O blissful days! alas! for ever fled--

Lured by ambition's specious baits astray, I left one morn, at dawn, my humble bed, And wandered from my native fields away. Enthusiastic ardour fired my brain,

With eager haste I sought the tented field ;--I longed to tread Bellona's bloody plain,

And, 'gainst her foes, my country's sword to wield.

But ah! In vain I left my father's cot,

O'er distant fields and provinces to roam; Chagrin and sorrow were my only lot,

And oft I cast a mournful thought on home.
Full many a tear in secret did I shed,

Full many a sigh my bursting bosom heaved,
When couched upon the soldier's rugged bed,
To think that I ambition's tale believed.
O blessed hour! I cried, when gentle peace,
Bid the tired soldier sheath his bloody brand:
Then bade I all my griefs and sorrows cease,
And hastened to review my native land.
Hither I came, and to the well known place,
In joyous hope and fond emotion hied;
Thinking to feel my father's warm embrace,
And hear him bless the truant, ere he died.
But ah! His eyes are closed, their lustre gone!
For ever mute the accents of his tongue!
"Tis cold---that face, where fond affection shone,
On whose love-beaming look my comfort hung.
No son shed o'er thy grave affection's tear,
On no kind friend thy dying head reposed;
False, venal mourners decked thy humble bier,
By venal mourners were thy eyelids closed.

Forsaken by his only, darling boy,

His aged heart could not endure the stroke; But stripped of every sublunary joy,

A prey to melancholy dire---it broke!

"Twas from the mouth of yonder hollow dell, Through whose dark shade the rippling waters play,

I bade my native cot a sad farewell,

And hastened forward on my luckless way.

As then, the chimes still merrily resqund,
And call the peasant to the harvest field;
The same refreshing verdure clothes the ground,
The jasmines still their grateful fragrance yield.
There, on the green, the modest cottage stands,
The same, as when I breathed my parting sigh;
Save that the woodbine planted by my hands,
Ilas reared its lovely branches far on high.
Still, o'er yon tall cascade the waters roar,
Still, on yon ivied roof, the red-breast sings;
Still, o'er yon stream, the swallow loves to soar,
And in its glassy wave to wet his wings.

All is the same---save in this wretched heart,
Which once was free from every grief and care;
But now, a prey to agonizing smart,

No ray of joy shall ever enter there.

To yonder bench beside the cottage door,

When 'neath the wave had sunk the glorious sun,
My daily task, and school employment o'er,
Joyful to meet my father, would I run.

There would he sit, and into my young mind
Instil the principles of sacred truth;
And with his arm upon my neck reclined,

Teach precepts for the guidance of my youth. And then, with lifted hands and streaming eyes, Would silently breathe forth his ardent prayers, That his loved son to honoured rank might rise, And prove a blessing to his hoary hairs.

'Neath yon green sod thy mortal body lies,
There will I go and ease my throbbing breast;
Whilst thy dear soul, ascended to the skies,
Is gone to seek a long, eternal rest.

There, daily shall affection's debt be paid,
And memory recal thy tender love;

Till through the last great enemy's dark shade,
I fly to join thee in the realms above.

Finsbury Square.

GONNER.

LINES WRITTEN BY MOON-LIGHT.

HERE, by the moon's soft, silvery light,
I sit, a lonely, moody wight,
Musing on long departed days,
I turn a sad, and fearful gaze
On what may be; what future fate
Shall on my pilgrimage await,
While in this fabric I sojourn.

If right I judge, to mourn, to mourn,
Will be my lot, for joys estranged,
For tenderest pleasures sadly changed;
For blighted hopes, vain or deceived,
For thoughts too readily believed.
Now while I view thy lovely ray,
Night's Regent!-its unholy sway,
Dark Melancholy cheerless holds,
And to my startled mind unfolds
Dim scenes of misery severe,

That check, with their excess, the tear.
Yet once my youthful thoughts were bright,
As, lovely Moou, thy splendid light;
And ab, as transient! soon, full soon,
Shall be obscured thy beams, O Moon!
E'en so my fortune. Once I thought
My life with every pleasure fraught-
Not empty pleasures, (causeless joy!).
That in enjoyment sickening cloy,
But such as should unchanged remain,
Secured by Love's delightful reign.

