While on the rock I mark the browsing goat,
List to the mountain-turret's distant noise,
Or the hoarse bittern's solitary note,

I shall not want the world's delusive joys;
But with my little scrip, my book, my lyre,

Shall think my lot complete, nor covet more;
And when, with time, shall wane the vital fire,
I'll raise my pillow on the distant shore,
And lay me down to rest where the wild wave
Shall make sweet music o'er my lonely grave,

III.*

Supposed to have been addressed by a female lunatic to a lady.

LADY, thou weepest for the Maniac's woe,

And thou art fair, and thou, like me, art young; Oh! may thy bosom never, never know

The pangs with which

my wretched heart is wrung.

I had a mother once-a brother too

(Beneath yon yew my father rests his head :)

I had a lover once, and kind, and true,
But mother, brother, lover, all are fled !
Yet, whence the tear that dims thy lovely eye?
Oh! gentle lady-not for me thus weep,

The green

sod soon upon my breast will lie,

And soft and sound will be my peaceful sleep. Go thou and pluck the roses while they bloom— My hopes lie buried in the silent tomb. st es

* This quatorzain had its rise from an elegant sonnet, 'Occasioned by seeing a young female lunatic,' written by Mrs. Lofft, and published in the Monthly Mirror.

IV.

Supposed to be written by the unhappy poet Dermody, in a storm, while on board a ship in his Majesty's service. Lo! o'er the welkin the tempestuous clouds Successive fly, and the loud-piping wind Rocks the poor sea-boy on the dripping shrouds, While the pale pilot, o'er the helm reclin❜d, Lists to the changeful storm; and as he plies His wakeful task, he oft bethinks him sad, Of wife and little home, and chubby lad, And the half-strangled tear bedews his eyes; I, on the deck, musing on themes forlorn,

View the drear tempest, and the yawning deep, Nought dreading in the green sea's caves to sleep, For not for me shall wife or children mourn, And the wild winds will ring my funeral knell Sweetly, as solemn peal of silent passing-bell.

ས.

THE WINTER TRAVELLER.

GOD help thee, Traveller, on thy journey far;
The wind is bitter keen,-the snow o'erlays
The hidden pits, and dangerous hollow ways,
And darkness, will involve thee.-No kind star
To-night will guide thee, Traveller, and the war
Of winds and elements on thy head will break,
And in thy agonizing ear the shriek

Of spirits howling on their stormy car,
Will often ring appalling. I portend

A dismal night and on my wakeful bed
Thoughts, Traveller, of thee will fill my head,
And him who rides where winds and waves contend,
And strives, rude cradled on the seas, to guide
His lonely bark through the tempestuous tide.

VI.

BY CAPEL LOFFT, ESQ.

This sonnet was addressed to the author of this volume, and was occasioned by several little quatorzains, misnomered sonnets, which he published in the Monthly Mirror. He begs leave to return his thanks to the much respected writer, for the permission so politely granted to insert it here, and for the good opinion he has been pleased to express of his productions.

YE, whose aspirings court the muse of lays,
• Severest of those orders which belong,
Distinct and separate; to Delphic song,'
Why shun the Sonnet's undulating maze?
And why its name, boast of Petrarchian days,
Assume, it rules disown'd? Whom from the
throng

The muse selects, their ear the charm obeys
Of its full harmony; they fear to wrong
The Sonnet, by adorning with a name

Of that distinguish'd import, lays, though sweet,
Yet not in magic texture taught to meet
Of that so varied and peculiar frame.
O think! to vindicate its genuine praise
Those it beseems, whose Lyre a favouring impulse

RECANTATORY, IN REPLY TO THE FOREGOING

ELEGANT. ADMONITION.

LET the sublimer muse, who, wrapt in night,
Rides on the raven pennons of the storm,
Or o'er the field, with purple havoc warm,
Lashes her steeds, and sings along the fight,

Let her, whom more ferocious strains delight,
Disdain the plaintive Sonnet's little form,
And scorn to its wild cadence to conform
The impetuous tenor of her hardy flight.
But me, far lowest of the sylvan train,

Who wake the wood-nymphs from the forest shade
With wildest song;-Me, much behoves thy aid
Of mingled melody, to grace my strain,

And give it power to please, as soft it flows

Through the smooth murmurs of thy frequent close.

VIII.

ON HEARING THE SOUNDS OF AN EOLIAN HARP.

So ravishingly soft upon the tide azad end van bad” Of the infuriate gust, it did career,

It might have sooth'd its rugged charioteer,
And sunk him to a zephyr;-then it died,
Melting in melody;-and I descried,

Borne to some wizard stream, the form appear
Of druid sage, who on the far-off ear

Pour'd his lone song, to which the sage replied:
Or thought I heard the hapless pilgrim's knell,
Lost in some wild enchanted forest's bounds,
By unseen beings sung; or are these sounds
Such as, 'tis said, at night are known to swell
By startled shepherd, on the lonely heath
Keeping his night-watch, sad portending death?

IX.

WHAT art thou, MIGHTY ONE? and where thy seat? Thou broodest on the calm that cheers the lands, And thou dost bear within thine awful hands

The rolling thunders and the lightnings fleet;

Stern on thy dark-wrought car of cloud and wind Thou guid'st the northern storm at night's dead

noon,

Or on the red wing of the fierce monsoon
Disturb'st the sleeping giant of the Ind.
In the drear silence of the polar span

Dost thou repose? or in the solitude
Of sultry tracts, where the lone caravan

Hears nightly howl the tiger's hungry brood?

Vain thought, the confines of his throne to trace, Who glows through all the fields of boundless space!

A BALLAD.

Be hush'd, be hush'd, ye bitter winds,
Ye pelting rains a little rest:

Lie still, lie still, ye busy thoughts,
That wring with grief my aching breast.

Oh! cruel was my faithless love,
To triumph o'er an artless maid;
Oh! cruel was my faithless love,
To leave the breast by him betrayed.

When exiled from my native home,

He should have wiped the bitter tear
Nor left me faint and lone to roam,
A heart-sick weary wanderer here.

My child moans sadly in my arms,

The winds they will not let it sleep:
Ah! little knows the hapless babe

What makes its wretched mother weep.