LONDON:Printed by A. & R. Spottiswoode,New-Street-Square.




THE numerous and respectable subscribers to this volume are well entitled to the warmest acknowledgments of the Editor, and she begs they will do her the honour to accept her grateful thanks, which are presented with a deep and cordial sense of the kind and generous motives that have led them to favour this collection of Poems with their countenance and liberality. But what will please them more than any thanks which she can offer, is the assurance, that they have enabled her, in a year so peculiarly unfavourable for such an undertaking, to promote the object for which it is published far beyond what she could have hoped, and that they have thereby done a permanent service to one who is worthy of receiving it.


To her literary friends, who have so liberally, readily, and cheerfully supplied her with the manuscripts which compose this collection, she cannot too strongly express her obligations. She is proud of the names she has been permitted to produce as her poetical helpmates on this occasion; and, so supported, feels herself honoured beyond what has ever yet fallen to the lot of any editor. To those, who, from diffidence or other reasons, have given her verses without a name, of which no name needed to have been ashamed, she is likewise greatly indebted, and she thanks them all with a warm and lively gratitude.

This volume also contains several MS. poems of one, who is now out of the reach of all thanks from a being of this world, written with that elegance, tenderness, and graceful facility which characterized every thing that came from her pen: a dutiful daughter, who loves and respects her memory, will consider the acknow-

ledgments implied in this notice as belonging to herself.

∗ Since this volume was put to the press, Mr. Charles Johnson, the amiable and elegant writer of the greater number of the sonnets which are scattered over it, has sunk into an early grave. But it is to be hoped, that this melancholy event will not prevent the Public from being made acquainted with the other poetical productions which he has left behind him.

The Editor begs the indulgence of the Reader, and the pardon of her poetical contributors, for any oversights or mistakes which may be discovered in the various pieces contained in this volume. The former will do well to attribute any want of correctness to herself, which will make the requested indulgence almost a personal boon: the latter will be assured that she has done no injury to their verses from any wilful carelessness; and will recollect, that in submitting them to an Editor, without classical learning, who never has written correctly, they have rendered themselves liable to be so injured,

which does the more enhance their kindness in contributing to this collection.

She ought not to omit mentioning that the liberality of her bookseller, printer, and stationer, have reduced the expences of publication to those merely of cost charges.



  • Viscount Andover.
  • Right Hon. Lady Ashburton.
  • Lord Chief Justice Abbott.
  • Lady Abbott.
  • Hon. Hugh Arbuthnot.
  • Sir Thomas Ackland, Bart.
  • Lady Apreece. 3 copies.
  • Sir Edmund Antrobus, Bart. 2 copies.
  • General Sir Henry Askew.
  • Miss Isabella Askew.
  • — Askew, Esq.
  • Mrs. Askew.
  • Mrs. Affleck. 2 copies.
  • The Rev. Archibald Alison, Edinburgh.
  • Boyd Alexander, Esq. [10 copies.]

    [The number of copies was added to printed text in contemporary manuscript hand. Ed.]

  • Mrs. Alcock. 2 copies.
  • Mrs. Andrews.
  • — André, Esq.
  • Miss Louisa André.
  • G. C. Antrobus, Esq.
  • Mrs. Aspinal.
  • Miss Aitchison, Airdrie.
  • Miss Alexander.
  • Miss C. Alexander.
  • Miss J. Alexander.
  • James L' Amy, Esq.
  • J. D. Alexander, Esq.
  • Rev. C. Anstey.

  • x
  • Edmund Antrobus, Esq. 2 copies.
  • Mrs. Anderson, Russell Square.
  • Sir William Adams, Albemarle Street.
  • J. J. Angerstein, Esq. 5 copies.
  • J. J. Angerstein, Esq., Jun. 2 copies.
  • Lewis Allsop, Esq.
  • James A. Anderson, Esq.
  • Mrs. Anderson.
  • Lt. Col. Aitchison, 3d Guards.
  • Mrs. Richard Allan.
  • Miss Allan.
  • Mrs. André, Bath.
  • Mrs. Abernethy, Bedford Row.
  • Mrs. Simpson Anderson, Charlton Kings. 2 copies.
  • Samuel Anderson, Esq.
  • J. Andrews, Esq., Bond Street. 2 copies.
  • B
    • Earl Bathurst.
    • Countess Bathurst.
    • Viscount Bernard. 2 copies.
    • Viscountess Bernard. 2 copies.
    • Viscount Barrington.
    • Viscountess Barrington.
    • Hon. W. K. Barrington.
    • Hon. George Barrington.
    • Hon. Augustus Barrington.
    • Hon. Russel Barrington.
    • Hon. Lowther Barrington.
    • Hon. Henry Barrington.
    • Hon. Arthur Barrington.
    • Hon. Caroline Barrington.
    • Hon. Frances Barrington.
    • Hon. Charlotte Barrington.
    • Hon. Georgina Barrington.
    • Hon. Elizabeth Barrington.
    • The Bishop of Bangor.
    • The Right Hon. Lady Byron.
    • Lord Belhaven.
    • Lady Belhaven.
    • Lord Boston.
    • Lady Boston.
    • Lady Anne Barnard, Berkeley Square. 2 copies.
    • Hon. Mr. Justice Bayley.
    • Lady Bayley.

    • xi
    • Hon. Mr. Justice Best.
    • Lady Best.
    • The Hon. Mrs. Boyle. 5 copies.
    • Hon. Miss Brodrick, Bath.
    • Sir Henry Bunbury.
    • Lady Bunbury.
    • Lt. Gen. Brown, Curzon Street. 20 copies.
    • Rev. Archdeacon Bonney.
    • Rev. Archdeacon Benger.
    • Mrs. Benger.
    • Robt. Barber, Esq.
    • Everard Brand, Esq., Arlington Street.
    • Mrs. Brand.
    • Mrs. M. P. Benfield, Cumberland Street.
    • Mrs. Berkley.
    • Dr. Robertson Barclay, Keavil.
    • Miss Berry.
    • Mrs. Brant, Frances Street.
    • Mrs. Blanchard.
    • — Blanchard, Esq.
    • — Bourdillon, Esq.
    • Miss Brown.
    • Mrs. J. Blanchard.
    • George L. Blount, Esq. 2 copies.
    • Rev. Sackville Bale.
    • Edward Boodle, Esq., Lower Brook Street.
    • Mrs. Belli, Bruton Street.
    • Rev. J. B. Blount.
    • Rev. Charles Belli.
    • Dr. Baillie, 10 copies.
    • Mrs. Baillie. 5 copies.
    • W. H. Baillie, Esq. 5 copies.
    • Mrs. Agnes Baillie, Hampstead. 2 copies.
    • B. C. Brodie, Esq., Saville Row.
    • Mrs. Brodie.
    • Miss Bennet.
    • Miss C. Bennet.
    • Mrs. Bennet.
    • Mrs. Benyon.
    • Mrs. T. Bradney, Hampstead.
    • H. W. Burgess, Esq., Sloane Square.
    • Miss Ballard.
    • Mrs. Booth.
    • George Brown, Esq., Russell Square. 5 copies.
    • James Brown, Esq. 2 copies.

    • xii
    • John Barnes, Esq.
    • Miss Barnes.
    • Miss Jessy Barnes.
    • Mrs. Barnes. 2 copies.
    • William Bell, Esq.
    • G. H. Blackburn, Esq.
    • John Bannatyne, Esq.
    • A. B.
    • James Barton, Esq.
    • Charles Balfour, Esq.
    • Mrs. Baker.
    • Robert Bill, Esq., Bedford Square.
    • Mrs. Bill.
    • Mrs. Bramwell.
    • Master Bramwell.
    • Master H. R. Bramwell.
    • Mrs. Bidwell.
    • John Bowdler, Esq., Eltham.
    • Mrs. John Bond, Stoke Newington.
    • John Burchel, Esq., Walthamstow.
    • James Boudon, Esq., Hampstead.
    • Miss Bolton, Thornhill, Staffordshire.
    • Mrs. Bolton, Soho, Staffordshire.
    • Miss Black, Kensington Square.
    • Miss C. Beresford.
    • Mrs. Harriet Bowdler, Bath. 2 copies.
    • Charles Bosanquet, Esq., Hampstead Heath.
    • John Bisset, Esq.
    • S. Baker, Esq.
    • S. Baker, Esq., jun.
    • G. Baker, Esq.
    • Sir J. Brenton
    • Capt. Brenton, R. N.
    • Mrs. J. Brenton.
    • Capt. Brain, R. N.
    • J. P. Boileau, Esq., New Norfolk Street.
    • Miss Boileau, Mortlake.
    • J. T. Batt, Esq.
    • Mrs. Batt.
    • James Burn, Esq. 10 copies.
    • Dr. Bliss, Bath.
    • Mrs. Burgess.
    • Robert Barclay, Esq., Bury Hill. 5 copies.
    • Mrs. Barclay.
    • Miss Barclay.
    • [James Burton, Esq.]

      [This name was added to printed text in contemporary manuscript hand. Ed.]

    • xiii
    • Rev. J. G. Bollond.
    • J. Bollond, Esq.
    • Mrs. Bevan, Half-moon Street.
    • Mrs. Brown, Upper Grosvenor Street.
    • Robert Bruce, Esq., M. P., Kennet, N. B.
    • Mrs. Bruce, Kennet, N. B.
    • Miss Boulton, Givens Grove, Surrey.
    • W. Bolland, Esq.
    • Mrs. Bolland.
    • Mr. Serjeant Bosanquet.
    • Samuel Bosanquet, Esq.
    • Robert Bell, Esq., Edinburgh.
    • James Balfour, Esq., Edinburgh.
    • J. Hunter Blair, Esq., Edinburgh.
    • Dr. Bain.
    • Mrs. Bazalgette. 2 copies.
    • Mrs. Burr, Portland Place.
    • Mrs. Brent, St. James's Palace.
    • Mrs. Burroughs, Chetwynd Park.
    • Mrs. Barker, Baker Street.
    • John Blackburn, Esq., Edinburgh. 5 copies.
    • Mrs. Blackburn. 5 copies.
    • E. Burn, Esq.
    • — Brandt, Esq.
    • Mrs. Brandt.
    • R. W. Brandt, Esq.
    • James Brandt, Esq.
    • Rev. W. O. Brandt.
    • Miss Brandt.
    • A. Bogle, Esq. 2 copies.
    • Miss Bogle. 2 copies.
    • Hugh Bogle, Esq.
    • James Bogle, Esq. jun.
    • Mrs. Belcher.
    • Rev. Wm. Broderick. 2 copies.
    • Mrs. C. Best, Craven Street.
    • William Bragge, Esq.
    • Rev. Wm. Buckland, Corpus Christi Coll. Oxford.
    • Rev. Thomas Barnby, Stepney.
    • Miss Begbie, Porto Bello, Edinburgh.
    • Robert Buchanan, Esq. 5 copies.
    • N. Basevi, Esq. 2 copies.
    • Mrs. Barchard.
    • Michael Bland, Esq., Montague Place, Russel Square.
    • Mrs. Bogle, Manchester Square.

    • xiv
    • Miss Bogle. 2 copies.
    • John Buller, Esq.
    • Miss Baker, Frampton Lodge, Gloucestershire.
    • John Baron, M. D., Gloucester.
    • Mrs. Blunt, Hampstead.
    • Mrs. Brandling, Gosforth House, Newcastle.
    • Mrs. Bell, Woolmington.
    • — Barham, Esq.
    • G. H. Barnett, Esq., Lombard Street.
    • D. Bevan, Esq., Lombard Street.
    • Henry Brougham, Esq., M. P. 2 copies.
    • William Brougham, Esq.
    • Mrs. Bogle, Gilmour Hill. 3 copies.
    • Miss A. Bogle.
    • Mrs. Buchanan, Dowan Hill. 5 copies.
    • Mrs. James Brown, Glasgow.
    • Mrs. James Bogle.
    • Hugh Bogle, Esq. 2 copies.
    • Mrs. H. Bogle. 2 copies.
    • The Miss Blackburns. 3 copies.
    • Hubert Buchanan, Esq. 2 copies.
    • Dr. Balmano.
    • Archibald Buchan, Esq., Catrine Bank. 2 copies.
    • Archibald Brown, Esq. 2 copies.
    • Mrs. Bolton, Storrs.
    • Mrs. Birch, Bath.
    • Mrs. Barrow, Bath.
    • Rev. Alfred Burmiston.
    • Miss Buchanan. 3 copies.
    • Lt. S. B. 10 copies.
    • H. H. Birley, Esq., Manchester.
    • John Birley, Esq., Manchester.
    • Mrs. H. H. Birley, Manchester.
    • Jos. Birley, Didsbury.
    • Miss Birley, Liverpool.
    • J. L. Buller, Esq., Bush Lane.
    • G. H. Blackburn, Esq., South-sea House.
    • — Badham, Esq.
    • Mrs. Brodie, Salisbury.
    • W. B. Brodie, Esq.
    • Mrs. Boyd, Greenshields.
    • Mrs. George Buchanan.
    • James Block, Esq. 10 copies.
    • John Barclay, Esq. 10 copies.
    • J. Buchanan, Esq.

  • C
    • Earl of Clanwilliam. 5 copies.
    • Countess of Cassilis. 5 copies.
    • Countess of Clare.
    • Lord John Campbell. 2 copies.
    • Lady John Campbell.
    • Lord Cloncurry.
    • Lady Cloncurry.
    • Lord Clancarty. 2 copies.
    • Lady Clancarty. 2 copies.
    • Lady Mary Cook.
    • Lady Elizabeth Clements.
    • Hon. Rob. Clements.
    • Lady Louisa Clinton.
    • Hon. Miss Courteney.
    • Hon. Mr. Cowper, Digswell.
    • Hon. and Rev. Archibald Cathcart.
    • The Lord Justice Clerk.
    • Hon. Mrs. Coventry.
    • Sir William Cunningham, Bart., Caprington. 2 copies.
    • Lady Cunliffe.
    • Lady Copley.
    • Col. Charlewood, Grenadier Guards.
    • Lady Campbell. 2 copies.
    • Rev. William Chapman.
    • Mrs. Chapman.
    • Miss Croft, Charterhouse.
    • Mrs. Chalmers, Abingdon Street.
    • Mrs. J. Craufurd, Sunning Hill.
    • Thomas Coutts, Esq. 2 copies.
    • Sir Alexander Crichton.
    • C. M. Clarke, Esq. 5 copies.
    • Mrs. Cooke, Hertford Street.
    • Lt. Col. P. Campbell, R. A.
    • Samuel Chilver, Esq.
    • The Rev. George Crabbe, Trowbridge.
    • Miss Colley.
    • Mrs. Corbeau, Bath.
    • Mrs. Campbell.
    • Sir A. Cathcart.
    • Mrs. Claxton.
    • Archibald Cullen, Esq.
    • Mrs. Cullen.
    • Miss Crawford. 2 copies.

    • xvi
    • Robert Christie, Esq. 2 copies.
    • Henry Crokatt, Esq.
    • John Carstairs, Esq., Stratford Green.
    • Mrs. Carstairs.
    • Henry Cheape, Esq.
    • John Christie, Esq., Mark Lane.
    • Mrs. Carr, Hampstead. 2 copies.
    • Mrs. Cole, Hampstead.
    • Archdeacon Coxe.
    • Mrs. Coxe.
    • John Cowper, Esq., Stamford Street.
    • B. Currie, Esq.
    • Mrs. Cowley.
    • Mrs. S. A. Cowley.
    • — Chamber, Esq.
    • Philip Combauld, Esq., Hampstead.
    • Mrs. Calvert.
    • Henry Colburn, Esq., Conduit Street.
    • Colv. Coup, Esq., Sherwood Lodge.
    • Miss Carey.
    • Jos. Cripps, Esq. M. P., Cirencester.
    • Jos. Cripps, Esq., Jun.
    • Miss Clement, Hill Street.
    • Mrs. Courthorp.
    • John Campbell, Esq., Kilberry. 2 copies.
    • Miss Campbell, Heriot Row, Edinburgh.
    • J. Cunningham, Esq.
    • Miss Christian, Russell Square.
    • Dr. Charles, Edinburgh. 5 copies.
    • John Craig, Esq., Edinburgh. 5 copies.
    • Jos. Cowper, Esq., Friday Street.
    • Mrs. Crawford.
    • Miss Caldwell.
    • M. Gen. Cuppage, R. A.
    • — Clayton, Esq.
    • Mrs. Clayton.
    • J. Clayton, Esq. 3 copies.
    • Mrs. M. Clayton.
    • N. Clayton, Esq.
    • Miss Carey, Mamhead.
    • Robert Crawford, Esq., Dawlish.
    • Miss Cheveley, Buckingham House. 2 copies.
    • Mrs. Cooke, Montague Street, Russell Square.
    • Stanley Clarke, Esq.
    • Mrs. Stanley Clarke.
    • Capt. Walter Campbell.

    • xvii
    • Calvert Clarke, Esq.
    • Rev. Dr. Cooke, President of Corpus Christi Coll. Oxford.
    • Rev. Dr. Copleston, Provost of Oriel Coll.
    • Rev. Dr. Chapman, Mag. Coll.
    • Rev. G. L. Cooke, Oxford.
    • Rev. T. L. Cooke, Beckley.
    • Mrs. Cooke.
    • Miss Chapman.
    • Miss J. Cooke, Bath.
    • Mrs. Charrington, Mile End.
    • — Charrington, Esq.
    • John Campbell, Esq., Edinburgh.
    • Rev. Mr. Craig.
    • C. M. Christie, Esq.
    • Col. Gilbert Cooper.
    • Dr. Currie.
    • G. Currie, Esq., Cornhill.
    • Miss M. Cheveley.
    • Mrs. Cambridge, Whitminster House, Gloucestershire.
    • Mrs. Currie, Chester.
    • General Cartwright.
    • — Carrick, Esq.
    • Mrs. Claxton, Bath.
    • J. Cooper, Esq., Ballendalloch.
    • Mrs. Hamilton Campbell.
    • The Misses Campbell, Canaith. 2 copies.
    • — Campbell, Esq., Moran. 3 copies.
    • Miss Campbell.
    • Miss Helen Campbell.
    • Mrs. Campbell, Strathearn.
    • Mungo Campbell, Esq. 2 copies.
    • Miss Elizabeth Campbell.
    • William Cathcart, Esq., Towers. 2 copies.
    • Miss Cathcart.
    • Miss Isabella Cathcart.
    • Mrs. Cunningham, Kilmarnock. 2 copies.
    • Mrs. Clerk, Elm Bank.
    • Robert Cunningham, Esq., Seabank.
    • William Campbell, Esq., Nether Place.
    • Miss Campbell.
    • Wm. Clark, Esq. 2 copies.
    • Mrs. Campbell, Succoth.
    • Miss Craig, Glasgow.
    • Miss Mary Craig.
    • Mrs. Colquhoun, Killermont.

