO AN INFANT.

Au cease thy Tears and Sobs, my little Life!
I did but snatch away the unclasped Knife :
Some safer Toy will soon arrest thine eye
And to quick Laughter change this peevish cry!
Poor Stumbler on the rocky coast of Woe,
Tutored by Pain each source of Pain to know !
Alike the foodful fruit and scorching fire
Awake thy eager grasp and young desire ;
Alike the Good, the Ill offend thy sight,
And rouse the stormy Sense of shrill Affright!
Untaught, yet wise ! mid all thy brief alarms
'Thou closely clingest to thy Mother's arms,
Nestling thy little face in that fond breast
Whose anxious Heavings lull thee to thy rest!
Man's breathing Miniature ! thou mak'st me sigh-
A Babe art thou—and such a Thing am I!
To anger rapid and as soon appeased,
For trifles mourning and by trifles pleased,

Break Friendship's Mirror with a tetchy blow,
Yet snatch what coals of fire on Pleasure's altar glow!

O thou that rearest with celestial aim
The future Seraph in my mortal frame,
Thrice holy Faith! whatever thorns I meet
As on I totter with unpractised feet,
Still let me stretch my arms and cling to thee,
Meek Nurse of Souls through their long Infancy!

LINES

WRITTEN AT SHURTON BARS, NEAR BRIDGEWATER, SEPTEMBER, 1795,

IN ANSWER TO A LETTER FROM BRISTOL.

Good verse most good, and bad verse then seems better
Received from absent friend by way of Letter.
For what so sweet can laboured lays impart
As one rude rhyme warm from a frievdly heart?

ANON.

Nor travels my meandering eye
The starry wilderness on high ;

Nor now with curious sight
I mark the glow-worm, as I pass,
Move with

green radiance” through the grass, An EMERALD of Light.

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