LINES

COMPOSED WHILE CLIMBING THE LEFT ASCENT OF

BROCKLEY COOMB, SOMERSETSHIRE,

MAY, 1795.

ITH many a pause and oft reverted eye
I climb the Coomb's ascent: sweet song-

sters near

Warble in shade their wild-wood melody: Far off the unvarying cuckoo soothes my ear. Up scour the startling stragglers of the flock That on green plots o'er precipices browse: From the forced fissures of the naked rock The yew tree bursts! Beneath its dark green boughs ('Mid which the May-thorn blends its blossoms white) Where broad smooth stones jut out in mossy seats, I rest:-and now have gained the topmost site. Ah! what a luxury of landscape meets

My gaze! Proud towers, and cots more dear to me, Elm-shadowed fields, and prospect-bounding sea! Deep sighs my lonely heart: I drop the tear: Enchanting spot! O were my Sara here!

LINES

IN THE MANNER OF SPENSER.

PEACE, that on a lilied bank dost love
To rest thine head beneath an olive tree,
I would, that from the pinions of thy dove
One quill withouten pain yplucked might
be!

For O! I wish my Sara's frowns to flee,
And fain to her some soothing song would write,
Lest she resent my rude discourtesy,

Who vowed to meet her ere the morning light, But broke my plighted word—ah! false and recreant wight!

Last night as I my weary head did pillow
With thoughts of my dissevered Fair engrost,
Chill fancy drooped wreathing herself with willow,
As though my breast entombed a pining ghost.
"From some blest couch, young rapture's bridal
Rejected slumber! hither wing thy way; [boast,
But leave me with the matin hour, at most!
As night-closed floweret to the orient ray,
My sad heart will expand, when I the Maid survey.”

But Love, who heard the silence of my thought,
Contrived a too successful wile, I ween:
And whispered to himself, with malice fraught—
"Too long our slave the Damsel's smiles hath seen:
To-morrow shall he ken her altered mien!"

He spake, and ambushed lay, till on my bed The morning shot her dewy glances keen, When as I'gan to lift my drowsy head"Now, Bard! I'll work thee woe!" the laughing Elfin said.

Sleep, softly-breathing god! his downy wing Was fluttering now, as quickly to depart; When twanged an arrow from Love's mystic string, With pathless wound it pierced him to the heart. Was there some magic in the Elfin's dart? Or did he strike my couch with wizard lance? For straight so fair a Form did upwards start (No fairer decked the bowers of old romance) That sleep enamoured grew, nor moved from his sweet trance!

My Sara came, with gentlest look divine

Bright shone her eye, yet tender was its beam : I felt the pressure of her lip to mine!

Whispering we went, and love was all our themeLove pure and spotless, as at first, I deem, He sprang from Heaven! Such joys with sleep did That I the living image of my dream ['bide, Fondly forgot. Too late I woke, and sighed— "O! how shall I behold my Love at even-tide!" July, 1795.

IMITATED FROM OSSIAN.

HE stream with languid murmur creeps,
In Lumin's flowery vale :
Beneath the dew the lily weeps
Slow-waving to the gale.

"Cease, restless gale!" it seems to say,
Nor wake me with thy sighing!
The honours of my vernal day

On rapid wing are flying.

"To-morrow shall the traveller come
Who late beheld me blooming:
His searching eye shall vainly roam
The dreary vale of Lumin."

With eager gaze and wetted cheek
My wonted haunts along,

Thus, faithful maiden! thou shalt seek
The youth of simplest song.

But I along the breeze shall roll
The voice of feeble power;

And dwell, the moon-beam of thy soul,
In slumber's nightly hour.

THE COMPLAINT OF NINATHOMA.

OW 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 drest—
For lovely appear the departed

When they visit the dreams of my rest!
But disturbed by the tempest's commotion
Fleet the shadowy forms of delight-
Ah cease, thou shrill blast of the ocean!
To howl through my cavern by night.

45

MUTUAL PASSION.

ALTERED AND MODERNIZED FROM AN OLD POET.

LOVE, and he loves me again,

Yet dare I not tell who:

For if the nymphs should know my swain,
I fear they'd love him too.

Yet while my joy's unknown,

Its rosy buds are but half-blown :

What no one with me shares, seems scarce my own.

I'll tell, that if they be not glad,

They yet may envy me:

But then if I grow jealous mad,

And of them pitied be,

"Twould vex me worse than scorn!

And yet it cannot be forborn,

Unless my heart would like my thoughts be torn.

He is, if they can find him, fair
And fresh, and fragrant too;

As after rain the summer air,
And looks as lilies do,