    • xviii
    • Mrs. Crooks.
    • David Connell, Esq., Glasgow.
    • Mrs. Cathcart, Blairston
    • R. Cathcart, Esq., Corbiston.
    • Miss Cathcart.
    • Arch. Campbell, Esq., Finlayston
    • John Colquhoun, Esq., Killermont.
    • Edward Cockett, Esq., St. James's Palace.
    • Richard Church, Esq., Bedford Place.
    • S. J. Cupper, Esq., Crosby Square. 2 copies.
    • W. Cririe, Esq., Manchester.
    • Richard Cardwell, Esq., Blackburne. 10 copies.
    • Rev. Richard Cardwell, Liverpool. 5 copies.
    • John Cardwell Esq., Liverpool. 5 copies.
    • James Cardwell, Esq., Wigan. 2 copies.
    • Mrs. Edward Coxe.
    • Mrs. Dalzell Colquhoun.
    • Mrs. Lethan Cuthell, Kelvenside.
    • Mrs. Collings, Hampstead.
    • Miss Cathcart, Gayfield.
    • Miss Colbery, Cavendish Square.
    • L. A. De la Chaumette, Esq.
    • Benjamin Cohen, Esq.
    • Mrs. Cohen.
    • James Cleland, Esq.
    • Mrs. Cleland.
  • D.
    • The Hon. and Right Rev. the Lord Bishop of Durham. 5 copies.
    • The Bishop of St. David's.
    • The Right Hon. Lady Dacre.
    • The Right Hon. Lady Dunstanville.
    • Lord Chief Justice Dallas.
    • Lady Dallas.
    • Mrs. Dallas.
    • Hon. Mrs. Douglas, Bothwell Castle.
    • Hon. Miss Douglas, Bothwell Castle.
    • Hon. and Rev. Champion Dymoke.
    • Hon. and Rev. Thomas Dawnay.
    • Sir Francis Drake, Bart.
    • Lady Drake.
    • Sir Humphry Davy, Bart. P. R. S. &c.
    • Sir David Dundas, Bart.
    • Lady P. Dalrymple, Woodside, Lymington.

    • xix
    • Gen. Sir John Doyle.
    • Sir John Milley Doyle.
    • General Dirom, Mount Annan.
    • Mrs. Dirom.
    • Lieut. Col. Drummond, 3d Guards.
    • H. Dobree, Esq.
    • James Dunlop, Esq. 5 copies.
    • R. B. Dunlop, Esq. 2 copies.
    • Robert Davidson, Esq.
    • Mrs. Dixon, Portland Place. 5 copies.
    • Miss Dauncey.
    • Mrs. Davy, Devonshire Square.
    • Mrs. Dyce. 2 copies
    • Lieut. Col. Davies, M. P.
    • Mrs. Dumaresq.
    • Mrs. Doveton, Upper Wimpole Street.
    • Miss Dobson.
    • Wm. Delafield, Esq.
    • Miss Dickens.
    • Miss Deane, Lincoln's Inn Fields.
    • Col. Durrant, Wimpole Street.
    • W. J. Dennison, Esq. M. P. 5 copies.
    • Mrs. Denman. 5 copies.
    • Thomas Denman, Esq., M. P. 5 copies.
    • Mrs. Thomas Denman. 5 copies.
    • Henry Davidson, Esq.
    • Mrs. Davidson.
    • Miss Davidson.
    • Duncan Davidson, Esq.
    • General Douglas, Woolwich.
    • Major Douglas.
    • John Douglas, Esq., Twyford Abbey.
    • Mrs. Douglas.
    • Mrs. Tyrwhitt Drake.
    • Miss Drake.
    • Mrs. Deffell.
    • The Misses Deffell.
    • Dr. Duesbury.
    • Miss Duckworth.
    • Richard Duppa, Esq. [5 copies.]

      [The number of copies was added to printed text in contemporary manuscript hand. Ed.]

    • Philip Duncan, Esq., Bath.
    • Mrs. T. Dickins, Bolsover Street.
    • T. Dyson, Esq., Lavington, Sussex.
    • Mrs. Dyson.
    • George Daniell, Esq., Lincolns Inn Fields.

    • xx
    • E. R. Daniell, Esq., Lincoln's Inn Fields.
    • Miss Dallas, Gloucester Place. 3 copies.
    • Mrs. Drewe.
    • J. Duncan, Esq., New College, Oxford.
    • Rev. A. Dawson, Brazennose College.
    • Mrs. Daniel, Warwick.
    • E. T. Daniel, Esq., Southampton.
    • David Dundas, Esq., Edinburgh.
    • James Dundas, Esq., Edinburgh.
    • Mrs. Douglas, Douglas Park. 5 copies.
    • Ralph James Dundas, Esq.
    • Dr. J. H. Davidson. 5 copies.
    • George Dunlop, Esq. 5 copies.
    • Mrs. Dunlop.
    • Mrs. Edward Dawkins.
    • Mrs. Dawson, St. Leonard's.
    • W. J. Davidson, Esq., Inchmarto. 2 copies.
    • R. Davies, Esq.
    • Mrs. Dumbleton, Bath.
    • Miss Dunlop, Glasgow.
    • William Davidson, Esq.
    • Mrs. Robert Dunlop.
    • A. Dunlop, Esq., Clober.
    • John Dunlop, Esq., Greenock.
    • Mrs. John Dunlop.
    • Mrs. W. Dowal.
    • Professor Davidson, Glasgow.
    • Richard Duncan, Esq., Glasgow.
    • Mrs. Denniston, Kelvin Grove. 5 copies.
    • Miss Douglas, Rosehall.
    • Mrs. Dinwiddie.
    • Mrs. Dunlop, Annan Hill.
    • Mrs. Dundas, Dundas Castle.
    • Thomas Dobson, Esq., Bucklersbury.
    • Rev. James Dallaway.
    • — Duff, Esq., Hutton.
    • Mrs. Home Drummond.
    • D. D. 3 copies.
    • Mrs. Douglas Dickson, Hartree.
    • William Dundas, Esq., Temple.
    • James Dundas, Esq., Clerk to the Signet.
    • Mrs. Denni, Winchelsea, Sussex.
    • Miss J. Denni, Winchelsea, Sussex.
    • Mrs. Donald, Glasgow.

  • E.
    • Marchioness of Exeter,
    • Countess of Effingham.
    • Lord Ellenborough.
    • Hon. Mrs. Estcourt.
    • Hon. Mrs. T. Erskine, Lower Brook Street.
    • Lady English, Grosvenor Street. 2 copies.
    • Mrs. Edwards.
    • Colonel Eustace.
    • Mrs. George Ellis, Sunning Hill.
    • — Edwards, Esq.
    • Mrs. Evan, Seaton Grove.
    • N. B. Edmonstone, Esq.
    • Wm. Empson, Esq., Temple.
    • John Elliott, Esq.
    • Mrs. Elliott.
    • Rev. Luther Elliott, Salviston.
    • Mrs. A. Elliott, Egland. 4 copies.
    • Mrs. Elliott, Fenchurch Street.
    • Robert Liston Elliott, Esq.
    • Robert Elliott, Esq. 2 copies.
    • G. H. Errington, Esq.
    • Miss Edgeworth.
    • Miss F. Edgeworth.
    • Miss H. Edgeworth.
    • Rev. Noel T. Ellison, Baliol Coll. Oxford. 2 copies.
    • Mrs. Erskine, Linlathen.
    • John Elliott, Esq., Montague Place, Russell Square.
    • Mrs. Eaton, Kitton Hall, Stamford.
    • Ellis Ellis, Esq.
    • Wm. Eccles, Esq., Eccles, Manchester.
    • John Evans, Esq., Aldermanbury.
    • T. Erskine, Esq., Linlichan.
    • Rowland Evan, Esq., Bond Street.
    • Miss Eccles.
    • Mrs. Grenville Ewing.
    • James Ewing, Esq. 5 copies.
  • F.
    • Viscountess Fielding.
    • Lord William Fitzgerald.
    • His Excellency Baron Fagel.
    • The Hon. Miss Fox.
    • Sir Wm. Forbes, Bart., Pitsligo.

    • xxii
    • Sir Thomas Farquhar, Bart.
    • Lady Farquhar.
    • Miss Farquhar. 5 copies.
    • Wm. Franklin, Esq.
    • Mrs. Franklin.
    • Mrs. Flower. 2 copies.
    • Mrs. Fisher, Upper Seymour Street.
    • Mrs. Farrer.
    • Miss Fector.
    • Miss A. C. Fryer, Cedars, Hammersmith.
    • Miss Jane Fryer.
    • Mrs. Farquhar.
    • Richard Franklin, Esq.
    • — Flood, Esq., Clement's Lane.
    • John Freeman, Esq , New Kent Road.
    • Mrs. Foreman, Upper Harley Street. 5 copies.
    • Francis Freeling, Esq., Bryanstone Square.
    • Miss Ferrier.
    • Mrs. Fenwick.
    • Edward Fletcher, Esq., Lime Grove, Putney.
    • Mrs. Fletcher.
    • M. A. Fletcher, Esq., Edinburgh.
    • J Fullerton, Esq. Edinburgh.
    • Miss Fawkland.
    • Captain Forrest, Montague Place.
    • Mrs. Forrest.
    • — Farquhar, Esq.
    • Mrs. Farquhar.
    • A Friend. 10 copies.
    • Mrs. Floyer, Stanford, Gloucestershire.
    • Miss Freeman.
    • Miss Fanshawe, Berkeley Square.
    • Miss Catherine Fanshawe.
    • Miss Elizabeth Fanshawe.
    • George Frere, Esq., Hampstead
    • Mrs. Frere, Downing Lodge, Cambridge.
    • Miss Fountayne, Popplewick, Nottinghamshire.
    • Mrs. Fountayne, Bath.
    • Mrs. Fordyce, Bath.
    • Mrs. Fitzgerald, Bath.
    • John Foster, Esq., Bread Street.
    • Mrs. Fielder, Bath.
    • Miss Fielder, Bath.
    • Wm. Fielder, Esq. jun., Bath. 2 copies.
    • Wm. Fielder, Esq., Blackburn. 2 copies.
    • Wm. Farrer, Esq., Bread Street.

    • xxiii
    • G. W. Finch, Esq., Lincoln's Inn Fields.
    • James Fyfe, Esq. 5 copies.
    • Mrs. Fairlie, Holms.
    • J. Fullerton, Esq., Glenorchard.
    • Mrs. Freeland.
    • Miss Freeland.
    • Kirkman Finlay, Esq. 20 copies.
    • Wm. Finlay, Esq., Trees. 2 copies.
    • Thos. Farrer, Esq.
    • Miss Frodsham.
    • J. B. Ferrers, Esq., Throgmorton Street.
    • A Friend. 2 copies.
    • Mrs. Wm. Fulton, Paisley.
    • Mrs. Fletcher, Castle Street, Edinburgh.
    • Miss Ferguson, Monkwood. 2 copies.
    • James Finlay, Esq., Glasgow.
    • John Finlay, Esq., Glasgow.
    • Wm. Finlay, Esq., Trees.
    • J. K. Finlay, Esq., Glasgow.
  • G.
    • Earl of Glasgow.
    • Countess of Glasgow.
    • Earl Gower.
    • Countess de Grey.
    • Countess of Gosford.
    • Right Hon. Lady Gwydir. 2 copies.
    • Right Hon the Dowager Lady Grantham.
    • Right Hon. Lady Grantham.
    • Lord Glenbervie
    • Lady Coffin Greenly, Tilly Court, Herefordshire.
    • Sir Alexander Gordon.
    • George Goodenough, Esq., Hertford Street.
    • Mrs. Goodenough.
    • Mrs. Gordon, Manchester Square. 10 copies.
    • Mrs. Gundry, Richmond.
    • Mrs. Graham.
    • Mrs. Green, Bedford Square.
    • Mrs. Greaves, Hampstead.
    • Allan Gilmour, Esq., Portland Place.
    • — Goring, Esq., Weston Park, Sussex.
    • Miss Goring.
    • Miss F. Goring.
    • Miss Gurney, Keswick.
    • John Glennie, Esq.

    • xxiv
    • J. G. Graeff, Esq. 10 copies.
    • Miss Gisborne.
    • Miss Gunning.
    • Henry Gosse, Esq.
    • Mrs. Gregory, Biggleswade.
    • S. Greaves, Esq.
    • Mrs. Darby Griffith, Padworth House.
    • — Gurney, Esq.
    • James Graham, Esq., Edinburgh.
    • Dr. Gillies.
    • The Rev. Dr. Gray.
    • Mrs. Gray, Quarry Bank, Manchester.
    • Miss Graham.
    • Rev. Wm. Garnier.
    • Mrs. Garnier.
    • G. B. Greenough, Esq.
    • Captain George Gooch. 5 copies.
    • James Gibson, Esq.
    • Dr. Graham, Professor of Botany, Edinburgh.
    • Mrs. C. Gurney, Bath.
    • Charles Greenway, Esq., Manchester.
    • — Guild, Esq., Glasgow.
    • John Gordon, Esq., Aitkin Head. 5 copies.
    • Miss Graham, Gairbraid. 5 copies.
    • Rev. Professor M'Gill, Glasgow.
    • Mrs. Glasgow, Mount Greening. 2 copies.
    • W. L. Gower, Esq. 3 copies.
    • Mrs. Henry Grant, Portman Square.
    • A Lady, by Mrs. Gundry.
    • William Graham, Esq.
    • Mrs. G. Grame, George's Square, Edinburgh.
    • H. Goldsmid, Esq.
    • George Grant, Esq., Russell Place, 2 copies.
    • Alexander Garden, Esquire. 5 copies.
    • Robert Grahame, Esq., Whitehill. 2 copies.
    • Mrs. Grahame.
    • Thomas Grahame, Esq. 2 copies.
  • H.
    • Countess of Harcourt.
    • Countess of Hopeton.
    • Earl of Hardwick. 2 copies.
    • Countess of Hardwick. 2 copies.
    • Viscountess Hampden. 2 copies.
    • Right Hon. Lady Holland.
    • Hon. Henry Howard. 5 copies.

    • xxv
    • Right Hon. Wm. Heygate, Lord Mayor.
    • Sir Henry Halford, Bart. P. C. P.
    • Hon. Lady Halford.
    • Hon. Lady Haselrige.
    • Hon. Mrs. Hopwood, Hopwood Hall, Lancashire.
    • Sir John Hope, Bart., Pinkie.
    • Sir John Hay, Bart., Hayston.
    • Lady Hamlyn.
    • Sir George Hewitt, Bart., Mamhead.
    • Mrs. Howley, London House. 5 copies.
    • Lady Hope, Carriden.
    • General Hughes.
    • Mrs. Hughan. 20 copies.
    • Mrs. Humphreys.
    • — Hall, Esq., St. James's Street. 5 copies.
    • Miss Helen Halkett.
    • — Hewett, Esq.
    • Dr. Holland.
    • S. Hoare, Esq., Hampstead Heath. 5 copies.
    • Mrs. Hoare.
    • Mrs. S. Hoare. 2 copies.
    • Capt. Hamilton.
    • Mrs. Hay. 5 copies.
    • S. C. Holland, Esq. 2 copies.
    • John Huldjo, Esq. 2 copies.
    • Miss Hunter.
    • Mrs. Hibbert, Lower Berkeley Street.
    • Mrs. Sampson Hanbury, Poles, Herts.
    • Henry Handley, Esq., M. P.
    • Col. Higgins, 3d. Guards.
    • — Harvey, Esq.
    • Miss Harper, Montague Square.
    • Mrs. Hest, Rester Mill, Cornwall.
    • Dr. Haviland.
    • Mrs. J. Hamilton, Cambridge.
    • Jeremiah Harman, Esq., Adam's Court, Broad Street.
    • Mrs. Harman.
    • Wm. Hunter, Esq., Sackville Street.
    • Mrs. Hamilton.
    • Mrs. M. Holland.
    • David Haliburton, Esq. 5 copies.
    • Mrs. Hankey, Bedford Square.
    • Miss Hankey.
    • Mrs. J. Hankey, Grosvenor Square. 2 copies.
    • Miss Hankey.
    • J. Haines, Esq., Hampstead.

    • xxvi
    • Mrs. Haines.
    • Rev. Dr. Haggett, Prebendary of Durham.
    • Mrs. Haggett.
    • Mrs. Hunter, Chester Street.
    • Henry Holland, Esq.
    • Dr. Hope, Edinburgh. 5 copies.
    • James Hope, Esq. 3 copies.
    • Mrs. Hunter, Thurstone.
    • Capt. Hunter, Edinburgh.
    • Miss Hunter, Edinburgh.
    • John Hawkins, Esq., Bognor Park.
    • Mrs. Holford, Hampstead
    • Mrs. Horseman.
    • W. H. Holmes, Esq.
    • Mrs. Hill, Broom, Worcestershire.
    • Miss Hill, Dennis.
    • Charles Hill, Esq.
    • Charles Hoare, Esq., Fleet Street.
    • Anthony Heaviside, Esq.
    • Capt. W. Heaviside.
    • Rev. Dr. Hay, Christ Church, Oxford.
    • Mrs. Hay.
    • Rev. Morgan Hughes. 2 copies.
    • Miss Holme, Wimpole Street.
    • Rev. H. Hutton, Colchester.
    • Rev. R. Hoblyn, Colchester.
    • Rev. C. Hewitt, Colchester.
    • James Halls, Esq., Colchester.
    • — Hook, Esq.
    • Mrs. Hamilton.
    • Miss Halliday.
    • Rev. W. J. Halliday.
    • Mr. Baron Hume.
    • Mrs. Edmund Hopkinson. 10 copies.
    • John Herschell, Esq. 2 copies.
    • George Halliday, Esq., St. James's Street.
    • John Hunter, Esq.
    • Henry Hallam, Esq., Wimpole Street. 5 copies.
    • Henry Hicks, Esq., Lease, Gloucestershire.
    • Miss Hunt, Exeter.
    • Miss F. Head, Ashfield, Devon.
    • Mrs. Harford, Blaise Castle, Bristol.
    • Mrs. Hooper, Abbots Ripton, Hants.
    • Jos. Hornby, Esq., Kirkham, Lancashire. 2 copies.
    • Wm. Hornby, Esq., Kirkham, Lancashire. 2 copies.
    • John Hornby, Esq., Blackburn. 10 copies.

