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The loftier strains I fain would follow,
Of you, Bathonia's *, great Apollo.
Sweet bard of Avon, be my guide,
As down the stream of Fame I glide;
But if, by adverse tempests tost,
My bark, ill-fated, should be lost,
Drop the soft tear o'er my remains,
And mourn my loss-in elegiac strains.


The Doctor was just on the very last stair
Towards the room of his Son, when of doxies a pair

Escap'd by the opposite door;
Whilst the youth had just time to lay hold of a book,
And in it-assuming a sanctified look-

He began most intently to pore. When the Doctor beheld him, he cry'd, overjoy'd, “ To see you, dear Richard, thus wisely employ'd

Your affectionate father much pleases. But what were you reading? Your Blackstone?” “Why,

No, Sir, I was merely beguiling an hour or so, Sir.” " But with what?" “ Why some Fugitive Pieces."

S. W. I,

* Great Apollo. Maguus Apollo.




Long, for my circling years, the Lord of Day
Illum's Creation with his glorious ray ;
And long, of Youth and Health the rosy hours
Saw liberal Toil, with promisory powers,
Preparing against faded age the peace
Of modest competence, when strength might cease,
Then, as with cheerful hope my earnest sight
Imbib'd the blessings of the sacred light,
Slow on that sight the mists prelusive stole,
Dim, and more dim the gathering shadows roll,
Till, with the last thick drop, the visual boon
Sunk into darkness ’mid the blaze of noon!

How have I lov'd the changeful year to trace,
Each laughing beauty, each terrific grace!
To see gay SPRING her vital influence pour,
Green the bleak field, and gild the balmy shower ;
Tint the young foliage with her tenderest hue,
And feed the opening flowers with richest dew.

* This Poem was written in February, 1806, at the request of an ingenious Engraver and Drawing-master, who lost his sight by the gutta serena in his 28th year, and was therefore obliged to chanye his profession for that of Music, under the patronage of the DichESS (F LEEDS,

Charm'd did I mark bright SUMMER climb the sky,
Leave half the river's pebbly channel dry;
On breathing meads the tufted hay-cocks pile,
'Till the ripe YE AE's consummate glories smile.

View'd jocund Autumn rear her rival sheaves,
With gold and purple tip the unfaded leaves ;
Crown amber mornings with serenest noons
And night's dark zenith with protracted moons ;
Shake the rich fruit from every

loaded bough,
And with the wheaten wreath adorn her brow;
'Till colder gales the pald horizon roam,
And stain, and smear the gold-empurpled bloom;
While sweeping mists, conglobing as they pass,
Bend with their silent drops the long, coarse grass,
And turn, as on screen'd plat it timid blows,
To livid hue the lone and lingering rose;
Bare the rude thorns on all the russet hills,
And crust with ice the borders of the rills.
Pensive I mark'd when, with reverted eyes,
Disorder'd garments and foreboding sighs,
The last fuir Season left hill, dale, and plain,
The yielded victims of the IRON Reign.

Saw Winter rove the desolated heath,
Swol'n floods arresting with petrific breath ;
Send round the mountains all his winds to howl,
Pale the slow morn, and bid the long night scowl :
But oft the glowing hearth, the neat repast,
I saw, I felt deride his power to blast;
Since, if without the furious tempests pass,
Boom thro' the vales, and rattle on the glass,
Within was the gay talk, the flowing bowl,
And Friendship's smile, that summer of the soul.

Ah, dear vicissitudes ! to me ye live
Only on Memory's record ; yet ye give

Tlie retrospective pleasure, ne'er to rise
In the sad Few of ever-sayless eyes,
Whose infant orbs, not opening on the light,
From right maternal sprung to ceaseless night;
Lost to their sense each charm boon NATURE shows,
That dawns and spreads, that varies and that glows.

Then grateful let me prove, indulgʻd to find
Exemption from those pangs which rack the mind,
Springing from foild solicitude to reach
What GENIUS cannot paint, nor Wisdom teach;
Pangs which the fruitless thirst to know inspires
With ever craving, never fed desires.

Comparing thus severer with severe, Arrested be my groan;



Yet, yet Creation stands'a blank to me,
Her face now cover'd with a sable sea !
Still am I doom'd thro’ life's rough paths to stray;
A long, depriv'd, and desolated way!

But, to relieve inevitable woes,
To my internal sight auspicious rose
A beauteous pair; Music, the Maid sublime,
With stores increasing from the morn of Time;
Such melodies as, slowly rising, stole
On Sani's distracted sense with sweet controul,
"Till frantic Rage and fell Despair were flown,
And Hope resum’d her abdicated throne.

So Music it was thine, by high behest,
To sooth and tranquillize the stormy breast,
Ere HARMONY began her inazy rounds,
Blending accordant and discordant sounds,
'Till, thro' the ear, the mingled currents roll,
One sweet, one perfect, one revolving WHOLE!






From bubbling streams, or springs that rise
In mountain grot, or willowy vale,
Bring water, while I close these eyes,
And kiss these lips so cold and pale.
From tufted grove and shadowy glen,
Untrodden by the feet of men,
From sedgy banks and fragrant fields
Bring every flower that Nature yields;
And scatter every breathing sweet
On lov’d Maria's winding sheet.

Blest Spirit, newly freed from pain,
While o'er thy faded cheek I bend,
Belov’d, and watch'd, and wept, in vain,
A moment more thy Aight suspend.
Behold, while hovering on thy wing,
With water from the silver spring
I wash thy limbs, I spread thy bier ;
And lay thee down with many a tear,
Clad in thy shroud of spotless white,
To slumber through thy weary night.

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