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Who, in the wintry wolds and floods,
Keep jubilee, and shred the woods ;
Or, as it drifted soft and slow,
Hurl in ten thousand shapes the snow.

EPIGRAM ON ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.

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BLOOMFIELD, thy happy-omen'd name
Ensures continuance to thy fame;
Both sense and truth this verdict give,
While fields shall bloom, thy name shall live!

TO MIDNIGHT.

Season of general rest, whose solemu still
Strikes to the trembling heart a fearful chill,

But speaks to philosophic souls delight,
Thee do I hail, as at my casement high,
My candle waning melancholy by,

I sit and taste the holy calm of night.
Yon pensive orb, that through the ether sails,
And gilds the misty shadows of the vales,

Hanging in thy dull rear her vestal flame,
To her, while all around in sleep recline,
Wakeful I raise my orisons divine,

And sing the gentle honours of her name;
While Fancy lone o'er me her votary bends,
To lift my soul her fairy visions sends,

And pours upon my ear her thrilling song,
And Superstition's gentle terrors come,
See, see yon dim ghost gliding through the gloom!

See round yon churchyard elm what spectres throng!

Meanwhile I tune, to some romantic lay,
My flageolet-and, as I pensive play,

The sweet notes echo o'er the mountain scene:
The traveller late journeying o'er the moors
Hears them aghast, (while still the dull owl pours

Her hollow screams each dreary pause between),

Till in the lonely tower he spies the light
Now faintly flashing on the glooms of night,

Where I, poor muser, my lone vigils keep,
And ’mid the dreary solitude serene,
Cast a much-meaning glance upon the scene,

And raise my mournful eye to heaven, and weep.

TO THOUGHT;

WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT.

Hence, away, vindictive Thought!

Thy pictures are of pain ;
The visions through thy dark eye caught,
They with no gentle charms are fraught,
So pr’ythee back again.

I would not weep,

I wish to sleep,
Then why, thou busy foe, with me thy vigils keep?
Why dost o'er bed and couch recline?

Is this thy new delight?
Pale visitant, it is not thine
To keep thy sentry through the mine,
The dark vault of the night:

'Tis thine to die,

While 'o'er the eye The dews of slumber press, and waking sorrows fly. (pillow flee.

Go thou, and bide with him who guides

His bark through lonely seas; And as, reclining on his helm, Sadly he marks the starry realm, To him thou may'st bring ease;

But thou to me

Art misery,
So pr'ythee, pr’ythee, plume thy wings, and from my
And, Memory, pray what art thou ?

Art thou of pleasure born?
Does bliss untainted from thee flow?
The rose that gems thy pensive brow,
Is it without a thorn?

With all thy smiles,
And witching wiles,

[files. Yet not unfrequent bitterness thy mournful sway deThe drowsy night-watch has forgot

To call the solemn hour;
Lull'd by the winds he slumbers deep,
While I in vain, capricious Sleep,
Invoke thy tardy power;

And restless lie,
With unclosed

eye, And count the tedious hours as slow they minute by.

GENIUS: AN ODE.

I. 1. Many there be, who, through the vale of life,

With velvet pace, unnoticed, softly go,
While jarring Discord's inharmonious strife

Awakes them not to woe.
By them unheeded, carking Care,
Green-eyed Grief, and dull Despair;

Smoothly they pursue their way,

With even tenor and with equal breath, Alike through cloudy and through sunny day,

Then sink in peace to death. II. 1. But, ah! a few there be whom griefs devour,

And weeping Woe, and Disappointment
Repining Penury, and Sorrow sour, [keen,

And self-consuming Spleen.
And these are Genius' favourites: these

Know the thought-throned mind to please,
And from her fleshy seat to draw

To realms where Fancy's golden orbits roll, Disdaining all but ’wildering Rapture's law,

The captivated soul. III. 1.

Genius, from thy starry throne,

High above the burning zone,
In radiant robe of light array'd,
Oh! hear the plaint by thy sad favourite made,

His melancholy moan.
He tells of scorn, he tells of broken vows,

Of sleepless nights, of anguish-ridden
Pangs that his sensibility uprouse [days,

To curse his being and his thirst for praise. Thou gav'st to him with treble force to feel

The sting of keen neglect, the rich man's

scorn;
And what o'er all does in his soul preside

Predominant, and tempers him to steel,

His high indignant pride. I. 2. Lament not ye, who humbly steal through life,

That Genius visits not your lowly shed ; For, ah, what woes and sorrows ever rife

Distract his hapless head!

For him awaits no balmy sleep,

He wakes all night, and wakes to weep;
Or by his lonely lamp he sits

At solemn midnight, when the peasant
In feverish study, and in moody fits (sleeps,

His mournful vigils keeps. II. 2. And, oh! for what consumes his watchful oil?

For what does thus he waste life's fleeting

breath?
'Tis for neglect and penury he doth toil,

'Tis for untimely death.
Lo! where dejected pale he lies,

Despair depicted in his eyes,
He feels the vital flame decrease, (prey,

He sees the grave wide-yawning for its
Without a friend to soothe his soul to peace,

And cheer the expiring ray.
III. 2. By Sulmo's bard of mournful fame,

By gentle Otway's magic name,
By him, the youth, who smiled at death,
And rashly dared to stop his vital breath,

Will I thy pangs proclaim;
For still to misery closely thou’rt allied,
Though gaudy pageants glitter by thy side,

And far-resounding Fame.
What though to thee the dazzled millions bow,
And to thy posthumous merit bend them low;
Though unto thee the monarch looks with awe,

And thou at thy flash'd car dost nations draw,
Yet, ah !. unseen behind thee fly

Corroding Anguish, soul-subduing Pain, And Discontent that clouds the fairest sky-

A melancholy train.

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