    • xxvii
    • Chamberlain Hinchliff, Esq., Southwark.
    • Samuel Horrocks, Esq., Bread Street.
    • Henry Hurle, Esq., Bedford Row.
    • John Hinchman, Esq., Watling Street.
    • James Hunter, Esq., Highgate Hill.
    • Dr. Hutton, Calder Bank.
    • Mrs. Hutton.
    • Lawrence Hill, Esq., Glasgow. 3 copies.
    • Mrs. Henderson, Glasgow.
    • Miss Henderson, Glasgow.
    • Mrs. Horrocks.
    • Charles Hutchinson, Esq.
    • Wm. Hay, Esq., Hayfield.
    • Alexander Hamilton, Esq., Grange.
    • — Hamilton, Esq., Sundrum.
    • Mrs. Hamilton.
    • Mrs. Hamilton, jun.
    • A. West Hamilton, Esq. 2 copies.
    • Mrs. A. West Hamilton.
    • The Misses Hamilton. 2 copies.
    • — Hynd, Esq.
    • William Hunter, Esq., Glasgow. 5 copies.
    • J. G. Hamilton, Esq. 2 copies.
    • Mrs. Hindes.
    • E. P. M.
    • Miss Holford. 2 copies.
    • — Hudson, Esq.
    • Mrs. Hudson.
    • Thomson Hankey, Esq., Dalston.
    • Mrs. Thomson Hankey.
    • Mrs. H. Haynes.
    • Mrs. Hosier, Newlands.
    • Miss Hope, Hastings.
    • Mrs. Hort.
    • Henry Hay, Esq., Warren Street.
    • Thos. Hay, Esq., Warren Street.
    • Wm. Hunt, Esq., New Norfolk Street.
    • W. Hesaltine, Esq., and Friends. 20 copies.
    • Mrs. George Hibbert, Portland Place.
  • I. J.
    • Hon. Mrs. Irby.
    • Hon. Mrs. F. Irby.
    • Lady Inglish.
    • Mrs. Jordan, Finchley. 10 copies.
    • — Jameson, Esq., Lawrence Pountney Lane.

    • xxviii
    • Professor Jardine, Glasgow. 2 copies.
    • John Jardine, Esq., Edinburgh.
    • Henry Jardine, Esq., Edinburgh.
    • Miss Jardine, Edinburgh.
    • Wilson Jones, Esq., Stratford Green.
    • Rev. H. C. Jones, Stratford Green.
    • Mrs. H. C. Jones.
    • Mrs. J. Johnston, Birmingham.
    • Rev. Dr. Jenkyns, Master of Baliol Coll. Oxon.
    • Rev. F. Jenkyns, Oriel Coll.
    • Charles Johnson, Esq., Danson, Kent.
    • Mrs. Jekyll, Bath.
    • John Johnston, Esq., Scott's Yard. 5 copies.
    • John Johnston, Esq., jun. 3 copies.
    • Hugh Johnston, Esq. 3 copies.
    • John Jardine, Esq.
    • M. Jones, Esq., Duke Street, Manchester Square.
    • Rev. Evan James, Esq. Stepney.
    • James Innes, Esq. 2 copies.
    • R. H. Innes, Esq.
    • Miss Ingham.
    • Mrs. Ireland.
    • James M' Invray, Esq., Lade.
    • Mrs. M' Ilwham, Cairbrae.
    • Mrs. Ives, Catton.
    • Francis Jeffry, Esq., Edinburgh.
  • K.
    • The Hon. and Right Rev. the Lord Bishop of Kildare.
    • Lord Mark Kerr.
    • Lady Mark Kerr.
    • Lady Isabella Kerr.
    • Lady Isabella King, Bath.
    • N. Kirkland, Esq., Bennet Street
    • Mrs. Kenrick.
    • Nicholas Kerwan, Esq., Lime Street.
    • Miss Kindersley.
    • Kensington Book Society.
    • Mrs. Keate, Eton.
    • Mrs. Kennedy, Drumillan.
    • R. J. Kerr, Esq., Curzon Street.
    • Mrs. M. Keene, Cromer, Norfolk. 3 copies.
    • Mrs. Isabella Kipling, Queen Anne Street.
    • Miss Kelly, Custom House.
    • Miss Kelty, Cambridge.
    • William Kelly, Esq., Glasgow.

    • xxix
    • Mrs. King, Drum.
    • Miss Kelso, Dunkeith.
    • Mrs. Knox.
    • Miss Knox.
    • Mrs. Kett, Scathing, Norfolk.
    • William Kinsey, Esq., New Bond Street.
    • John Kenyon, Esq., Glasgow.
    • Miss Kilner, Stratford.
    • A. Keightley, Esq.
    • Mrs. King.
    • Col. Kingscote, Kingscote Park, Gloucestershire.
    • Mrs. Kingscote.
    • Rev. T. Keeble, Oriel College.
  • L.
    • Duke of Leinster.
    • Duchess of Leinster.
    • Marquis of Lothian.
    • Marquis of Londonderry. 5 copies.
    • Marchioness Dowager of Londonderry. 2 copies.
    • Marquis of Lansdowne.
    • Marchioness of Lansdowne.
    • Earl of Longford.
    • Countess of Longford.
    • Bishop of London. 5 copies.
    • Dowager Lady Langham.
    • Hon. Mrs. Lindsey, Balcarras.
    • Hon. Mrs. David Leslie.
    • The Hon. Mrs. Leeson, The Node, Herts.
    • Sir John Lubbock, Bart.
    • Lady Legard, Ulverston.
    • Sir Robert Liston.
    • Lady Liston.
    • Sir Thomas Lawrence, P. R. A.
    • Mrs. Lennard, Russell Place. 2 copies.
    • Mrs. John Lambe.
    • Miss Lambe.
    • Rev. P. J. Lambe.
    • Stephen Lushington, LL. D. M. P. 2 copies.
    • Mrs. Long, Manwell Hall, Herts.
    • — Locke, Esq.
    • Miss Locke.
    • James Lowndes, Esq. 5 copies.
    • A Lady. 5 copies.
    • A Lady. 2 copies.
    • William Leathley, Esq.

    • xxx
    • Mrs. Lockhart.
    • William Leckie, Esq.
    • Miss Lindsay.
    • Rev. Daniel Lysons.
    • Mrs. Lysons.
    • Capt. M. Lindsay.
    • Heneage Legge, Esq.
    • Miss Lloyd.
    • Hugh Leycester, Esq. 2 copies.
    • A Lady. 2 copies.
    • Charles Lawrence, Esq. Cirencester.
    • John Loch, Esq., Muswell Hill.
    • Mrs. Loch.
    • Miss Lee.
    • Mrs. Lawrence, Hadley Park.
    • Lympsfield Book Society.
    • Miss Lee.
    • Miss M. Lee.
    • Mrs. Loveday.
    • Mrs. Lyon.
    • Mrs. Long.
    • — Lemaistre, Esq.
    • Mrs. Lemaistre.
    • Miss Luttrell.
    • Miss Liell, Clent Grove.
    • Miss Mary Liell.
    • Rev. Dr. Loveday, Mag. Coll. Oxford.
    • Rev. Thomas Loveday, Mag. Coll. Oxford.
    • William Lewis, Esq., Brunswick Square. 5 copies.
    • L. Langton, Esq., Bedford Row. 5 copies.
    • J. Z. Langton, Esq., Bedford Row. 5 copies.
    • Miss E. Langton, Bedford Row.
    • J. J. Lobo, Esq., New London Street.
    • William Lloyd, Esq., Bread Street.
    • T. J. Lancaster, Esq., Cateaton Street.
    • Thomas N. Longman, Esq., Hampstead.
    • Mrs. Longman.
    • Miss Longman.
    • Mrs. Gen. Lochart, Glasgow.
    • Mrs. Jasper Lyon.
    • Miss Charlotte Liddell, Bath.
    • Walter Long, Esq.
    • Miss Lockier, Hendon.
    • Mrs. Lewis, Marlow.
    • James Lindsay, Esq.
    • Rev. Henry Lindsay.

    • xxxi
    • E. W. Lindo, Esq.
    • B. E. Lindo, Esq.
    • M. D. Lindo, Esq.
    • Emanuel Lousado, Esq.
    • Mrs. S. Levy.
    • Benjamin Lyon, Esq. 10 copies.
    • John Levein, Esq.
    • Charles Edward Long, Esq., Cavendish Square.
    • Henry Lawes Long, Esq., Cavendish Square.
  • M.
    • Countess Dowager of Morton.
    • Earl of Mansfield.
    • Viscountess Middleton.
    • Right Hon. Lady Montgomerie. 5 copies.
    • Lady Jane Montgomerie. 2 copies.
    • Lady Louisa Macdonald.
    • Lady Caroline Murray, Lower Grosvenor Street.
    • Sir William Maxwell, Bart. Calderwood.
    • Lady Maxwell, Calderwood.
    • Lady Maxwell, Pollock. 5 copies.
    • Sir Charles Morgan, Bart.
    • Lady Morgan.
    • Sir James Montgomerie, Bart. 4 copies.
    • Sir Archibald Murray, 3d. Guards.
    • Sir James M'Grigor. 3 copies.
    • Lady M'Grigor. 2 copies.
    • Mrs. Majendie, Palace, Bangor.
    • Mrs. Moody, Norton Street.
    • J. H. Merivale, Esq., Lincoln's Inn
    • Edward Marjoribanks, Esq. 2 copies.
    • J. Carrick Moore, Esq. 10 copies.
    • Mrs. Jane Moore, Cadogan Terrace. 5 copies.
    • Miss Mellish.
    • Wm. Malton, Esq.
    • R. Morris, Esq., Brunswick Square.
    • Miss Mascall.
    • John Mackenzie, Esq. 2 copies.
    • Thos. Masterman, Esq.
    • George Munro, Esq.
    • Mrs. Munro.
    • Miss Mordaunt.
    • Mrs. Macall.
    • Thos. Macall, Esq., Craighead.
    • Miss Moodie, Greenock.
    • Mrs. Mack, Glasgow.

    • xxxii
    • R. A. Mackay, Esq., Glasgow.
    • Professor Mylne, Glasgow.
    • Professor Millar, Glasgow.
    • George Mackintosh, Esq.
    • Mrs Mackintosh.
    • Miss Millar, Milheugh.
    • Miss Helen Millar, Milheugh.
    • Arch. Millar, Esq., Edinburgh.
    • Professor Muirhead, Glasgow.
    • Andrew Mitchell, Esq., Glasgow.
    • Wm. Middleton, Esq.
    • Alexander Millar, Esq.
    • Mrs. Daniel Maude. 2 copies.
    • Robert Morrice, Esq., Craig. 3 copies.
    • Miss Morrice.
    • Mrs. Morris, Kilmarnock.
    • Miss Murray, Abercairney.
    • Major Monteith. 5 copies.
    • Mrs. John Millar.
    • Jos. Marryatt, Esq.
    • Mrs. Jos. Marryatt.
    • S. Marryatt, Esq.
    • C. Marryatt, Esq.
    • Mrs. Meyrick.
    • Miss Middleton, Manchester Square.
    • Rev. John Marriott, Broad Clest, Devon.
    • John Shank More, Esq.
    • Dr. Macpherson, Aberdeen. 2 copies.
    • Major General Millar, R. A.
    • Robert Milligan, Esq. 5 copies.
    • Mrs. Milligan. 5 copies.
    • Mrs. Henry Milligan. 5 copies.
    • Miss Milligan. 5 copies.
    • Miss M. Milligan. 3 copies.
    • D. D. Milligan, Esq. 2 copies.
    • Wm. Milligan, Esq. 2d. Life Guards. 2 copies.
    • Dr. Maton.
    • General Marriott.
    • Miss Moody, Montague Square. 2 copies.
    • C. B. Manningham, Esq., Lincoln's Inn.
    • Mrs. Manningham, Upper Grosvenor Street.
    • Mrs. Mears, Little Bookham, Surry.
    • Mrs. Moutray.
    • Mrs. Macdonald. 2 copies.
    • Rev. R. Mayne.
    • Donald Maclean, Esq. 10 copies.

    • xxxiii
    • — Mieville, Esq.
    • Mrs. Mieville.
    • Colonel Mair, Deputy Governor of Fort George.
    • Mrs. Mulso, Hampstead.
    • Thos. Master, Esq., Abbey, Cirencester.
    • Miss Master.
    • Mrs. F. Mitchell, Upper Wimpole Street.
    • Thos. Maitland, Esq.
    • Dr. Maclagan, Edinburgh.
    • Mrs. W. Mackenzie, Edinburgh.
    • Mrs. George Mercer, Edinburgh.
    • Mrs. Mellish, Hampstead.
    • Graim Mercer, Esq., Mavisbank.
    • C. S. Monteith, Esq., Closeburn.
    • W. T. Money, Esq.
    • Mrs. Mowbray.
    • Mrs. E. Munday.
    • Miss Munday.
    • Miss Jane Mitchell.
    • Miss M. Mitchell.
    • John Morris, Esq.
    • Rev. Dr. Marlow, President of St. John's College, Oxford.
    • Mrs. Macbride, Magd. Hall, Oxford.
    • John Mills, Esq., Colchester.
    • Mrs. Matthewson, Hampstead.
    • John Mansfield, Esq.
    • James Moncrieff, Esq.
    • Charles Moir, Esq., Leckie.
    • C. A. Mackenzie, Esq. 2 copies.
    • G. W. Marriott, Esq., Queen Square.
    • Mrs. G. W. Marriott.
    • Dr. Miller, Exeter.
    • Miss Macbride, Bath.
    • Mrs. Maltby, Bath. 2 copies.
    • Wm. Maude, Esq., Blackburne.
    • Willoughby Montagu, Esq., R. A.
    • J. J. Machlachan, Esq., Kilchoan.
    • John Millar, Esq., Glasgow.
    • Mrs. Millar.
    • Miss Mure, Warriston.
    • Miss Helen Mure.
    • Miss Flora Mure.
    • John Macall, Esq., Ibron Hill.
    • John Morgan, Esq.
    • Wm. Morgan, Esq.
    • [F. P. Macauley, Esq. 2 copies].

      [The name and number of copies was added to printed text in contemporary manuscript hand. Ed.]

    • [Henry Maldon, Esq. 2 copies.]

      [The name and number of copies was added to printed text in contemporary manuscript hand. Ed.]

    • xxxiv
    • Jacob Montefiore, Esq.
    • Eliezer Montefiore, Esq.
    • Moses Montefiore, Esq
    • Horatio Montefiore, Esq.
    • A. L. Mocatta, Esq.
    • J. F. Maubert, Esq.
    • Henry Monteith, Esq., M. P. 10 copies.
    • Wm. Monteith, Esq. 5 copies.
    • James Monteith, Esq.
    • Robert Mee, Esq.
    • Mrs. Morris, Ampthill.
    • James M'Inray, Esq., of Lude.
    • Rev. M. Marsh, Winterslow
  • N.
    • The Right Hon. Sir John Nichol, M. P. &c.
    • Lady Nichol.
    • The Right Hon. Lady Sarah Napier.
    • Miss Napier.
    • Miss Emily Napier.
    • Mrs. Richard Napier.
    • Lieut. Col. George Napier. 4 copies.
    • Miss Sarah Napier.
    • Miss Cecilia Napier.
    • Admiral Nugent, Bryanstone Square.
    • Miss Nugent, Bryanstone Square.
    • Mrs. North.
    • Miss North. 10 copies.
    • Mrs. Nevinson, Alfred Place.
    • Mrs. Edward Nevinson, Hampstead.
    • Miss Neave, Salisbury.
    • Miss Newcome, Gresford.
    • Miss Noble, Foley Place.
    • Wm. Newton, Esq., Argyll Street. 2 copies.
    • Miss Newcome.
    • Miss Nutcombe, Exeter.
    • Mrs. Norris, Hughston House, Bucks.
    • James Norris, Esq.
  • O.
    • General Orr.
    • Mrs. Orr.
    • R. A. Oswald, Esq. 5 copies.
    • The Lady Lilias Oswald. 5 copies.
    • James Oswald, Esq., Shieldhall.
    • Rev. H. Oakley, London House.

    • xxxv
    • Edward Ogg, Esq.
    • Ambrose Obicini, Esq., Coleman Street.
    • J. H. Ohsly, Esq., Great St. Thomas the Apostle.
    • Miss Ogle.
    • Miss C. Ogle.
    • N. Ogle, Esq.
    • Mrs. Oglander, Ellisfield, Oxford. 5 copies.
    • Rev. Charles Ogilvie, Ball. Coll. Oxford.
    • J. A. G. Oliveira, Esq., Old Jewry.
    • Thos. Oldham, Esq., Bucklersbury.
    • Mrs. Orme, Fitzroy Square.
    • Miss Orme, Fitzroy Square.
    • Miss C. Orme, Fitzroy Square.
    • A. C. Orme, Esq., Fitzroy Square. 2 copies.
    • A friend, by A. C. Orme, Esq. 2 copies.
  • P.
    • Hon. Mr. Justice Park. 10 copies.
    • Hon. Mr. Pusey, Grosvenor Square. 10 copies.
    • Miss Pusey.
    • Miss Charlotte Pusey.
    • Sir Wm. Pepys, Bart. 10 copies.
    • Lady Pulteney.
    • Lady Pepys, Park Street.
    • Sir Charles Price, Bart.
    • Mrs. Ralph Price.
    • Admiral Sir Thos. Pakenham.
    • Lady Pakenham.
    • Lady Pocock.
    • Rev. Archdeacon Prosser. 3 copies.
    • Mrs. Prosser. 3 copies,
    • Mrs. Parry.
    • Miss Parry.
    • Miss Anne Parry.
    • Rev. Dr. Price, Prebendary of Durham.
    • J. Pocock, Esq.
    • Jasper Peck, Esq.
    • Mrs. Puget. 2 copies.
    • Miss Puget.
    • Miss Elizabeth Puget.
    • Miss Esther Puget.
    • Mrs. James Parke, Gower Street.
    • Dr. James Paterson.
    • Wm. Pratt, Esq. Jun. 2 copies.
    • John Parkin, Esq., Clements Lane.

    • xxxvi
    • Miss Powell, Camberwell.
    • John Pryce, Esq., Keppel Street.
    • Mrs. Plumer.
    • Miss Pruen.
    • G. P. B. Pollen, Esq., Mortlake.
    • Miss Pollen. 5 copies.
    • Robert Pott, Esq.
    • Mrs. Pott.
    • Arthur Pott, Esq.
    • Charles Pott, Esq.
    • Wm. Pott, Esq.
    • J. D. Phelps, Esq., Lincolns Inn.
    • Rev. J. Phelps.
    • Miss Phelps.
    • C. R. Pole, Esq.
    • Mrs. Charles Pole.
    • Miss Millicent Pole.
    • Wm. Pole, Esq.
    • James Pillans, Esq., Edinburgh.
    • Mrs. Powis, Brunswick House, Salop.
    • Miss Pritchard, Croft Lodge.
    • Miss Price.
    • Mrs. Perkins.
    • Miss Perkins.
    • Miss C. Perkins.
    • Wm. Porter, Esq., Mecklenburgh Place.
    • J. H. Petty, Esq.
    • Mrs. Parsons, Oxford.
    • Miss Penystons, Cornwall, Chipping Norton. 2 copies
    • Mrs. Paul.
    • Edward Parry, Esq., East India House.
    • Mrs. R. Prime, Walberton House.
    • Mrs. Prinn, Charlton Park.
    • Mrs. Potts, Chester.
    • E L. Percival, Esq.
    • Wm. Palmer, Esq., Berkley Square.
    • Thos. Plumer, Esq., Rolls House. 3 copies.
    • Mrs. Poole, Bath.
    • Edward Prosser, Esq., Lawrence Lane.
    • Wm. Peart, Esq., Lambourne Hall, Essex.
    • Samuel Prior, Esq., Commercial Sale Rooms.
    • Mrs. Pye, Rosehall.
    • Charles Parker, Esq.
    • Wm. Paterson, Esq., Green, Ayr.
    • James Porteus, Esq., Kilmarnock.
    • George Powney, Esq., Grosvenor Square.

