times, I trust that the affectionate lovers of venerable antiquity, as Camden says, will grant me their pardon, and perhaps may be induced to admit a force and propriety in it. A heavier objection may be adduced against the author, that in these times of fear and expectation, when novelties explode around us in all directions, he should presume to offer to the public a silly tale of old-fashioned love: and five years ago, I own I should have allowed and felt the force of this objection. But alas! explosion has succeeded explosion so rapidly, that novelty itself ceases to appear new; and it is possible that now, even a simple story, wholly uninspired with politics or personality, may find some attention amid the hubbub of revolutions, as to those who have remained a long time by the falls of Niagara, the lowest whispering becomes distinctly audible. O LEAVE the lily on its stem; O leave the rose upon the spray; O leave the elder-bloom, fair maids! And listen to my lay. A cypress and a myrtle-bough This morn around my harp you twin'd, Because it fashion'd mournfully Its murmurs in the wind. And now a tale of love and woe, But most, my own dear Genevieve, 1799. O come and hear the cruel wrongs * And now once more a tale of woe, When last I sang the cruel scorn That craz'd this bold and lovely knight, I promised thee a sister tale Of man's perfidious cruelty; Come, then, and hear what cruel wrong Befell the Dark Ladie. EPILOGUE TO THE RASH CONJUROR. AN UNCOMPOSED POEM. WE ask and urge-(here ends the story!) That this unhappy Conjuror may, Instead of Hell, be but in Purgatory,- Long live the Pope! 1805. * Here followed the stanzas, afterwards published separately under the title "Love." (Poet. Works, vol. i. p. 145. Pickering, 1834.) and after them came the other three stanzas printed above; the whole forming the introduction to the intended Dark Ladie, of which all that exists is to be found ibid. p. 150. Ed. PSYCHE. THE butterfly the ancient Grecians made And to deform and kill the things whereon we feed. 1808. COMPLAINT. How seldom, Friend! a good great man inherits REPROOF. FOR shame, dear Friend! renounce this canting strain! Or throne of corses which his sword hath slain?— The good great man?-three treasures, love and light, 1809. AN ODE TO THE RAIN. COMPOSED BEFORE DAY-LIGHT, ON THE MORNING APPOINTED FOR THE DEPARTURE OF A VERY WORTHY, BUT NOT VERY PLEASANT VISITOR, WHOM IT WAS FEARED THE RAIN MIGHT DETAIN. I KNOW it is dark; and though I have lain I have not once open'd the lids of my eyes, You're but a doleful sound at best: O Rain! you will but take your flight, But only now, for this one day, O Rain! with your dull two-fold sound, For days, and months, and almost years, O Rain! you will but take your flight, Though stomach should sicken, and knees should swell I'll nothing speak of you but well. But only now for this one day, Dear Rain! I ne'er refused to say Dear Rain! if I've been cold and shy, We three, you mark! and not one more! The strong wish makes my spirit sore. We have so much to talk about, So many sad things to let out; So And this I'll swear to you, dear Rain! Be you as dull as e'er you could; |