The nameless charms of high poetic thought,
That Spring's green hours to fancy's children
The words divine, Imagination wrote [bore;
On slumber's light leaf by the murmuring shore-

All, all adieu! From Autumn's sober power

Fly the dear dreams of Spring's delightful reign; Gay summer strips her rosy-mantled bower,

And rude winds waste the glories of her train.

Yet Autumn yields her joys of humbler kind;
Sad o'er her golden ruins as we stray,
Sweet Melancholy soothes the musing mind,
And Nature charms, delightful in decay.

All-bounteous power, whom happy worlds adore! With every scene some grateful change she brings;

In Winter's wild snows, Autumn's golden store, In glowing Summers and in blooming Springs!

O most belov'd! the fairest and the best

Of all her works! may still thy lover find Fair Nature's frankness in thy gentle breast; Like her be various, but like her be kind.

Then when the Spring f smiling youth is o'er;
When Summer's glories yield to Autumn's sway;
When golden Autumn sinks in Winter hoar,
And life declining yields its last weak ray;

In thy lov'd arms my fainting age shall close,
On thee my fond eye bend its trembling light :
Remembrance sweet shall soothe my last repose,
And my soul bless thee in eternal night!

TO MISS CRACROFT.

1763.

WHEN pale beneath the frowning shades of death, No soothing voice of love, or friendship nigh, While strong convulsion seiz'd the labouring breath, And life suspended left each vacant eye;

Where, in that moment, fled the' immortal mind?
To what new region did the spirit stray?
Found it some bosom hospitably kind,

Some breast that took the wanderer in its way?

To thee, my Nancy, in that deathful hour,
To thy dear bosom it once more return'd;
And wrapt in Hackthorn's solitary bower,
The ruins of its former mansion mourn'd.

But, didst thou, kind and gentle as thou art,

O'er thy pale lover shed the generous tear? From those sweet eyes did Pity's softness start, When Fancy laid him on the lowly bier?

Didst thou to Heaven address the forceful prayer, Fold thy fair hands, and raise the mournful eye, Implore each power benevolent to spare,

And call down pity from the golden sky!

O born at once to bless me and to save,

Exalt my life, and dignify my lay!

Thou too shalt triumph o'er the mouldering grave, And on thy brow shall bloom the deathless bay.

Dear shades of genius! heirs of endless fame! That in your laureate crowns the myrtle wove, Snatch'd from oblivion Beauty's sacred name, And grew immortal in the arms of Love!

O may we meet you in some happier clime, Some safer vale beneath a genial sky; Whence all the woes that load the wing of time, Disease and death, and fear and frailty fly!

SONNET,

IN THE MANNER OF PETRARCH.

TO MISS CRACROFT.

1765.

On thy fair morn, O hope-inspiring May!
The sweetest twins that ever Nature bore,
Where Hackthorn's vale her field-flower-garland

wore,

Young Love and Fancy met the genial day :
And all as on the thyme-green bank I lay,

A nymph of gentlest mien their train before,
Came with a smile; and 'Swain, (she cried) no

more

To pensive sorrow tune thy hopeless lay:

Friends of thy heart, see Love and Fancy bring Each joy that youth's enchanted bosom warms! Delight that rifles all the fragrant Spring! Fair-handed Hope, that paints unfading charms!

And dove-like Faith, that waves her silver wing.These, Swain, are thine; for Nancy meets thy arms.'

VERSES

IN MEMORY OF HIS LADY.

WRITTEN AT SANDGATE CASTLE, 1768.

Nec tantum ingenio, quantum servire dolori.

PROPERT.

LET others boast the false and faithless pride,
No nuptial charm to know; or known, to hide;
With vain disguise from Nature's dictates part,
For the poor triumph of a vacant heart;
My verse the god of tender vows inspires,
Dwells on my soul, and wakens all her fires.

Dear, silent partner of those happy hours,
That pass'd in Hackthorn's vales, in Blagdon's
If yet thy gentle spirit wanders here, [bowers!
Borne by its virtues to no nobler sphere;

If yet that pity, which, of life possest,

Fill'd thy fair eye, and lighten'd through thy breast;
If yet that tender thought, that generous care,
The gloomy power of endless night may spare ;
Oh! while my soul for thee, for thee complains;
Catch her warm sighs, and kiss her bleeding strains.
Wild, wretched wish! Can prayer, with feeble breath,
Pierce the pale ear, the statued ear of death?
Let patience pray, let hope aspire to prayer!
And leave me the strong language of despair!

Hence, ye vain painters of ingenious woe,
Ye Lytteltons, ye shining Petrarchs, go!
I hate the languor of your lenient strain,
Your flowery grief, your impotence of pain.

Oh! had ye known, what I have known, to prove
The searching flame, the agonies of love!
Oh! had ye known how souls to souls impart
Their fire, or mix'd the life-drops of the heart!
Not like the stream that down the mountain side,
Tunefully mourn, and sparkle as they glide;
Not like the breeze, that sighs at evening hour
On the soft bosom of some folding flower;
Your stronger grief, in stronger accents borne,
Had sooth'd the breast with burning anguish torn;
The voice of seas, the winds that rouse the deep,
Far-sounding floods that tear the mountain's steep;
Each wild and melancholy blast that raves

Round these dim towers, and smites the beating

waves

This soothes my soul-'tis Nature's mournful breath, 'Tis Nature struggling in the arms of Death!

See, the last aid of her expiring state,

See Love, e'en Love, has lent his darts to Fate!*
Oh! when beneath his golden shafts I bled,
And vainly bound his trophies round my head;
When crown'd with flowers, he led the rosy day,
Liv'd to my eye, and drew my soul away-
Could fear, could fancy, at that tender hour,
See the dim grave demand the nuptial flower?
There, there his wreaths dejected Hymen strew'd,
And mourn'd their bloom unfaded as he view'd.

*The lady died in child-bed,