    • xxxvii
    • Rev. Dr. Pitt, Christ Church, Oxford.
    • Mrs. L. Plumtree, Deanery, Gloucester.
    • W. Patrick, Esq., Edinburgh.
    • J. S. Pimentel, Esq.
  • R.
    • Duke of Richmond.
    • Duchess of Richmond.
    • Duke of Roxburgh
    • Duchess of Roxburgh. 2 copies.
    • Right Hon. Lady Rayleigh.
    • Hon. Miss Ryder, Bath.
    • Jonathan Raine, Esq., M. P.
    • Mrs. Esther Raine.
    • — Rundle, Esq.
    • Mrs. Rundle.
    • Thos. Ryder, Esq., Charter House
    • Mrs. Edward Ryder.
    • A. Reid, Esq., Russel Square
    • Mrs Reid.
    • Colin Robertson, Esq. 2 copies.
    • Thos. Rose, Esq., Park Place.
    • Mrs. Richards, Bedford Square.
    • Mrs. W. P. Richards, Guilford Street.
    • D. Ramsay, Esq., W. S., Edinburgh.
    • Miss Rogers, Highbury Terrace.
    • Alexander Riddell, Esq. 5 copies.
    • A. Robertson, Esq.
    • Miss Rhodes.
    • W. L. Rogers, Esq., Bedford Place.
    • W. N. Rule, Esq., Bedford Place.
    • J. H. Renny, Esq., Belgrave Place.
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    • xxxviii
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    • Mrs. Rucker.
    • Miss Routledge.
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    • xxxix
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    • Mrs. Spier.
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    • xl
    • Mrs. Smith, Tent Lodge.
    • Captain C. C. Smyth.
    • Mrs. Stables, Lower Brook Street.
    • Miss Stables.
    • Miss Sutton.
    • Rev. S. Smith, Bath.
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    • Wm. Stirling, Esq. 2 copies.
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    • The Miss Stirlings. 5 copies.
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    • [Miss Stewart, 5 copies.]

      [Name and number of copies added to printed text in contemporary manuscript hand. Ed.]

    • xli
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    • [James Thornton, Esq., 2 copies.]

      [Name and number of copies added to printed text in contemporary manuscript hand. Ed.]

    • xlii
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  • W.
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    • xliii
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    • Mrs. Watt, Heathfield. 2 copies.
    • James Watt, Esq., Aston Hall, Birmingham.
    • [Miss Ward]

      [Name added to printed text in contemporary manuscript hand. Ed.]

    • xliv
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  • Y.
    • — Yuile, Esq., Bedford Square.


    A DRAMA.




    NAY, smile not, lady, when I speak of witchcraft,
    And say that still there lurks amongst our glens
    Some touch of strange enchantment.—Mark that fragment,
    I mean that rough-hewn block of massive stone,
    Placed on the summit of this mountain pass,
    Commanding prospect wide o'er field and fell,
    And peopled village, and extended moorland,
    And the wide ocean and majestic Tay,
    And the far distant Grampians.—Do not deem it
    A loosened portion of the neighbouring rock,
    Detach'd by storm and thunder,—'twas the pedestal
    On which, in ancient times, a cross was rear'd,
    Carv'd o'er with words which foil'd philologists;
    And the events it did commemorate
    Were dark, remote, and undistinguishable,
    As were the mystic characters it bore.
    But, mark,—a wizard by a southern stream,


    Tuned but his magic harp to this wild theme,
    And, lo! the scene is hallow'd.—None shall pass,
    Now or in after days, beside that stone,
    But he shall have strange visions;—thoughts and words,
    That shake, or rouse, or thrill the human heart,
    Shall rush upon his memory when he hears
    The spirit-stirring name of this rude symbol,—
    Oblivious ages, at that simple spell,
    Shall render back their terrors with their woes,
    Alas! and with their crimes,—and the proud phantoms
    Shall move with step familiar to his eye,
    And accents which, once heard, the ear forgets not,
    Though ne'er again to list them.—Siddons, thine,
    Thou matchless Siddons! thrills upon our ear;
    And on our eye thy lofty brother's form
    Rises as Scotland's monarch.—But, to thee,
    Joanna, why to thee speak of such visions?
    Thine own wild wand can raise them.—
    Yet since thou wilt an idle tale of mine,
    Take one which scarcely is of worth enough
    To give or to withhold.—But time creeps on,
    Fancy grows colder as the silvery hair
    Tells the advancing winter of our life.
    But if it be of worth enough to please,
    That worth it owes to her who set the task,
    If otherwise, the fault rest with the author.



    SCENE.—The summit of a Rocky Pass, about two miles from the ancient Abbey of Lindores in Fife. In the centre is Mac Duff's Cross, an antique Monument; and at a small distance, on one side, a Chapel, with a lamp burning.
    Enter NINIAN and WALDHAVES, Monks of Lindores. —NINIAN crosses himself, and seems to recite his devotions.—WALDHAVES stands gazing on the prospect, as if in deep contemplation. NINIAN.
    HERE stands the cross, good brother, consecrated
    By the bold thane unto his patron saint
    Magridius, once a brother of our house.
    Canst thou not spare an ave or a creed?
    Or hath the steep ascent exhausted you?
    You trode it stoutly, though 'twas rough and toilsome.—

    WALDHAVES. I have trode a rougher—

    On the highland hills,
    Scarcely within our sea-girt province here,
    Unless upon the Lomonds or Bennarty.

    I spoke not of the literal path, good father,
    But of the road of life which I had travell'd,
    Ere I assumed this habit;—it was bounded,
    Hedged in, and limited by earthly prospects,
    As ours beneath was closed by dell and thicket.
    Here we see wide and far, and the broad sky,
    With wide horizon, opens full around,
    While earthly objects dwindle.—Brother Ninian,
    Fain would I hope that mental elevation
    Could raise me equally o'er worldly thoughts,
    And place me by so much the nearer heaven.—

    'Tis good morality.—But yet forget not,
    That though we look on heaven from this high eminence,
    Yet doth the Prince of all the airy space,
    Arch foe of man, possess the realms between.

    Most true, good brother; and men may be farther
    From the fair haven they aim at, even because
    They deem themselves secure on't.

    NINIAN (after a pause).
    You do gaze,
    Strangers are wont to do so—on the prospect.
    Yon is the Tay rolled down from highland hills,
    That rests his waves after so rude a race


    In the fair plains of Gowrie—westward yonder,
    Proud Stirling rises—yonder to the east,
    Dundee, the gift of God, and fair Montrose,
    And still more northward lie the hills—

    WALDHAVES. Of Edzell.

    NINIAN. How know you the towers of Edzell?

    WALDHAVES. I've heard of them.

    Then have you heard a tale,
    Which, when he tells, the peasant shakes his head,
    And shuns the mouldering and deserted walls.

    WALDHAVES. Why, and by whom deserted?

    Long the tale—
    Enough to say, that the last lord of Edzell,
    Bold Reynold Lindesay, had a wife, and found—

    Enough is said, indeed—for a weak woman;
    Aye, and a tempting fiend, lost paradise,
    When man was innocent.

    They fell at strife,


    Men say, on slight occasion that fierce Lindesay
    Did bend his sword against De Berkeley's breast,
    And that the lady threw herself between:
    That then De Berkeley dealt the Baron's death-wound.
    Enough, that from that time De Berkeley bore
    A spear in foreign wars;—and, it is said,
    He hath returned of late; and therefore, brother,
    The prior hath ordain'd our vigil here,
    To watch the privilege of the sanctuary,
    And, rights of Clan Mac Duff.—

    What rights are these?

    Most true! You are but newly come from Rome,
    And do not know our ancient usages.
    Know then, when fell Mac Beth beneath the arm
    Of the predestined knight, unborn of woman,
    A triple boon he ask'd, and thrice did Malcolm,
    Stooping the sceptre, which the thane restored,
    Assent to his request. And hence the rule,
    That first when Scotland's king assumes the crown,
    Mac Duff's descendant rings his brow with it:
    And hence, when Scotland's king calls forth his host,
    Mac Duff's descendant leads the van in battle;
    And last, in guerdon of the crown restored,
    Red with the blood of the usurping tyrant,


    The right was granted in succeeding time,
    That, if a kinsman of the thane of Fife
    Commit a slaughter on a sudden impulse,
    And fly for refuge to this Cross Mac Duff;
    He for his sake shall find it sanctuary;
    For here must the avenger's step be staid,
    And here the panting homicide find safety.

    And here a brother of your order watches,
    To see the custom of the place observed?—

    Even so;—such is our convent's holy right,
    Since Saint Magridius, blessed be his memory!
    Did by a vision warn the abbot Eadmer,—
    And chief we watch, when there is bickering
    Among the neighbouring nobles, as most likely
    From this return of Berkeley from abroad,
    Having the Lindesay's blood upon his hand.—

    WALDHAVES. The Lindesay then was loved among his friends?

    Honour'd and fear'd he was—but little loved:
    For even his bounty bore a show of sternness,
    And when his passions waked, he was a Sathan,
    For wrath and injury.

    How now, sir Priest—forgive me—I was dreaming
    Of an old baron, who did bear about him
    Some touch of your lord Louis.

    Lindesay's name, my brother,
    Indeed was Louis; and methinks beside
    That, as you spoke even now, he would have spoken.
    I brought him a petition from our convent:
    He granted straight, but in such tone and manner,
    By my good saint! I thought myself scarce safe
    Till Tay roll'd broad between us. I must now
    Unto the chapel—meanwhile the vigil's thine;
    And, at thy word, the hurrying fugitive,
    Should such arrive, must here find sanctuary;
    And, at thy word, the fury-paced avenger
    Must stop his bloody course—e'en as swoln Jordan
    Controll'd his waves, soon as they touch'd the feet
    Of those who bore the ark.

    WALDHAVES. Is this my charge?

    Even so;—and I am near, should chance require me.
    At midnight I relieve you on your watch,
    When we may taste together some refreshment.
    I have cared for 't, and for a flask of wine,


    There is no sin, so that we drink it not
    Until the midnight hour, when lauds have toll'd.
    Farewell awhile, and store of peace be with you.

    [Exit towards the Chapel. WALDHAVES.
    It is not with me, and alas! alas!
    I know not where to seek it. This monk's mind
    Is with his cloister mark'd, nor lacks more room.
    Its petty duties, formal ritual,
    Its humble pleasures, and its paltry troubles,
    Fill up his round of life. Even as some reptiles,
    They say, are moulded to the very shape,
    And all the angles of the rocky crevice,
    In which they live and die. But for myself,
    Hunted by passion to the narrow cell,
    Couching my tired limbs in its recesses,
    So ill-adapted am I to its limits,
    That every attitude is agony.
    How now! what brings him back?

    Re-enter NINIAN. NINIAN.
    Look to your watch, my brother;—horsemen come:
    I heard the tread when kneeling in the chapel.

    My thoughts have rapt me more than thy devotions.


    Else had I heard the tread of rushing horses
    Farther than thou could'st hear the sacring bell;
    But now in truth they come:—flight and pursuit
    Are sights I've been long strange to.—

    See how they strain adown the opposing hill;
    Yon grey steed bounding on the headlong path
    As on the level meadow; and the black,
    Urged by the rider with his naked sword,
    Stoops on his prey, as I have seen the falcon
    Dashing upon the heron.—Thou dost frown
    And clench thy hand, as if it grasp'd a weapon.

    'Tis but for shame to see one man fly thus
    While only one pursues him.—Coward, turn!—
    Turn thee, I say! thou art as stout as he,
    And well may'st match thy single sword with his.
    Shame, that a man should rein a steed like thee,
    Yet fear to turn his front against a foe:—
    I am ashamed to look on them.

    Yet look again,—they quit their horses now,
    Unfit for the rough path:—the fugitive
    Keeps the advantage still.

    I'll not believe that ever the bold thane


    Rear'd up his cross to be a sanctuary
    To the base coward, who shunn'd an equal combat.—
    How's this?—that look—that mien—my eyes grow dizzy.—

    He comes:—thou art a novice on this watch:—
    Brother, I'll take the word and speak to him.
    Let down thy cowl;—know that we spiritual champions
    Have honor to maintain, and must not seem
    To quail before the laity.

    [WALDHAVES lets down his cowl, and steps back. Enter MAURICE BERKELEY. NINIAN. Who art thou, stranger? speak thy name and purpose.

    I claim the privilege of Clan Mac Duff.
    My name is Maurice Berkeley, and my lineage
    Allies me nearly with the thane of Fife.

    NINIAN. Give us to know the cause of sanctuary?

    Let him shew it,
    Against whose violence I claim the privilege.

    Enter LINDESAY with his Sword drawn; he rushes at
    BERKELEY; NINIAN interposes. NINIAN.
    Peace in the name of Saint Magridius!
    Peace in our prior's name, and in the name
    Of that dear symbol which did purchase peace
    And good-will towards man! I do command thee
    To sheathe thy sword and stir no contest here.

    One charm I'll try first,
    To lure this craven from the enchanted circle
    Which he hath harbour'd in.—Hear you, De Berkeley,
    This is my brother's sword,—the hand it arms
    Is weapon'd to avenge a brother's death:—
    If thou had heart to step a furlong off
    And change three blows,—and for so short a space
    As these good men may say an avemary,
    So, heaven be good to me! I would forgive thee
    Thy deed and all its consequences.

    Were not my right hand fetter'd by the thought
    That slaying thee were but a double guilt
    In which to steep my soul, no bridegroom ever
    Stepp'd forth to trip a measure with his bride
    More joyfully than I, young man, would wait
    Upon your challenge.

    He quails and shuns to look upon my weapon,
    Yet boasts himself a Berkeley.

    Lindesay; and if there were no deeper cause
    For shunning thee than terror of thy weapon,
    That rock-hewn cross as soon should start and stir,
    Because a hunter-boy blew horn beneath it,
    As I for brag of thine.

    I charge you both, and in the name of heaven,
    Breathe no defiance on this sacred spot,
    Where christian men must bear them peacefully,
    On pain of the church-thunders.—Calmly tell
    Your cause of difference;—and lord Lindesay then
    Be first to speak them.

    Ask the blue welkin—ask the silver Tay,
    The northern Grampians—all know my wrongs;
    But ask not me to tell them while a villain,
    Who wrought them, stands and listens with a smile.—

    It is said——
    Since you refer us thus to general fame,
    That Berkeley slew thy brother, the lord Louis,
    In his own halls at Edzell—

    Aye, in his halls—
    In his own halls, good father, that's the word
    In his own halls he slew him, while the wine
    Pass'd on the board between!—The gallant thane,
    Who wreaked Mac Beth's inhospitable murder,
    Built not his cross to sanction deeds like these.

    Thou say'st I came a guest;—I came a victim—
    A destined victim, train'd on to the doom
    His frantic jealousy prepar'd for me:
    He fix'd a quarrel on me, and we fought.
    Can I forget the form that came between us,
    And perish'd by his sword?—'Twas then I fought
    For vengeance—until then I guarded life,
    But then I sought to take it, and prevail'd.

    Wretch! thou didst dishonor,
    And then didst slay him.

    There is a busy fiend tugs at my heart,
    But I will struggle with it.—Youthful knight,
    My heart is sick of war, my hand of slaughter;
    I come not to my lordships or my land,
    But seek just so much earth in some cold cloister
    As I may kneel on living, and when dead


    Which may suffice to cover me.—
    Forgive me that I caus'd your brother's death;
    And I forgive thee the injurious terms
    With which thou taxest me.——

    Take worse and blacker;—murderer—adulterer—
    Art thou not moved yet?—

    Do not press me further;
    The hunted stag, even when he seeks the thicket,
    If forc'd to stand at bay, grow dangerous!—
    Most true, thy brother perish'd by my hand,
    And if you term it murther, I will bear it.
    Thus far my patience can—but if thou brand
    The purity of yonder martyr'd saint,
    Whom thus my sword but poorly did avenge,
    With one injurious word, come to the valley,
    And I will show thee how it shall be answer'd.—

    This heat, lord Berkeley, doth but ill accord
    With thy late pious patience.—

    Father, forgive, and let me stand excused
    To Heaven and thee, if patience brooks no more.—
    I loved this lady fondly—truly loved;
    Loved her, and was beloved, ere yet her father


    Conferr'd her on another.—While she lived,
    Each thought of her was to my soul as hallowed
    As those I send to Heaven; and on her grave,
    Her bloody, early grave, while this poor hand
    Can hold a sword, shall no one cast a scorn.—

    Follow me:—I am glad there is one spur
    Can rouze thy sluggard metal.—

    Make then obeisance to the blessed cross,
    For it shall be on earth thy last devotion.—

    (They are going off.)
    WALDHAVES. (Rushing forward.)
    Madman, stand—
    Stay but one second,—answer but one question.
    There, Maurice Berkeley, can'st thou look upon
    That blessed sign, and swear thou'st spoken truth?—

    I swear by Heaven,
    And by the memory of that murder'd innocent,
    Each seeming charge against her was as false
    As Ermengarde was spotless.—Hear, each saint!
    Hear me, thou holy rood!—hear me from Heaven,
    Thou martyr'd excellence!—Hear me from penal fire,
    (For sure not yet thy guilt is expiated?)
    Stern ghost of her destroyer!——

    WALDHAVES. (Throws back his cowl.) He hears! he hears!—thy spell hath rais'd the dead.

    My brother!—and alive!—

    Alive, but yet, my Richard, dead to thee.—
    No tie of kindred binds me to the world:
    All were renounc'd, when with reviving life
    Came the desire to seek the sacred cloister.—
    Alas, in vain! for to that last retreat,
    Like to a pack of blood-hounds in full chace,
    My passions and my wrongs have followed me,
    Wrath and remorse—and to fill up the cry,
    Thou hast brought vengeance hither.—

    I but sought
    To do the act and duty of a brother

    I ceased to be so when I left the world.—
    But if he can forgive, as I forgive,
    God sends me here a brother in mine enemy,
    To pray for me, and with me.—If thou can'st,
    De Berkeley, give thy hand.—

    BERKELEY. (Gives his hand.)
    It is the will
    Of Heaven made manifest, in thy preservation,


    To save from further bloodshed; for, De Berkeley,
    The votary, Maurice, lays the title down.—
    Go to his halls, lord Richard, where a maiden,
    Kin to his blood, and daughter in affection,
    Heirs his broad lands.—If thou can'st love her, Lindesay,
    Woo her and be a speeder.




