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The soul entranced, on mighty wings,
And loses earthly woes ;
And lulls the wearied soul to soft repose.
TO THE MUSE.
WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN.
ILL-FATED maid, in whose unhappy train Chill poverty and misery are seen,
Anguish and discontent, the unhappy bane Of life, and blackener of each brighter scene.
Why to thy votaries dost thou give to feel So keenly all the scorns--the jeers of life? Why not endow them to endure the strife With apathy's invulnerable steel,
[heal? Of self-content and ease, each torturing wound to
Ah! who would taste your self-deluding joys, That lure the unwary to a wretched doom,
That bid fair views and flattering hopes arise,
What is the charm which leads thy victims on
In which innumerous before have gone,
Yet can I ask what charms in thee are found;
And tasted all the pleasures that abound Upon Parnassus' loved Aonian hill?
I, through whose soul the Muses' strains
aye Oh! I do feel the spell with which I'm tied ;
And though our annals fearful stories tell, How Savage languish'd, and how Otway died, Yet must I persevere, let whate'er will betide.
THE WANDERING BOY: A SONG, When the winter wind whistles along the wild moor, And the cottager shuts on the beggar his door ; When the chilling tear stands in my
comfortless eye, Oh, how hard is the lot of the Wandering Boy! The winter is cold, and I have no vest, And my heart it is cold as it beats in
breast; No father, no mother, no kindred have I, For I am a parentless Wandering Boy. Yet I had a home, and I once had a sire, A mother who granted each infant desire ; Our cottage it stood in a wood-embower'd' vale, Where the ring-dove would warble its sorrowful tale.
But my father and mother were summoned away,
-The western gale, Mild as the kisses of connubial love, Plays round my languid limbs, as all dissolved, Beneath the ancient elm's fantastic shade I lie, exhausted with the noon-tide heat: While rippling o'er his deep-worn pebble bed, The rapid rivulet rushes at my feet, Dispensing coolness.-On the fringed marge Full many a floweret rears its head, -or pink, Or gaudy daffodil.—'Tis here, at noon, The buskin’d wood-nymphs from the heat retire, And lave them in the fountain; here secure From Pan, or savage satyr, they disport; Or stretch'd supinely on the velvet turf, Lull’d by the laden bee, or sultry fly, Invoke the god of slumber.
And hark ! how merrily, from distant tower,
Commix'd along the unfrequented shore,
Such is the jocund wake of Whitsuntide,
Oh, Ignorance !
Even now, as leaning on this fragrant bank, I taste of all the keener happiness Which sense refined affords--Even now, my heart Would fain induce me to forsake the world, Throw off these garments, and in the shepherd's weeds With a small flock, and short suspended reed, To sojourn in the woodland.-Then my thought Draws such gay pictures of ideal bliss,
That I could almost err in reason's spite,
Such is life:
WRITTEN ON WHIT-MONDAY.
HARK ! how the merry bells ring jocund round, And now they die upon the veering breeze;
Anon they thunder loud
Full on the musing ear.
A day of jubilee,
An ancient holiday.
On the smooth-shaven green,
Resounds the voice of Mirth.