Who has not marked the morning rise,
With genial warmth, and glowing skies,
With cheerful sun, and splendors gay-
Nor seen those lovely charms decay!
For, ere day's middle course be run,
The skies are dark, the warmth is gone;
And gathering tempests angry growl,
And rising winds portentous howl;
And darkness comes with thicker shades,
Till one wild storm the whole pervades.
March 12, 1819.

PASTOR.

THE SOLDIER.

HEARD ye ere while the merry roundelay? How sweet the shepherd's pipe at parting day! But sweeter far resounds the sylvan strain To him who yonder hastens o'er the plain; Weary, yet cheerful: 'tis the soldier, come, Safe from the wars, and journeying to his home: Blithe, blithe is he, when from his native vale, He leaves the echo swelling on the gale, And sees the village smoke, in azure streams, Slow mingling with the sun's declining beams : Then peace to yon low roof, his native cot, And calm contentment be his lasting lot: For many a joyless year is now gone by, Since the poor soldier, (save in fancy's eye) Last viewed it; and full many another scene, In other climes since then have come between; And what though he through other scenes of woe, Again, perchance, ere long, for life must go; Yet 'till his furlough's happy days be past, Light is his heart, and jocund 'till the last. To-morrow, when the village cock at morn, (And not the beating drum, or bugle horn) Breaks his soft slumbers; when Aurora's light, (Not the red beacon's glare) dispels his night, And all is peace around him; say ye Great, Think ye he'll envy then your wealthier state? Of wealth he little dreams, who once has learned That true content is best by labour earned: Earned, and not purchased. When the day shall dawn, And all his dreams of dreary war are flown, Then ye, (who ere these days of hapless strife, So oft have shared with him the toils of life) Shall come to greet your fellow swain of yore, Shall greet the friend ye thought to see no more. And who shall not, with smiles of wonder gaze, To see his mien, how changed from other days? And who shall not with dumb amazement, hear, His tales of varied life this many a year? For many a wondrous tale of wayward fate The war-worn soldier can, I ween, relate;

That strange it seems, how he through countless woes, Still struggling, still has 'scaped, and smiles at foes.

H H

But when he smiles, and after tales of woe,
That waken fears himself would scorn to know,
He next of honour telis; tells how its charms
Fire the full heart when Britons rush to arms;
When as they see the kindling passion rise,
And all the soldier sparkling in his eyes;
What swain who hears him, be he e'er so tame,
But in his heart shall catch the generous flaine?
What youth, but conscious manhood tells his breast,
Arms are his calling, victory his crest?
Then soldier rest be thine, for when again,
Thy duty calls thee to the embattled plain,
(And yet must war be ever England's fate?)
When England bids thee arm 'gainst foreign hate,
Howe'er these peaceful scenes may charm thy heart,
Blithe as it came to day, as blithe 'twill part.
Liverpool.

LINES TO E. H.

་

J. W.

THROUGH frozen climes, or burning deserts roving, My thoughts are all on thee;'

My mind and heart's best actions fixed on proving
How dear thou art to me.

In prosperous breezes, or misfortune's storms,
My only hope is thee;

Thy beauty, my poor anguished bosom warms,
For thou art all to me.

Say, doth thy breast contain a heart so chilling,
It hath no thought for me;

Whilst I, with pain involuntary thrilling,

Can think on nought but thee?

Such pain is pleasure, and I'll fondly cherish
My love for only thee;

i

And when with life my hopes and thoughts all perish,
Oh give one sigh for me.

In my last moments, when life's taper's trembling,
Čast one sweet smile on me;

And my last sigh, when there is no dissembling,
Shall breathe my love for thee.

NEWTON.