    HAIL, Fair Mead! hail, my forest glade!
    Thou green isle, girt around with shade!
    Woods, where of old with hound and horn
    The Norman hunter woke the morn:
    Where yet along the grassy lawn
    At dim of eve, and grey of dawn,
    The deer his silent way pursues,
    And prints his hoofs in treacherous dews:—
    And thou, my lone and little lake,
    Where the stag loves his thirst to slake,
    When summer on the gilded stream,
    Darts the broad sun-shine's noon-day beam!
    Hail, peaceful Lodge! my summer-seat,
    A wild, sequestered, lone retreat,
    Oer-shadow'd by a Druid oak
    That whilome felt the woodman's stroke,
    Then, as disdainful of the blow,
    Drove its gnarl'd roots more deep below,
    And proudlier to the tempest spread,
    An ampler girt, a broader head.


    There, underneath its brow that rears
    The burden of a thousand years,
    Beneath the arms whose branch of yore
    The quiver of the Norman bore,
    And heard the twanging of the yew
    When Harold's shaft like lightning flew;
    I trace the spots in grove and glade,
    Where in wild woods my childhood stray'd,
    When the full moon at magic hour
    Shot thro' the leaves a spangled show'r,
    That show'd upon the dewy blade
    Fresh rings that fairy feet betray'd
    Are these the haunts where stray'd the child,
    Thro' thorny brakes and thickets wild?
    How chang'd the scene! With fond delay,
    The woodman, lingering on his way,
    Asks the cold soil, and clay-bound earth,
    What magic hand has chang'd its birth,
    Or art—if art—in that recess
    Has tam'd the forest wilderness?
    Mary! thy hand hath touch'd that place,
    And o'er it cast an added grace;
    And where wild nature spread the wood,
    And o'er the darken'd solitude,
    The beech, the oak, the horn-beam sprung,
    And hollies spir'd the thorns among,


    Thy touch hath clear'd th' ungenial shade,
    And gladden'd with new suns the glade.
    Th' acacia, laurel, cypress, thine,
    And bow'rs that breathe of eglantine.
    It was thy hand that rear'd my grove,
    And lin'd with moss the seat I love,
    Entic'd the ivy-twine that weaves
    O'er the thatch'd roof its glossy leaves;
    Shap'd each gay plot that decks the scene,
    And wound my walk their flow'rs between:
    There, from Italia's fragrant shore,
    Gay shrubs to deck my dwelling bore;
    There bade the myrtle scent the gale,
    With sweets that breath'd on Arno's vale;
    Woo'd gentlest Zephyrs to awake
    The flow'rs that glow'd o'er Como's lake,
    And Britain's boldest suns illume
    The Pæstan rose's double bloom.——
    Sweet is it in such haunts to dwell,
    And bid life's troublous scenes farewell,
    Nursing in peaceful solitude
    High visions that the world exclude!
    If yet one spot—one resting place—
    Where Peace may build on earth her bow'r,
    And in its hallow'd haunt retrace
    A dream of Eden's blissful hour,


    'Tis in that sole, that sacred spot,
    Where innocence and woman dwell;
    'Tis in that heart, which wavering not,
    Believes what God has deign'd to tell;
    And anchoring its hope above,
    Passes o'er earth in simple love.
    Such, Mary! thy unsully'd heart,
    And such the spot, where'er thou art.—




    "THE most original and beautiful, perhaps, of all Schiller's poems, unequalled by any thing of Goethe's, is called 'The Song of the Bell,'— a varying irregular lyric strain. The casting of a bell is, in Germany, an event of solemnity and rejoicing. In the neighbourhood of the Hartz, and the other mine districts, you read formal announcements in the newspapers from bell-founders, that at a given time and spot a casting is to take place, to which they invite all their friends. An entertainment out of doors is prepared, and held with much festivity. Schiller, in a few short stanzas, forming a sort of chorus, describes the whole process of the melting, the casting, and the cooling of the bell, with a technical truth and a felicity of expression, in which the sound of the sharp sonorous rhymes and expressive epithets constantly forms an echo to the sense. Between these technical processes he breaks forth into the most beautiful episodaic pictures of the various scenes of life, with which the sounds of the bell are connected."

    Vivos voco. —Mortuos plango.—Fulgura frango.

    ∗ The above passage, in which the peculiar character of "The Bell of Schiller" is described with much taste and feeling, is extracted from a very entertaining publication of Mr. Dodd, "An Autumn near the Rhine."

    FAST immur'd within the earth,
    Fixt by fire the clay-mould stands,
    This day the Bell expects its birth;
    Courage, comrades! ply your hands!
    Hotly from the brow
    Must the sweat-drop flow:
    If by his work the master known,
    Yet—Heav'n must send the blessing down.


    The work we earnestly prepare,
    May well an earnest word demand:
    When cheering words attend our care,
    Gay the labour, brisk the hand.
    Then, let us weigh with deep reflection,
    What by more force must be achiev'd;
    And rightly scorn his mis-direction,
    Whose foresight ne'er his work conceiv'd.
    'Tis this, that human nature graces,
    This, gifted reason's destin'd aim,
    That in itself the spirit traces
    Whate'er the hand shall fitly frame.

    Billets of the fir-wood take,
    Every billet dry and sound;
    That flame on gather'd flame awake,
    And vault with fire the furnace round.
    Cast the copper in,
    Quick, due weight of tin,
    That the Bell's tenacious food,
    Rightly flow in order'd mood.

    What now within the earth's deep womb
    Our hands by help of fire prepare,
    Shall on yon turret mark our doom,
    And loudly to the world declare!


    There its aërial station keeping,
    Touch many an ear to latest time;
    Shall mingle with the mourner's weeping,
    And tune to holy choirs its chime.
    All that to earth-born sons below
    The changeful turns of fortune bring,
    The Bell from its metallic brow
    In warning sounds shall widely ring.

    Lo! I see white bubbles spring:—
    Well!—the molten masses flow.
    Haste, ashes of the salt-wort fling,
    Quick'ning the fusion deep below.
    Yet, from scoria free
    Must the mixture be,
    That from the metal, clean and clear,
    Its sound swell tuneful on the ear.

    Hark! 'tis the birth-day's festive ringing
    It welcomes the beloved child,
    Who now life's earliest way beginning,
    In sleep's soft arm lies meek and mild.
    As yet in time's dark lap repose,
    Life's sunshine lot, and shadowy woes,
    While tenderest cares of mothers born
    Watch o'er her infant's golden morn.


    The years like winged arrows fly:
    The stripling from the female hand
    Bursts into life all wild to roam;
    And wandering far o'er sea and land,
    Returns a stranger home.
    There, in her bloom divinely fair,
    An image beaming from the sky,
    With blushing cheek and modest air
    A virgin charms his eye.
    A nameless longing melts his heart,
    Far from his comrades' revels rude,
    While tears involuntary start,
    He strays in pathless solitude,—
    There, blushing, seeks alone her trace;
    And if a smile his suit approve,
    He seeks the prime of all the place,
    The fairest flow'r to deck his love.—
    Enchanting hope! thou sweet desire!
    Thou earliest love! thou golden time!
    Heav'n opens to thy glance of fire,
    The heart o'erflows with bliss sublime.
    Oh that it might eternal prove
    The vernal bloom of youthful love!

    See! the pipes are browning over!
    This little rod I inly dip;


    If coated there with glassy cover,
    Let not the time of fusion slip.
    Now, companions!—move,
    Now, the mixture prove.
    If each alike, in one design
    The brittle and the ductile join.

    For where strength with softness joins,
    Where force with tenderness combines,
    Firm the union, sweet the song.
    Thus, ere thou wed no more to part,
    Prove first if heart unite with heart:
    The dream is brief, repentance long.
    Sweet, 'mid the tresses of the bride,
    Blooms the virgin coronal,
    When merry bells ring far and wide
    Kind welcome to the festival
    Ah, that life's fairest festive day
    Fades with the blossom of our May!
    That when the veil and cestus fall,
    The sweet illusions vanish, all!—
    The passion,—it flies,
    The love must endure:
    The blossom,—it dies,
    The fruit must mature.


    Forth the husband must wend
    To the combat of life;
    Plunge in turmoil and strife.
    Must plant, and must plan;
    Gain get as he can.
    Hazard all, all importune,
    To woo and win fortune.
    Then streams, like a spring-flood, his wealth without measure,
    And his granaries groan with the weight of their treasure;
    And his farm-yards increase, and his mansion expands.

    Now the house-wife within
    Her course must begin;
    Nurse, mother, and wife
    Share the troubles of life:
    Discreetly severe
    Rule all in her sphere;
    Give each maiden employ,
    Watch each troublesome boy.
    With orderly care,
    Keep all in repair;
    And store without ceasing
    Her riches increasing:
    Fill her sweet-scented coffers; and, restlessly twirling,
    Set each spindle a spinning, each wheel ever whirling;


    And in smooth polish'd ward-robes range row above row,
    Her woollen all radiant, her linen all snow;
    And trim them, and pranck them, and fashion them ever,
    And rest—never.—

    The father now, with deep delight,
    From his proud seat's wide-seeing roof,
    Sums up the wealth that feasts his sight;
    The branching columns that support
    The loaded barns rang'd round the court;
    Granaries that with corn o'er-flow,
    And harvests billowing to and fro:
    And deems, fond man! that, propt on gain,
    Like pillars that the globe sustain,
    His house in glory shall withstand
    Misfortune's rough and ruthless hand.
    But—none—no mortal can detain
    Fate in adamantine chain.
    Mischance with hurried foot advances.

    'Tis time.—Now, now begin the fusion:
    The crevice now yields promise fair.
    Yet, pause—nor hasten the conclusion,
    Till Heav'n has heard our pious pray'r.
    Push the stopper out.
    Saints! watch the house about.


    Smoking in the handle's bow,
    Shoot the waves that darkly glow.—

    Beneficent the fire, whose flame
    The pow'r of man can watch and tame;
    When all, whate'er he forms and makes,
    From Heav'n's kind gift perfection takes.
    But terrible this gift of Heav'n,
    When bursting forth, its fetters riv'n,
    This free-born child of nature free
    Issues in random liberty.
    Woe—woe—when loose, without controul,
    Gathering fresh force to feed their ire,
    On thro' the populous city roll,
    Sheeted flames of living fire!
    The elements, unpitying, hate
    Whate'er the hands of man create.
    From the clouds
    Blessings flow,
    Rain streams below:
    From the clouds,
    Here and there,
    Lightnings glare.
    Heard you yon turret moan from high?
    Storm is nigh.
    Red as blood
    The Heav'n's suffusion;


    Not that, daylight's glowing flood.
    What confusion!
    Clouds of smoke
    The dark streets choke;
    Flaring mounts up higher and higher,
    Through lengthen'd streets, the pillar'd fire,
    Borne before the wild wind's ire.
    The flame as from a furnace streams,
    Glows the ether, crack the beams;
    Mothers wandering, children moaning,
    Cattle under ruins groaning;
    Windows clattering, pillars crushing,
    All for safety wildly rushing.
    This way, that way, twisting, turning,
    Midnight like the noonday burning,
    Hand to hand, a lengthen'd chain,
    How they strain!
    Fly the buckets; flood and fountain
    Burst in liquid arches mounting:
    The howling tempest on its course
    Gives to the flames resistless force:
    The fire-flood through each granary streams,
    And blazes o'er the rafter'd beams;
    And, as if the self-same hour
    Would earth and all its growth devour,
    To heav'n it rears its tow'ring flight,


    Giant high!
    Beneath its godlike strength man bows the head:
    And, as his treasures sink and sunder,
    Beholds the ruins round him spread,
    In idle wonder—
    Consum'd by flame.
    One waste the place:
    Nought but the storm there leaves a trace.
    In the wide casement's vacancy
    Dire horrors brood,
    And clouds that sweep aloft the sky
    Look on its solitude.

    One look—one last—
    On that earth-womb,
    His treasure's tomb:
    One lingering look—'tis o'er—'tis past—
    He grasps his staff—the world has room
    The raging flame not all has reft,
    One heartfelt solace yet is left.
    He numbers those belov'd the most,—
    Of those, so lov'd, not one is lost.

    All prosp'rous seems beneath the earth,
    Full and kindly fill'd the mould:


    But will the day that views its birth,
    What crowns our toil and art behold?
    If the fusion fail!—
    If the mould prove frail!—
    Ah! haply, while Hope's sunbeams glow,
    Fate has already wrought the woe!

    To the dark lap of holy earth
    We trust the unaccomplish'd deed:
    The sower fearless trusts his seed,
    In hope to gather in the birth
    At the blest time by heav'n decreed.
    And far more precious seed concealing,
    We mournful hide in earth's dark womb,
    In hope that God, the grave unsealing,
    Revive it, grac'd with brighter bloom.
    From the dome,
    Sad and slow,
    Tolls the Bell,
    The song of woe;—
    Its sad, its solemn, strokes attend
    A wand'rer to his journey's end.

    Ah! 'tis the dear one—'tis the wife!
    'Tis the belov'd, the loving mother!
    Who by the prince of darkness borne,
    From her fond husband's arms is torn,—


    Torn from each tender child away
    She bore him in her bloom of day,—
    Those who had grown upon her breast,
    By love—a mother's love—carest.
    Ah! the household's gentle band
    Is loos'd for ever,—ever more;
    She dwells within the shadowy land
    Whose fondness hung that household o'er.
    Now ceas'd her zealous occupation,
    None her kindness more shall prove;
    O'er that wide waste, that orphan station,
    A stranger rules devoid of love.

    While the Bell is cooling, rest,
    Rest from toil and trouble free;
    Each, as fits his fancy best,
    Sport like bird at liberty.
    Peeps a star in air,
    The man void of care
    At vesper chime from labor ceases:
    No hour the master's care releases.

    Quickly with unwearied paces
    The wand'rer in wild woods afar
    Seeks his household roof's embraces:
    Bleating, homeward draw the sheep:
    Herds and cows
    Sleek their hides, and broad their brows,


    Come back lowing,
    Each his wonted manger knowing.
    Charg'd with grain
    In rocks the wain,
    Harvest laden:
    With gay leaves,
    On the sheaves,
    Garlands lie;
    While to the dance the youthful mowers
    Briskly fly.
    Street and market hush their speaking;
    The householders, when day decays,
    Gather around their blissful blaze;
    And the town-gate closes creaking.
    Earth with clouds is darken'd over;
    Yet underneath his roof's safe cover,
    The peaceful burgher dreads not night,
    Which wakes the wicked with affright,
    While Law's keen eye ne'er rests its sight.

    Holy Order! rich in blessing;
    Heavenly daughter! whose caressing
    To social bonds free man endears:
    Thou, whose base the city rears;
    Thou, who from the wild and wood
    Call'st the unsocial savage brood,


    To roofs that bind the household tie,
    And sooth the soul with courtesy!
    Hail, Thou that weav'st the dearest band,
    The union of a Father-land!

    A thousand busy hands in motion
    Each to each its aid imparts,
    And in brotherly devotion
    Adds strength and grace to all the arts.
    Man and master, in their station,
    In Freedom's holy safeguard rest;
    And in joyful occupation
    Laugh to scorn the scorner's jest.
    Work!—'tis the burgher's exaltation,—
    A blessing rests on labor's head:
    Honor the king who rules the nation,
    Honor the hand that earns its bread.

    Holy Peace!
    Concord sweet!
    Remain, remain:
    O'er this region kindly reign.
    Never may that day arise
    When war's rough plund'rers shall assail!
    And violate this peaceful vale:
    Never may those lovely skies,


    Which roseate eve's soft colours faint
    Lovelily paint,
    View on the blissful village roof
    The battle-beacon flame aloof!

    Break me the mould: its due employment
    Now done, no more its aid we need.
    Let heart and eye in full enjoyment,
    On the well-formed image feed.
    Swing, the hammer swing,
    Till the cover spring.
    When the earth the Bell releases,
    The mould may split in thousand pieces.

    The master breaks the mould in pieces,
    And timely frees the precious charge;
    But woe—if, as the flame encreases,
    The glowing metal stream at large.
    Blind-raging with the roar of thunder,
    Forth from its riv'n cell it rushes;
    And as from hell-jaws burst asunder,
    Destruction with the fire-flood gushes.

    Where senseless force misrules at pleasure,
    No form comes forth in rule and measure—
    When nations burst the social band,
    Ill fares it with the ravag'd land.


    Ah! woe! when in the city's slumber
    By stealth a spark of fire gains force:
    Woe! when the mob's unfetter'd number
    Finds in itself its sole resource.
    Then—Uproar, to the bell-ropes springing,
    Spreads far and wide the dread alarm;
    And where Peace hail'd its joyful ringing,
    Its signal bids the city arm.

    "Freedom! Equality!"—all crying,
    The burgher arms for his defence;
    Through streets, through halls, this, that way flying,
    Fell Murder's bands their work commence.
    Wild women, like hyænas darting,
    Laughs mixed with groans, strange dread impart;
    While thrills the nerve, while blood is starting,
    The woman rends the quivering heart.

    No sanctity the bosom shielding,
    No decency, restraint, or shame,
    The wicked, as the good are yielding,
    To crime impunity proclaim.

    'Tis dire to rouse a lion sleeping,
    Terrific is the tiger's jaw;
    But there's a woe surpasses weeping,—
    'Tis savage man let loose from law:


    Woe!—who to him, the blind, the cruel,
    Lends the blest gift from heav'n brought down—
    It lights him not, but fires the fuel
    That turns to ashes land and town.

    Joy! joy to me, kind heav'n has giv'n:
    Lo! like a star of golden birth,
    The metal polish'd, smooth, and even,
    Comes from its coverture of earth.
    Lo! round its beauteous crown
    Sunlike radiance thrown
    And the coat of arms' gay burnish
    Shall to my skill new honor furnish.

    Come all! come all!
    Close your ranks, in order settle;
    Baptize we now the hallow'd metal:
    "Concordia!"—Such her name we call.
    To harmony, to heartfelt union,
    It gathers in the blest communion.
    Be this henceforward its vocation;
    For this I watch'd o'er its creation,
    That while our life goes lowly under,
    The Bell, 'mid yon blue heav'n's expansion,
    Should soar, the neighbour of the thunder,
    And border on the starry mansion.


    Its voice from yon aërial height
    Shall seem the music of the sphere,
    That rolling lauds its Maker's might,
    And leads along the crowned year:
    To solemn and eternal things
    Alone shall consecrate its chime,
    And hourly, as it swiftly swings,
    O'ertake the flying wing of time:
    Shall lend to Fate its iron tongue,
    Heartless itself, nor form'd to feel,
    Shall follow life's mix'd scenes among,
    Each turn of Fortune's fickle wheel—
    And, as its echo on the gale
    Dies off, though long and loud the tone,
    Shall teach that all on earth shall fail,
    All pass away—save God alone.
    Now, with the rope's unweary'd might,
    From its dark womb weigh up the Bell,
    That it may gain th' aërial height,
    And in the realm of Echo dwell.
    Draw! draw!—it swings;
    Hark! hark! it rings.
    Joy to this town, be heard around!
    Peace unto all, the Bell's first sound!




    TRIUMPHANT arch! that fill'st the sky
    When storms prepare to part,
    I ask not proud philosophy
    To teach me what thou art:—

    Still seem, as to my childhood's sight,
    A midway station given,
    For happy spirits to alight
    Betwixt the earth and heaven.

    Can all that optics teach unfold
    Thy form to please me so,
    As when I dreamt of gems and gold
    Hid in thy radiant bow?

    When science from creation's face
    Enchantment's veil withdraws,
    What lovely visions yield their place
    To cold material laws!


    And yet, fair bow! no fabling dreams,
    But words of the Most High,
    Have told why first thy robe of beams
    Was woven in the sky.

    When o'er the green undeluged earth
    Heaven's covenant thou did'st shine,
    How came the world's grey fathers forth
    To watch thy sacred sign!

    And when its yellow lustre smil'd
    O'er mountains yet untrod,
    Each mother held aloft her child
    To bless the bow of God.

    Methinks, thy jubilee to keep,
    The first-made anthem rang,
    On earth deliver'd from the deep,
    And the first poet sang.

    Nor ever shall the Muse's eye
    Unraptur'd greet thy beam:
    Theme of primeval prophecy!
    Be still the poet's theme.


    The earth to thee its incense yields,
    The lark thy welcome sings,
    When glitt'ring in the freshen'd fields
    The snowy mushroom springs.

    How glorious is thy girdle cast
    O'er mountain, tower, and town;
    Or mirror'd in the ocean vast,
    A thousand fathoms down!

    As fresh in yon horizon dark,
    As young thy beauties seem,
    As when the eagle from the ark
    First sported in thy beam.

    For faithful to its sacred page,
    Heaven still rebuilds thy span;
    Nor lets the type grow pale with age,
    That first spoke peace to man.




    WHEN hope lies dead within the heart,
    By secret sorrow long conceal'd,
    We shrink lest looks or words impart
    What may not be reveal'd.

    'Tis hard to smile when one could weep,
    To speak when one would silent be;
    To wake when one would wish to sleep,
    And wake to agony.

    Yet such the lot for thousands cast,
    Who wander in this world of care,
    And bend beneath the bitter blast,
    To save them from despair.

    But nature waits her sons to greet,
    Where disappointment cannot come;
    And time leads with unerring feet,
    The weary wanderer home.



    OH! Pow'r Supreme, that fill'st the whole
    Of wide creation's boundless space!
    The Life of life, the Soul of soul,
    Where shall we find thy dwelling-place?

    Is it in ether's boundless plains,
    Where radiant suns unnumber'd rise,
    To warm their planetary trains,
    And cheer with light far-distant skies?

    Above, below, and all around,
    Existence rises at thy call,
    And, wrapt in mystery profound,
    Thy works proclaim thee, Lord of all.

    On this small speck, our parent earth,
    How bounteously thy gifts are spread!
    Rich blessings here receive their birth
    From Intellect by Science led.

    Exploring land, and air, and sea,
    Bringing far-distant objects nigh;
    And in thy works adoring thee,
    Beneath thy own all-seeing eye.




    THE sun declines; his parting ray
    Shall bear the cheerful light away,
    And on the landscape close:
    Then will I seek the lonely vale,
    Where sober ev'ning's primrose pale,
    To greet the night-star, blows.

    Soft, melancholy bloom! to thee
    I turn with conscious sympathy;
    Like thee, my hour is come:
    When length'ning shadows slowly fade,
    Till, lost in universal shade,
    They sink beneath the tomb.

    By thee I'll sit, and inly muse
    What are the charms in life we lose
    When time demands our breath:
    Alas! the load of ling'ring age
    Has little that can hope engage,
    Or point the shaft of death.


    No! 'tis the pang alone to part
    From those we love, that rends the heart;
    That agony to save
    Some nameless pow'r in nature strives;
    Our fading hope in death revives,
    And blossoms on the grave.


    CASTLE, OCT. 13. 1821.


    SOMETIMES in youthful years,
    When in some ancient ruin I have stood,
    Alone and musing, till with quiet tears
    I felt my cheeks bedew'd,
    A melancholy thought hath made me grieve
    For this our age, and humbled me in mind,
    That it should pass away and leave
    No monuments behind.

    Not for themselves alone
    Our fathers lived; nor with a niggard hand
    Raised they the fabrics of enduring stone,
    Which yet adorn the land:
    Their piles, memorials of the mighty dead,
    Survive them still, majestic in decay;
    But ours are like ourselves, I said,
    The creatures of a day.


    With other feelings now,
    Lowther! have I beheld thy stately walls,
    Thy pinnacles, and broad embattled brow,
    And hospitable halls.
    The sun those wide spread battlements shall crest,
    And silent years unharming shall go by,
    Till centuries in their course invest
    Thy towers with sanctity.

    But thou the while shalt bear,
    To after times, an old and honour'd name,
    And to remote posterity declare,
    Thy founder's virtuous fame.
    Fair structure! worthy the triumphant age
    Of glorious England's opulence and power,
    Peace be thy lasting heritage,
    And happiness thy dower!




    NOT love, nor war, nor the tumultuous swell
    Of civil conflicts, nor the wrecks of change,
    And duty struggling with afflictions strange,
    Not these alone inspire the tuneful shell;
    But where untroubled peace and concord dwell,
    There also is the muse not loth to range,
    Watching the blue smoke of the elmy grange,
    Skyward ascending from the twilight dell.
    Meek aspirations please her lone endeavour,
    And sage content and placid melancholy;
    She loves to gaze upon a crystal river,
    Diaphanous, because it travels slowly:
    Soft is the music that would please for ever,
    The flower of sweetest smell is shy and lowly.




    A VOLANT tribe of bards on earth are found,
    Who, while the flatt'ring zephyrs round them play,
    On "coignes of vantage" hang their nests of clay,
    Work cunningly devis'd, and seeming sound;
    But quickly from its airy hold unbound
    By its own weight, or wash'd, or blown away
    With silent imperceptible decay.
    If man must build, admit him to thy ground,
    O Truth!—to work within the eternal ring,
    When the stars shine, or while day's purple eye
    Is gently closing with the flowers of spring;
    When even the motion of an angel's wing
    Would interrupt the intense tranquillity
    Of silent hills, and more than silent sky.


    TO MRS. FRY,


    HELP, Master, help!—we sink—our toil is vain—
    We perish—help!—the faint disciples cried:
    The Saviour rose and look'd upon the main,
    And lo! the billows at his word subside.

    But who is she, mid dungeons, chains, and cells?
    (Not yet th' Almighty Master's wonders cease;)
    Round her the storm of guilt and fury swells,
    And in His name she speaks till all is peace.




    AWAKE, thou lov'd strain! oh, again let me hear thee!
    Breathe o'er me again thy enchantment divine:
    'Tis silence,—'tis night,—no intruder is near me,
    To mock what for kingdoms I would not resign.
    Oh, pour o'er my heart all that soften'd emotion,
    No reason can know, and no language display;
    Receive my still spirit's surrender'd devotion,
    And charm the dull sense of existence away.

    Ye musings of tenderness, melt and deceive me!
    O pity and love! for your dreams I implore;
    And Thou, who art love and art pity, receive me,
    Great Father of light! whom I sigh to adore.
    Oh, welcome, ye forms in mild radiance descending,
    That whisper responsive, and smile as I gaze!
    Before the far throne, lo, the seraphs are bending;
    I hear their hosannas of rapture and praise.



  • HOPE.

  • NAY, sister, what hast thou to boast
    Of joy? a poor reciter thou,
    Whose happiest thought is but the ghost
    Of some past pleasure vanish'd now.
    When better things may not be found,
    By sad reflecting, weary men,
    They on thy records look around,
    Their only friend, and only then.

    Then on delight for ever fled
    They cast a melancholy view,
    Where, as on pictures of the dead,
    The likeness makes the sorrow true.
    But could'st thou from thy page efface
    What brings regret, remorse, or shame,
    Nor all our wandering steps retrace,
    Then mortals might endure thy name.


  • And what art thou, vain Hope? a cheat:
    For didst thou ever promise make,
    That either time did not defeat
    Or some intruding evil break?
    Or say that chance has prov'd thee true,
    The expected joy shall be thy own;
    No sooner comes the good in view,
    But Hope herself is lost and gone.

    Soon as the hop'd-for thing appears,
    That was with such delight pursued,
    Another aspect then it wears,
    And is no more the fancied good.
    So 'tis in dreams, men keenly chase
    A something lov'd, desir'd, caress'd;
    They overtake, and then embrace
    That which they loathe, despise, detest.

    True, sister, true! in every age
    Will men in thy delusions share;
    And thou a lasting war wilt wage
    With Wisdom's joy and Reason's care.
    Who comes to thee? the rash, the bold,
    The dreaming bard, the sighing youth:


    For what? for fame, for love, for gold,
    And they receive thy tales for truth.

    Emmas and Lauras at thy shrine
    Attend, and deem thy answers true,
    And, calling Hope a power divine,
    Their Corydons and Damons view.
    And girls at school, and boys at taw,
    Seduced by thy delusive skill,
    Think life is love, and love is law,
    And they may choose just whom they will.
  • HOPE.

  • Say is not mine the early hold
    On man? whose heart I make my own
    And, long e'er thy dull tale be told,
    I bear him forth to worlds unknown.
    Before the mind can trust to thee,
    And slowly gain thy heavy store,
    It travels far and wide with me,
    My worlds and wonders to explore.

    Thou lend'st him help, to read, to spell,
    His progress slow, his efforts mean:
    I take him in my realms to dwell,
    To win a throne, to wed a queen.


    How could he bear the pedant's frown,
    That frights the sad bewilder'd boy,
    Or hear such words as verb and noun,
    But for my tales of love and joy?

  • True, to thy fairy world he goes,
    And there his terms he idly keeps,
    Till Truth breaks in on his repose,
    And then for past neglect he weeps.
    What, if we grant the heart is thine
    Of rash and unreflecting youth,
    How is it in his life's decline,
    When truth is heard and only truth?

    On me the quiet few rely,
    For Memory's store is certain gain;
    For aid to thee the wretched fly,
    The poor resource of grief and pain.
    My friends like lawful traders deal
    With just accounts, with real views;
    But thine as losing gamesters feel,
    Who stake the more the more they lose.

  • HOPE.

  • And they are right, for thus employ'd
    They fall not to disease a prey;
    Thus every moment is enjoy'd,
    And 'tis a cheerful game they play.
    And tell me not they lose at last;
    Such loss is light, such care is vain,
    For if they hope till life be past,
    What hours for care or grief remain.

    You say the rash, the young, the bold,
    Are mine, and mine they are, 'tis true;
    But, sister, art thou sure the old
    And grave are not my subjects too?

    Struck by the palsy's powerful blow,
    By the hir'd hands of servants led,
    Cold, tottering, impotent, and slow,
    Borne to the board, and to the bed,
    Hear how the ancient trembler prays,
    Smit with the love of lingering here!
    "Hold yet my thread, flow on my days,
    "Nor let the last sad morn appear!"


    The sage physician feels my aid
    Most when he knows not what to do:
    I whisper then, "Be not afraid,
    "For I inspire thy patient too."

  • Vain of thy victories, thus misled
    Thy power I own; alas! I fear,
    It is this syren song I dread
    Which wretches long and die to hear.
    No ears are stopt, no limbs are bound,
    Impatient to thy coast they fly,
    And soon as heard thy witching sound,
    They rest, they sleep, they dream, they die.

    A poet once—the tribe are thine,
    But yet I would my counsel give,—
    And said, " 'Tis naught! the work decline:
    "Thou once hast fail'd, this will not live."
    Deeply he sighed, and thou wert by,
    To fan the half extinguish'd fire:
    "Try once again," thou saidst, "oh! try,
    "For now shall all the world admire."

  • HOPE.

  • And how, I pray, can this be wrong?
    The man has clear and certain gain;
    For when the world condemns his song,
    He can condemn the world again.
    Inspir'd by me, in strains sublime
    Shall many a gifted genius write,
    For mine is that bewitching rhyme
    That shall the wondering world delight.

  • Yes, thou hast numbers light and vain,
    And mayst, I grant, a poet boast;
    I cannot show so large a train,
    But I have one, and he an host.
  • HOPE.

  • Still, I'm the nurse of young desire,
    The fairy promiser of bliss:
    I am the good that all require
    In passing through a world like this.


  • Say, rather, thou'rt the glow-worm light,
    That mocks us with a faint display
    Of idle beams, that please the sight,
    But never serve to show the way.
  • HOPE.

  • Alas! but this will never end,
    'Tis like a grave old aunt's relation:
    I would that reason might attend,
    And terminate our disputation.

  • Obedient to your wish am I,
    And thus my sentiments disclose:
    Together you must live and die,
    Together must be friends or foes.

    For what is Hope, if Memory gives
    No aid, nor points her course aright?
    She then a useless trifler lives,
    And spends her strength in idle flight.


    And what from Memory's stores can rise
    That will for care and study pay?
    Unless upon that store relies
    The Hope that heav'nward wings her way?

    Be friends, and both to man be true;
    O'er all their better views preside;
    For Memory greatest good will do
    As Hope's director, strength, and guide.

    So shall ye both to mortals bring
    An equal good in Reason's scale;
    And Hope her sweetest song shall sing,
    When Memory tells her noblest tale.





    NOW cease the exulting strain!
    And bid the warbling lyre complain.
    Heave the soft sigh, and drop the tuneful tear,
    And mingle notes far other than of mirth,
    E'en with the song that greets the new-born year,
    Or hails the day that gave a monarch birth.
    That self-same sun, whose chariot wheels have roll'd,
    Thro' many a circling year, with glorious toil,
    Up to the axles in refulgent gold,
    And gems, and silk, and crape, and flowers, and foil;
    That self-same sun no longer dares
    Bequeath his honours to his heirs,
    And bid the dancing hours supply,
    As erst, with kindred pomp, his absence from the sky.

    For, ever at his lordly call
    Uprose the spangled night!
    Leading, in gorgeous splendour bright,
    The minuet and the ball.


    And balls each frolic hour may bring,
    That revels thro' the maddening spring,
    Shaking with hurried step the painted floor,
    But minuets are no more!

    No more the well-taught feet shall tread
    The figure of the mazy zed;
    The beau of other times shall mourn
    As gone, and never to return,
    The graceful bow, the curtsey low,
    The floating forms, that undulating glide,
    (Like anchor'd vessels on the swelling tide)
    That rise and sink, alternate, as they go,
    Now bent the knee, now lifted on the toe,
    The sidelong step that works its even way,
    The slow pas-grave, and slower balancé—
    Still with fix'd gaze he eyes the imagin'd fair,
    And turns the corner with an easy air.
    Not so his partner—from her 'tangled train
    To free her captive foot she strives in vain:
    Her 'tangled train the struggling captive holds
    (Like great Atrides) in its fatal folds:
    The laws of gallantry his aid demand,
    The laws of etiquette withhold his hand.
    Such pains, such pleasures, now alike are o'er,
    And beaux and etiquette shall soon exist no more.


    In their stead, behold advancing,
    Modern men and women dancing!
    Step and dress alike express,
    Above, below, from head to toe,
    Male and female awkwardness.
    Without a hoop, without a ruffle,
    One eternal jig and shuffle;
    Where's the air, and where's the gait,
    Where's the feather in the hat?
    Where's the frizz'd toupee, and where,
    Oh, where's the powder for their hair?
    Where are all their former graces?
    And where three-quarters of their faces?
    With half the forehead lost, and half the chin,
    We know not where they end, or where begin.

    Mark the pair whom favouring fortune
    At the envy'd top shall place—
    Humbly they the rest importune
    To vouchsafe a little space.

    Not the graceful arm to wave in,
    Or the silken robe expand;
    All superfluous action saving,
    Idly drops the lifeless hand.


    Her down-cast eye, the modest beauty
    Sends, as doubtful of their skill,
    To see if feet perform their duty,
    And their endless task fulfil;
    Footing, footing, footing, footing,
    Footing, footing, footing still.

    While the rest, in hedge-row state,
    All insensible to sound,
    With more than human patience wait,
    Like trees fast rooted in the ground:

    Not such as once, with sprightly motion,
    To distant music stirr'd their stumps,
    And tript, from Pelion to the ocean,
    Performing avenues and clumps;

    What time old Jason's ship, the Argo,
    Orpheus fiddling at the helm,
    From Colchis bore her golden cargo,
    Dancing o'er the azure main.

    But why recur to ancient story,
    Or balls of modern date?
    Be mine to trace the minuet's fate,
    And weep its fallen glory:


    To ask who rang the parting knell?
    If Vestris came the solemn dirge to hear?
    Genius of Valoüy, didst thou hover near?
    Shade of Lepicq! and spirit of Gondel!

    I saw their angry forms arise,
    Where wreaths of smoke involve the skies,
    Above St. James's steeple:
    I heard them curse our heavy heel,
    The Irish step, the Highland reel,
    And all the United People.
    To the dense air the curse, adhesive, clung,
    Repeated since by many a modish tongue,
    In words that may be said, but never shall be sung.

    ∗ "Go to the d—l and shake yourself,"—the name of a favorite country dance.

    What cause untimely urged the minuet's fate?
    Did war subvert the manners of the state?
    Did savage nations give the barbarous law,
    The Gaul Cisalpine, or the Gonoquaw?
    Its fall was destined to a peaceful land,
    A sportive pencil, and a courtly hand;
    They left a name that time itself might spare
    To grinding organs and the dancing bear.


    On Avon's banks, where sport and laugh
    Careless pleasure's sons and daughters,
    Where health the sick and aged quaff,
    From good king Bladud's healing waters;
    While Genius sketched, and Humour grouped,
    Then it sickened, then it drooped,
    Saddened with laughter, wasted with a sneer,
    And the long minuet shortened its career.
    With cadence slow, and solemn pace,
    Th' indignant mourner quits the place,
    For ever quits—no more to roam
    From proud Augusta's regal dome.
    Ah! not unhappy who securely rest
    Within the sacred precincts of a court;
    Who then their timid steps shall dare arrest?
    White wands shall guide them and gold sticks support.

    In vain—these eyes, with tears of horror wet,
    Read its death-warrant in the Court Gazette.
    "No ball to-night," Lord Chamberlain proclaims,
    "No ball to-night shall grace thy roof, St. James!"
    "No ball!" the Globe, the Sun, the Stars repeat,
    The morning paper, and the evening sheet:
    Thro' all the land the tragic news has spread,
    And all the land has mourn'd the minuet dead.
    So, power completes, but satire sketch'd the plan,
    And Cecil ends what Bunbury began.




    'TWAS in heaven pronounced, and 'twas muttered in hell,
    And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell:
    On the confines of earth 'twas permitted to rest,
    And the depths of the ocean its presence confest;
    'Twill be found in the sphere when 'tis riven asunder,
    Be seen in the lightning, and heard in the thunder.
    'Twas allotted to man with his earliest breath,
    Attends at his birth, and awaits him in death,
    Presides o'er his happiness, honor, and health,
    Is the prop of his house, and the end of his wealth.
    In the heaps of the miser 'tis hoarded with care,
    But is sure to be lost on his prodigal heir.
    It begins every hope, every wish it must bound,
    With the husbandman toils, and with monarchs is crown'd.
    Without it the soldier, the seaman may roam,
    But wo to the wretch who expels it from home!
    In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found,
    Nor e'en in the whirlwind of passion be drown'd.
    'Twill not soften the heart; but though deaf be the ear,
    It will make it acutely and instantly hear.
    Yet in shade let it rest like a delicate flower,
    Ah breathe on it softly—it dies in an hour.




    INSCRIB'D on many a learned page,
    In mystic characters and sage,
    Long time my first has stood;
    And though its golden age be past,
    In wooden walls it yet may last,
    Till cloth'd with flesh and blood.

    My second is a glorious prize
    For all who love their wondering eyes
    With curious sights to pamper;
    But 'tis a sight—which should they meet
    All' improviso in the street,
    Ye gods! how they would scamper!

    My tout's a sort of wandering throne,
    To woman limited alone,
    The Salique law reversing;
    But while th' imaginary queen
    Prepares to act this novel scene,
    Her royal part rehearsing,
    O'erturning her presumptuous plan,
    Up climbs the old usurper—man,
    And she jogs after as she can.



    AUGUST 1817.


    THE rising moon look'd clear and mild,
    In chasten'd tints of glowing eve,
    And bright the early morning smil'd;
    It flatter'd only to deceive!
    The clouds a closer tapestry weave,
    Still thickening towards the noon-tide hour;
    One chance remains for hope to give,
    O may it be the clearing shower!
    No:—fast the pattering rain-drops fall,
    On swelling Avon's troubled tide;
    To reach ere night their much-lov'd hall,
    Swift must the homeward travellers ride.
    To horse! if well or ill betide,
    If skies and fortune shine or lower,
    The hearts that fate could ne'er divide,
    Shall not be sever'd by a shower.


    But here how chang'd the lovely scene,
    No more the laughing corn-fields wave;
    Driven from their haunts of sunny green,
    The woodland's truant children save
    Their shuddering forms in hollow cave.
    The broad oaks which, in happier hour,
    Cool shade or friendly shelter gave,
    Dash from their roof a second shower.
    This pelting storm may be the last;
    Ah no! that clown who reads the sky,
    Shrinks from the hollow threat'ning blast,
    And raising a distrustful eye,
    Yields not one cheering prophecy.
    New signs of ill approach unheeded,
    That heavy cloud has travell'd by;
    But oh! another has succeeded!
    See where beneath yon crowded shed,
    The melancholy reapers stand,
    With folded arms and silent dread,
    A sickle in each idle hand.
    Pity, kind Heaven! the suffering band,
    Chase froward nature's frowns away,
    Bid active labour bless the land,
    And hail we this—the clearing day.


    Our home once gain'd, though nature lowers,
    Swoln to dark floods the silver streams,
    And noxious blasts and barbarous showers,
    Banish all soft poetic themes;
    With the brisk fire's benignant gleams,
    With kind salutes and warm embraces,
    That sunshine shall be ours which beams
    From loving hearts and happy faces.


    ['Tis sweet the gifts surveying]


    'TIS sweet the gifts surveying
    Of friends in absence dear,
    Tis sweet the sonnets playing,
    Which they have lov'd to hear;
    To trace the known resemblance,
    And gaze on every part,
    Each token of remembrance
    Restores them to the heart.

    The magic of affection
    Shall trace her sacred ring,
    And charm away dejection,
    And Hope's enchantment bring;
    Revive, in foulest weather,
    The calm domestic scene,
    And bring old friends together,
    Though oceans roar between.




    WHEN last we parted, thou wert young and fair,
    How beautiful let fond remembrance say!
    Alas! since then, old time has stol'n away
    Full thirty years, leaving my temples bare.—
    So has it perish'd like a thing of air,
    The dream of love and youth!—now both are grey,
    Yet still remembering that delightful day,
    Tho' time with his cold touch has blanch'd my hair,
    Tho' I have suffer'd many years of pain,
    Since then; tho' I did never think to live
    To hear that voice or see those eyes again,
    I can a sad, but cordial greeting give,
    And for thy welfare breathe as warm a pray'r,
    —As when I lov'd thee young and fair!




    REST, rest, afflicted spirit, quickly pass
    Thy hour of bitter suffering! Rest awaits thee,
    There, where, the load of weary life laid down,
    The peasant and the king repose together:
    There peaceful sleep, thy quiet grave bedew'd
    With tears of those who lov'd thee.—Not for thee,
    In the dark chambers of the nether world,
    Shall spectre kings rise from their burning thrones
    And point the vacant seat, and scoffing say,
    Art thou become like us? Oh not for thee;
    For thou hadst human feelings, and hast liv'd
    A man with men; and kindly charities,
    Even such as warm the cottage hearth, were thine.
    And therefore falls the tear from eyes not used
    To gaze on kings with admiration fond.
    And thou hast knelt at meek religion's shrine
    With no mock homage, and hast own'd her rights
    Sacred in every breast; and therefore rise,
    Affectionate, for thee, the orisons
    And mingled prayers, alike from vaulted domes,


    Whence the loud organ peals, and raftered roofs
    Of humbler worship.—Still remembering this,
    A nation's pity and a nation's love
    Linger beside thy couch, in this the day
    Of thy sad visitation, veiling faults
    Of erring judgment, and not will perverse.
    Yet, oh that thou hadst clos'd the wounds of war!
    That had been praise to suit a higher strain.
    Farewell the years roll'd down the gulf of time!
    Thy name has chronicled a long bright page
    Of England's story, and perhaps the babe
    Who opens, as thou closest thine, his eyes
    On this eventful world, when aged grown,
    Musing on times gone by, shall sigh and say,
    Shaking his thin grey hairs, whiten'd with grief,
    Our fathers' days were happy. Fare thee well!
    My thread of life has even run with thine
    For many a lustre, and thy closing day
    I contemplate, not mindless of my own,
    Nor to its call reluctant.


    TO MRS.——,


    EVEN as a cherish'd daughter leaves her home
    Blushing and breathing sweets; her home, where, nurs'd
    With fond attendance every morn and eve,
    She grew and flourish'd, and put forth her charms
    In virgin purity; and to that home
    From the polluted commerce of the world,
    Returns with faded charms, forlorn and sad,
    And soil'd and drooping locks—in such sad plight
    Send I your nurseling; breathing now no more
    Ambrosial sweets, nor lifting her proud stem,
    Rich with enamell'd flowers, to meet the gaze
    Of raptur'd florist, but return'd to lie
    Low in the earth; yet, when the genial Spring
    With new impulses thrills the swelling veins,
    The plant may bloom again—not so the maid.




    MOUNT, child of Morning, mount and sing,
    And gaily beat thy fluttering wing,
    And sound thy shrill alarms:
    Bath'd in the fountains of the dew
    Thy sense is keen, thy joys are new;
    The wide world opens to thy view,
    And spreads its earliest charms.

    Far shower'd around, the hill, the plain
    Catch the glad impulse of thy strain,
    And fling their veil aside;
    While warm with hope and rapturous joy
    Thy thrilling lay rings cheerily,
    Love swells its notes, and liberty,
    And youth's exulting pride.


    Thy little bosom knows no ill,
    No gloomy thought, no wayward will:
    'Tis sunshine all, and ease.
    Like thy own plumes along the sky,
    Thy tranquil days glide smoothly by;
    No track behind them as they fly
    Proclaims departed peace.

    'Twas thus my earliest hopes aspired,
    'Twas thus, with youthful ardour fired,
    I vainly thought to soar:
    To snatch from fate the dazzling prize,
    Beyond the beam of vulgar eyes.—
    —Alas! th' unbidden sigh will rise.
    Those days shall dawn no more!

    How glorious rose life's morning star!
    In bright procession round her car,
    How danced the heavenly train!
    Truth beckon'd from her radiant throne,
    And Fame held high her starry crown,
    While Hope and Love look'd smiling down,
    Nor bade my toils be vain.


    Too soon the fond illusion past;—
    Too gay, too bright, too pure to last,
    It melted from my gaze.
    And, narrowing with each coming year,
    Life's onward path grew dark and drear,
    While pride forbade the starting tear
    Would fall o'er happier days.

    Still o'er my soul, though changed and dead,
    One lingering, doubtful beam is shed;
    One ray not yet withdrawn;
    And still that twilight soft and dear,
    That tells of friends and former cheer,
    Half makes me fain to linger here,—
    Half hope a second dawn.

    Sing on! sing on! What heart so cold,
    When such a tale of joy is told,
    But needs must sympathize!
    As from some cherub of the sky
    I hail thy morning melody.—
    —Oh! could I mount with thee on high
    And share thy ecstasies!




    THE features speak the warmest heart,
    But not for me its ardour glows;
    In that soft blush I have no part,
    That mingles with her bosom's snows.

    In that dear drop I have no share,
    That trembles in her melting eye;
    Nor is my love the tender care
    That bids her heave that anxious sigh.

    Not fancy's happiest hours create
    Visions of rapture as divine,
    As the dear bliss that must await
    The man, whose soul is knit to thine.

    But oh! farewell this treach'rous theme,
    Which, tho' 'tis misery to forego,
    Yields but of joy one soothing dream,
    That grief like mine thou ne'er shalt know.



    Amor se vuvi ch'i torni al giogo antico.

    —P.2. C.2.


    AWAY, proud boy, away! thou canst not harm;
    Seize not thy unstrung bow, nor aim thv dart,
    Void is thy quiver, nerveless is thine arm,
    Vanish'd thy cruel empire o'er my heart:
    No more a mighty god
    Art thou, whose sov'reign nod
    To worlds can woes and terrors wild impart;
    No more I bend and weep before thy throne,
    And sigh my soul away, unheeded and alone.

    Hence, tyrant urchin, hence! and humbly lay
    At the cold foot of death thy broken bow;
    Death's iron hand has borne thy torch away,
    Death! mightier Death! proud victor, binds thee low.
    A feeble child thou art,
    And aim'st a pointless dart.
    Arm'd by despair, my bosom dares the blow!—
    Thy baby archery I laugh to scorn—
    Away! and leave me here, my liberty to mourn.


    Or, if once more thou wouldst me of thy train,
    Seek thou my treasure in the earth laid low;
    And if it be that thy unbounded reign
    O'er Heaven extends, and o'er th' abyss below,
    Burst thou the sacred tomb,
    That clasp'd in early bloom
    The form to which alone my soul could bow!
    Wrest thou from death the prize he bore away,
    And in her charms resume thy universal sway.

    Hang on that brow the same sad pensive weight,
    Then wake the smile that might awake the dead,
    Bright as the glittering beam of orient light
    Breaks o'er a weeping sky when storms are fled!
    And breathe those sounds again,
    Thrilling thro' every vein,
    Sounds that to thoughts of Heaven the fancy led,
    While the rapt soul hung fondly on each note,
    Which on the ear, when past, long sweetly seem'd to float.

    And those luxuriant locks with art controll'd,
    In glossy braids around her temples bind,
    Now in an envious net of twisted gold
    Be all their waving glories close confin'd;


    Now loose from every band,
    With sly and sportive hand
    Toss them in ringlets on the wanton wind,
    Then bind me, gazing, to thy car again,
    And I will kiss my bonds, and hug once more my chain.





    YE, who Britain's soldiers be,
    Freemen, children of the free,
    Who freely come at danger's call
    From shop and palace, cot and hall,
    And brace ye bravely up in warlike geer
    For all that ye hold dear!

    Blest in your hands be sword and spear!
    There is no banded Briton here
    On whom some fond mate hath not smil'd,
    Or hung in love some lisping child;
    Or aged parent, grasping his last stay
    With locks of honour'd grey.

    Such men behold with steady pride
    The threaten'd tempest gath'ring wide,
    And list, with onward forms inclin'd,
    To sound of foemen on the wind,
    And bravely act, 'mid the wild battle's roar,
    In scenes untried before.


    Let vet'rans boast, as well they may,
    Nerves steel'd in many a bloody day;
    The gen'rous heart, who takes his stand
    Upon his free and native land,
    Doth with the first sound of the hostile drum
    A fearless man become.

    Come then, ye hosts that madly pour
    From wave-toss'd floats upon our shore!
    If fell or gentle, false or true,
    Let those enquire who wish to sue:
    Nor fiend nor hero from a foreign strand
    Shall lord it in our land.

    Come then, ye hosts that madly pour
    From wave-toss'd floats upon our shore!
    An adverse wind or breezeless main,
    Lock'd in their ports our tars detain,
    To waste their wistful spirits, vainly keen,
    Else here ye had not been.

    Yet, ne'ertheless, in strong array,
    Prepare ye for a well-fought day.
    Let banners wave, and trumpets sound,
    And closing cohorts darken round,
    And the fierce onset raise its mingled roar,
    New sound on England's shore!


    Freemen, children of the free,
    Are brave alike on land or sea;
    And every rood of British ground,
    On which a hostile glave is found,
    Proves, under their firm tread and vig'rous stroke,
    A deck of royal oak.

    ∗ It was then frequently said, that our seamen excelled our soldiers.



    ∗ Near Mola di Gaeta, in the kingdom of Naples.

    IT was a well
    Of whitest marble, white as from the quarry;
    And richly wrought with many a high relief,
    Greek sculpture—in some earlier day perhaps
    A tomb, and honour'd with a hero's ashes.
    The water from the rock fill'd, overflow'd it;
    Then dash'd away, playing the prodigal,
    And soon was lost—stealing, unseen, unheard,
    Through the long grass, and round the twisted roots
    Of aged trees—discovering where it ran
    By the fresh verdure. Overcome with heat,
    I threw me down, admiring, as I lay,
    That shady nook, a singing-place for birds,
    That grove so intricate, so full of flowers,
    More than enough to please a maid a-Maying.

    The sun was down, a distant convent-bell
    Ringing the Angelus; and now approached
    The hour for stir and village gossip there,
    The hour Rebekah came, when from the well


    She drew with such alacrity to serve
    The stranger and his camels. Soon I heard
    Footsteps; and, lo, descending by a path
    Trodden for ages, many a nymph appear'd,
    Appear'd and vanish'd, bearing on her head
    Her earthen pitcher. It call'd up the day
    Ulysses landed there; and long I gaz'd,
    Like one awaking in a distant time.
    At length there came the loveliest of them all,
    Her little brother dancing down before her;
    And ever as he spoke, which he did ever,
    Turning and looking up in warmth of heart
    And brotherly affection. Stopping there,
    She join'd her rosy hands, and, filling them
    With the pure element, gave him to drink;
    And, while he quench'd his thirst, standing on tiptoe,
    Look'd down upon him with a sister's smile,
    Nor stirr'd till he had done—fix'd as a statue.

    Then hadst thou seen them as they stood, Canova,
    Thou hadst endow'd them with eternal youth;
    And they had evermore liv'd undivided,
    Winning all hearts—of all thy works the fairest!





    WHAT though I hear th' Agæan billows roar,
    And eye the deep where Persia's navy rode,
    What have I left except my native shore?
    What have I chang'd beyond my mere abode?
    The fancied future, aspirations high
    Which reason scarce could quell, th' upbraiding shame
    Of sloth 'midst busy crowds, the weak desire
    Of that ideal fev'rish want, a name,
    No longer tantalize the mental eye,
    When nought gives food to such tormenting fire.
    Yet, still the mournful memory of the past,
    Clouding my spirit, throws a deeper gloom
    Than e'en befits the scene, a nation's tomb,
    And that I feel thro' ev'ry clime must last.





    ONCE more, ye Pleiads of the Ionian deep,
    Welcome! in misty distance, 'midst the roar
    Of warring waves and winds, that fiercely sweep
    The giant barriers of the Locrian shore!
    The struggling beams of infant light ye shed,
    Seem lovelier far, tho' timorously bright,
    Oh! may they light the inevitable storm,
    And shine, e'er long, the morning star of Greece:
    Britannia! shield young Freedom's shrinking form;
    Protect in war, and educate in peace.
    Amidst the gloom which Othman's race has spread,
    The lengthen'd darkness of that wint'ry night,
    Welcome, ye Pleiads! may your orient ray
    Become the sun of Greece, the dawn of Day!




    HELLAS! farewell!—with anxious gaze I view,
    Lovely in tears, and injur'd as thou art,
    Thy summits melting in the distant blue,
    Fade from my eyes, but linger in my heart.
    Submissive, silent victim! dost thou feel
    The chains which gall thee? or has lengthen'd grief
    Numb'd hate and shame alike with hope and zeal,
    And brought insensibility's relief?
    Awake! adjur'd by ev'ry chief and sage
    Thou once could'st boast in many a meaner cause,
    And let the tame submission of an age,
    Like Nature's hush'd and scarcely rustling pause,
    Ere winds burst forth, foretell the approaching storm,
    When thou shalt grasp the spear, and raise thy prostrate form.





    Ωσ ποτε, παλικαρια να ζειτε οτα οτενα,
    Μοναχοι, οα λιονταρια, οταισ ραχαισ, οτα βουνα;
    Σπηλιαισ να κατοικειτε, να βλεπετε κλαδια;
    Να φευγετ απ τον κοσμον για την πικρη σκλαβια;

    MS. Song of Riga.


    'TIS now the fourth revolving age,
    Since Hellas bow'd beneath the rage
    Of Othman's stormy sway;
    Whose deep'ning gloom and horror spread
    Till all the light of life was fled,
    And quench'd each mental ray.
    Four ages beat the heavy shower,
    And flash'd those forked bolts of power,
    And howl'd that hollow blast;
    Whate'er could bend, or blight, or chill,
    Unnerve her frame, relax her will,
    Redoubled fierce and fast,


    Till suffering shed this alter'd hue
    O'er features sad, yet sweet to view,
    And blanch'd her blooming cheek.
    Still, tears that gather dare not start,
    Tho' sighs represt should burst her heart,
    She lies despis'd and weak.
    Have sages lived, and heroes died,
    Hellas, to swell a Scythian's pride?
    Not guilt, yet shame is thine.
    I mark the Moslem mute and strong,
    And must I hear the Athenian's song
    O'er bowls of Zian wine,
    Convivial threats, or plaintive strains,
    When arms, if he would burst his chains,
    Should strike,—not lips repine?
    If liberty can e'er be bought
    By words, let ancient wisdom's thought
    Prepare young valour's deed;
    Or, if ye will not wake the fires
    That warm'd of yore your glorious sires,
    And learn like them to bleed,
    Imbibe the draught of moral health,
    Collect and store the mental wealth,
    The knowledge which is power;
    Prepare, while slavery's stillness shows
    The tempest brooding e'er it blows,—
    Prepare to meet the hour.


    [For arms alone, imbrued in blood,]

    For arms alone, imbrued in blood,
    And fleets, that sweep the subject flood,
    Ne'er made a nation great:
    Fingers that wake the living lyre,
    And tongues that Phoebus tips with fire
    More nobly deck a state.
    Of all, whom once the o'erflowing North,
    Or Scythia pour'd in torrents forth,
    What trace remains behind?
    Are Gallia's sons, because they bled
    To heap the groaning earth with dead,
    Endear'd to human kind?
    Renown, like this, the deadly skill
    And burning thirst to curse and kill,
    Is mere pre-eminence in ill;
    But liberty defended well,
    Where freemen fought, and tyrants fell,
    Confers a right to fame.
    Hellas! if virtue, once thy boast,
    Has left for aye this rugged coast,
    Assume some meaner name.
    If not—awake!—From Corfu's height
    To far Cythera, Freedom's light,
    Hope's heavenly arch, is seen
    Mingling its seven harmonious tints,
    That pledge of moral sunshine prints,
    Heaven's blue and ocean's green.


    Clouded no more by mists of sorrow,
    Those blended hues of beauty borrow
    From Albion's sun their birth;
    Amidst them smiles the rocky isle,
    Where science turns a fostering smile,
    Ithaca's sacred earth,
    Now dear from Homer's magic name;
    But soon from Græcia's orient fame
    And liberty and worth.

    ∗ The Greek revolution has now checked the immediate progress of the university, of which Lord Guilford was, in 1819, appointed chancellor.



    Ελευθερουτε πατριδ, ελευθερουτε δε
    Παιδασ, γυναικασ, θεων τε πατρωων εδη,
    Θηκασ τε προγονων νυν υπερ παντων αγων.

    (ÆSCHYLI Persæ)


    GRECIANS! ye know what spot,
    Decides to-day your lot—
    Again must see
    Blood wash away our blot.

    The Lord has brought the spoil,
    The victim to our toil—
    What priest can falter
    At Freedom's altar,
    This blest, this hallow'd soil?


    Now we have known the worst,
    Retreat were doubly curst;
    The life it saves
    May tempt those slaves,—
    Not Greeks, whose bonds are burst.

    Let servile Dacia woo
    The Northern Tartar's crew—
    Alone our band
    On Grecian land
    Can keep the swords it drew.

    Tho' Hellas, roused from sleep,
    Resumes her native deep,
    On earth the foe
    Must crouch as low,
    Or Moslem matrons weep.

    The tyrant's die is cast—
    Greeks! swear it by the past,—
    The present hour
    Which brings you power,—
    The future bright at last.


    Swear, since our patriarch's corse
    Was freedom's gory source,
    New wrongs endured,
    Revenge secured,
    Shall nerve your country's force.

    Our country! would ye change her,
    Tho' lured and left to danger,
    For all the smiles
    The Seven Isles
    Boast from the ambiguous stranger?

    St. Michael's diamond rays
    Outshine not patriot's praise,
    Unless that star
    Displayed more far
    "The pledge of happier days."

    Look at our glorious sky!—
    A dome for those who die;
    Before we quail,
    Yon sun shall fail,
    Which lights that canopy.


    But, words for such as need 'em,
    Rappors for those who read 'em—
    Our foe, the Turk!
    Victory, our work!
    On, for the Cross and Freedom!

    ∗ "Auspicium melioris ævi," the motto of the new Anglo-Grecian order of St. Michael and St. George.




    Παιαν εφυμνουν σεμνον Ελληνεσ τοτε.

    (ÆSCHYLI Persæ.)


    THE Monarchs of Europe, who prattle of peace,
    Shall cease, from this night, to calumniate Greece,
    The Moslems repent that they roused her to ire,
    And shrink, as their forefathers shrunk, from her fire.

    Did they deem their volcano of iron and oak
    Breathed thunder and lightning, or rattle and smoke?
    That Leviathan floated in slumber like death,
    For our Galiongees were her life and her breath.

    ∗ Greek sailors.

    Tho' she spread, like the roc, her white wings to the wind,
    Yet "the hares of the islands" would leave her behind;
    Tho' she pour'd, like the Hydra, from sulphurous throats,
    A hailstorm of iron, it touch'd not our boats.


    Psynots, Spezzians, and Hydriotes, nursed on the waves,
    Beat Rumeli's gardeners and Tripoli's slaves;
    They are careless to live, we are ready to die,
    And their hearts are benumb'd, while our pulses beat high.

    Bostangis (guards of the Sultan), literally gardeners, embarked in the scarcity of seamen.

    This Chesme is Grecian—the eagle no more
    Spreads imperial wings o'er Anadoli's shore;
    But the daughter of freedom has answered our cry,
    And her parent—? we gaze where yon bright streamers fly.

    † Where the Turkish fleet, under Jaffer Bey, was burnt by the Russians.

    Can those bosoms of Britain be cold to the glow,
    Which we feel now our country has struck the death blow?
    Ah! no—from their mast see our banner unfurl'd,
    With the flag that protected and rescued the world.

    Then scorn'd be the tale which the Scythian has told,
    That Britannia alone would be selfish and cold;
    Her Ionian beacon, no Pharos to save,
    But a death-light that hovers o'er Liberty's grave.


    Oh! blest be the morn's breath, and that glow o'er the skies,
    Which heralds the day—Sun of glory, arise!
    Tho' we shrunk, while enslaved, as in shame from thy light,
    Now thy beams cannot glitter too gloriously bright

    On the wrecks of the Moslem which float down the tide,
    On Græcia's deliverance, and vengeance, and pride;—
    Yet, oh God of our fathers, if Græcia is free,
    Be the blessing to us, but the glory to Thee!




    TIME, the Dawn of the Day.—SCENE, Cape Mastic, in Scio.


    HAIL! once again, great fount of life, and light,
    Hail, holy symbol of a holier source!
    Thou shinest forth unalterably bright,
    Thou risest still to run thy destin'd course;

    Alone in beauty—all around is changed—
    No turrets brighten in thy kindling ray;
    The vale o'er which our eyes delighted ranged,
    No longer gaily hails the Lord of day.

    Tho' carnage taint the citron's vernal breath,
    He shines on Scio, now a nation's grave,
    Whose latest harvest was a crop of death,
    When Moslem sabres mowed her young and brave.

    In vain spring clothes the mastic's fragrant bough,
    Dances no more will sweep those orange bowers—
    Brave youths, and beauteous maids, where are ye now?
    These in the grave, and those in Stambol's towers.


    Yon radiant sun, this green and bursting spring,
    Make us more deeply feel our country's woe—
    Oh! may their Great Creator deign to bring
    Help to his flock, and lay the oppressor low.

    We murmur not—if 'tis thy will to chasten,
    Grant us but strength to bear a parent's rod—
    If we have borne sufficient sorrow, hasten
    To whelm our foes and thine, Almighty God!

  • Hark! the Turkish thunders roar
    Down the Anatolian shore,
    From a hundred brazen throats,
    Where the Capoudana floats;
    Græcia's volley feebly rattles
    Save our country, God of battles!
    Let the oppressor feel thine ire;
    Speak in thunder, smite with fire.
    Grecians! think with rage and pride—
    Tumbaz lives and Lambro died!

    ∗ The guns of the Capoudana, or flag-ship, were of three times the calibre of the Greek.

    † The Greek admiral, son-in-law of Bobolina, the Artemisia of Psyra.

    ‡ Lambro Cauziani, the Greek naval hero of 1790.


    Rights to gain, and wrongs to pay,
    Consecrate this awful day.
    Hark! what wild and fearful yell,
    Broke from out that floating hell;
    Hark! that crash—'twas Freedom spoke,
    Bursting Græcia's iron yoke.
    Kara's caick ploughs the water,
    Choaked with corses, red with slaughter.
    Burning fragments strew his path,—
    Can he scape the avenger's wrath?

    ∗ The destroyer of Scio.

    Yes, the Moslems gain the strand,
    Bearing him who smote our land.
    Wrath and pride were on his brow;
    Pain and grief are painted now.
    Costliest furs adorn'd his vest,
    Diamonds beam'd around his crest.—
    Now he lies in mean attire,
    Drench'd in gore, and singed by fire.
    Turban'd Odas round him swept,
    Scio's offspring vainly wept;
    Now, in turn, let Moslems weep,
    O'er their Pasha's death-like sleep.

    † Companies of Janizaries.


    Aged Sciotes yet remain,
    Glad to greet that chief again.
    Now Kara Aly gasps for breath,
    Aged eyes devour his death;
    Aged ears enraptured hear
    Groans that make even dæmons fear.
    Scio lies in ruin low,
    Nothing now can work us woe;
    Kara's corse is at our feet,
    Life has nothing left so sweet.
    Moslems! we alone remain,
    Saved by age from slavery's chain:
    Wither'd frames and hearts survive,
    Spared to see your chief arrive,—
    Female eyes can gaze on death
    When a tyrant gasps for breath;
    Female ears unmoved drink,
    Groans that make the dæmons shrink,
    While the life-blood ebbs away,
    And Satan waits to claim his prey;
    Snatch'd from life, and pride, and power,
    Thus we barb the parting hour.
    Be each Moslem fiend or man,
    Thus we brave his ataghan.—

    ∗ Three hundred ultimately on the island, out of 160,000.


    Fate can deal no heavier blow,
    Than this circling waste of woe;
    Earth will yield no sight so sweet,
    As the wretch beneath our feet.
    Nought to embitter life remain'd,
    When those dregs of grief were drain'd:
    Now, this draught of vengeance tasted,
    Life and thought alike are wasted;
    Greece may triumph, Freedom smile—
    Can her touch revive our isle?
    Mahmoud's gory throne be shaken—
    But can victory's pæans waken
    Livid limbs and glazing eye,
    Where our sons and fathers lie?
    Can they burst each dongeon keep,
    Where our daughters vainly weep?
    Fatal ties—affection plighted,—
    Blossoms scarcely blown—and blighted.

    NOTE.—The striking connection between the crimes and the sufferings of Kara Bey, the first of the three Captain Pachas, who have already perished in the righteous contest of Greece, is no way exaggerated.




    "GIVE me, to bless domestic life,
    With social ease, secure from strife,
    (Cries every fellow of a college)
    A wife, not overstock'd with knowledge."
    This, ev'ry fool who loves to quote,
    What, parrot-like, he learns by rote,
    And ev'ry coxcomb, whose pretence
    To wisdom, marks his want of sense,
    And all good housewives skill'd in darning,
    Who rail with much contempt at larning;
    And all who place their greatest good in
    The composition of a pudding,
    Repeat, with such triumphant air,
    Such deep sagacity, you'd swear
    That knowledge, among womankind,
    Was deadliest poison to the mind;
    A crime, which, (venial if conceal'd,
    Like theft at Sparta,) when reveal'd
    The guilty stamps with such disgrace,
    No culprit dares to show her face.


    But tell me, you, who dared despise
    Such vulgar maxims, who, from eyes
    Which well might grace the loveliest fair,
    Turn'd not because bright sense beam'd there;
    Tell me, through all these thirteen years,
    Through varying scenes of hopes and fears,
    Could ignorance more faithful prove?
    Could folly's self more warmly love?
    Then long may this auspicious morn,
    At each still happier year's return,
    Tell, what thy sweet experience shows,
    That head and heart are friends, not foes.




    THOU last pale relic from yon widow'd tree,
    Hovering awhile in air, as if to leave
    Thy native sprig reluctant, how I grieve,
    And heave the sigh of kindred sympathy,

    That thou art fall'n!—for I too whilom play'd
    Upon the topmost bough of youth's gay spring;
    Have sported blithe on summer's golden wing;
    And now I see my fleeting autumn fade.

    Yet, "sear and yellow leaf," though thou and I
    Thus far resemble, and this frame, like thee,
    In the cold silent ground be doom'd to lie,
    Thou never more will climb thy parent tree;

    But I, through faith in my Redeemer, trust,
    That I shall rise again, ev'n from the dust.




    CHARM'D by the patriot muse of Flodden Field,
    My country's dearer claims the while forgot,
    I almost wish'd that Surry's host might yield,
    And (pardon England) long'd to be a Scot.

    For torpid is the heart that doth not feel,
    As he directs, the poet's powerful spell,
    When heaven-born genius fires his patriot zeal,
    And bids him sing so sweetly and so well.

    And highly too it crown'd my fond desire,
    In this long barren dearth of Southern song,
    To hear once more proud Ettrick's living lyre,
    Each glowing chord's harmonious swell prolong;

    Whose strains sublime, like deepening thunders, roll
    The battle's stormy wave, and fill th' impassioned soul!




    THOU, whom the giddy mock, the gay deride,
    Protracted folly's scourge, and foe to pride,
    I'll meet thee, poor, pale omen of decay,
    With all the little wisdom that I may;
    And hail thee, herald of the tranquil hour,
    Of calm sensations, and high reason's power,
    Of just ambition, to whose flight is given
    No sordid check, but still aspires to Heaven.
    Let others spurn thee,—I, without a dread,
    Welcome thy long-lov'd honors to my head;
    I will, but, like a bee of vagrant wing,
    That trifled o'er the treasures of the spring,
    Research the garden with a nicer care,
    Extend a wider flight thro' fields of air,
    Or deeper probe the nectar'd flow'ret's bell,
    To bring the honied wisdom to my cell;
    Laden with sweets, and treasuring up the store,
    I'll dread life's coming wintry storms no more.
    Yes, yes!—thy monitory voice I hear,
    Low numbering all the evils in thy rear;
    The wrinkled front, dim eye, and pallid cheek,
    Are but the preludes to the general wreck.


    But can no other charm their loss supply?
    And is there left no light t' illume the eye?
    Yes, it shall kindle at a friend's return;
    Tears shall suffuse it if a friend shall mourn;
    O'er earth its views benevolent be given,
    And faith shall fix its hallow'd gaze on Heaven.
    Nor with a pencil dipt in sordid care,
    Shall time's deep furrow on my brow appear;
    But there shall sit, as years successive roll,
    The calm unclouded sunshine of the soul:
    Wit's ready sallies we may well resign,
    The lip of truth and kindness shall be mine.
    And 'tis the meed of blameless life the while,
    To dress the placid features in a smile.
    Then age, dear honorable age! I'll throw
    Youth's many mingled chaplet from my brow
    With meek propriety, and in its room,
    The decent coif, and sober stole assume;
    Nor fear, tho' gayer charms may fade away,
    Aught that we lov'd in love can e'er decay.
    Of that fond tie that made us man and wife,
    Full half the bargain was the wane of life:
    Earth's feeble bonds with what is earthly sever,
    But they who truly love unite for ever.
    Rich in that love, in honor'd wisdom's store,
    I'll dread life's coming wintry storms no more.




    I KNOW thee not, bright creature, ne'er shall know;
    Thy course and mine lie far and far away;
    Yet heaven this once has given me to survey
    Those charms that seldom may be seen below.
    We part as soon as met, but where I go
    Thy form shall ever be; upon thy way
    Shall heaven, for thou art heaven's, its mildest ray
    Shed ever bright; yet tho' disease and woe
    Thy cheek consume not, Time will have his prey,
    And I may meet and know thee not again.
    But what lives in the mind shall not decay.
    And thus shall mine thy form divine retain,
    In all the freshness of youth's dawning day,
    When thou may'st be no more, and earth laments in vain.




    'TWAS night in Babylon,—yet many a beam
    Of lamps, far glittering from her domes on high,
    Shone, brightly mingling in Euphrates' stream,
    With the clear stars of that Chaldean sky,
    Whose azure knows no cloud:—each whisper'd sigh
    Of the soft night-breeze through her terrace-bowers
    Bore softer tones of joy and melody,
    O'er an illumin'd wilderness of flowers;
    And the glad city's voice went up from all her towers.

    But prouder mirth was in the blazing hall,
    Where, midst adoring slaves, a gorgeous band!
    High at the stately midnight-festival,
    Belshazzar sat enthron'd!—there luxury's hand
    Had shower'd around all treasures that expand
    Beneath the burning East;—all gems that pour
    The sun-beams back;—all sweets of many a land,
    Whose gales waft incense from their spicy shore;
    But mortal pride look'd on, and still demanded more.


    With richer zest the banquet may be fraught,
    A loftier theme may wake th' exulting strain!
    The lord of nations spoke,—and forth were brought
    The spoils of Salem's devastated fane:
    Thrice holy vessels!—pure from earthly stain,
    And set apart, and sanctified to Him,
    Who deign'd within the oracle to reign,
    Reveal'd, yet shadow'd; making noon-day dim,
    To that most glorious cloud between the cherubim.

    They came, and louder swell'd the voice of song,
    And pride flash'd brighter from the kindling eye,
    And He who sleeps not, heard th' elated throng,
    In mirth that play'd with thunderbolts, defy
    The Rock of Zion!—Fill the nectar high,
    High in the cups of consecrated gold!
    And crown the bowl with garlands, ere they die,
    And bid the censers of the temple hold
    Offerings to Babel's gods, the mighty ones of old!

    Peace! is it but a phantom of the brain,
    Thus shadow'd forth the senses to appal,
    Yon fearful vision?—who shall gaze again
    To search its cause?—along th' illumin'd wall,


    Startling, yet rivetting the eyes of all,
    Darkly it moves,—a hand, a human hand,
    O'er the bright lamps of that resplendent hall,
    In silence tracing, as a mystic wand,
    Words all unknown, the tongue of some far distant land.

    There are pale cheeks around the regal board,
    And quivering limbs, and whispers deep and low,
    And fitful starts!—the goblet, richly stor'd,
    Untasted foams, the song hath ceas'd to flow,
    The waving censer drops to earth,—and lo!
    The king of men, the monarch, rob'd with might,
    Trembles before a shadow!—say not so!
    The child of dust, with guilt's prophetic sight,
    Shrinks from the Dread Unknown, th' avenging Infinite.

    But haste ye!—bring Chaldea's gifted seers,
    The men of prescience!—haply to their eyes,
    Which track the future through the rolling spheres,
    Yon mystic sign may speak in prophecies.
    They come,—the readers of the midnight skies,
    They that give voice to visions!—but in vain!
    Still wrapt in clouds the awful secret lies;
    It hath no language midst the starry train;
    There is no earthly voice heaven's mysteries to explain.


    Then stood forth one, a child of other sires,
    And other inspiration!—one of those,
    Who on the willows hung their captive lyres,
    And sat, and wept, where Babel's river flows.
    His eye was bright, and yet the deep repose
    Of his pale features half o'erawed the mind,
    And imag'd forth a soul whose joys and woes
    Were of a loftier stamp than aught assign'd
    To earth; a being seal'd and sever'd from mankind.

    Yes!—what was earth to him, whose spirit pass'd
    Time's utmost bounds?—on whose unshrinking sight
    Ten thousand shapes of burning glory cast
    Their full resplendence?—majesty and might
    Were in his dreams;—for him the veil of light,
    Shrouding heaven's inmost sanctuary and throne,
    The curtain of th' Unutterably Bright,
    Was rais'd!—to him, in awful splendor shown,
    Ancient of Days! e'en Thou, mad'st Thy dread presence known!

    He spoke:—the shadows of the things to come,
    Pass'd o'er his soul:—"O king, elate in pride!
    God hath sent forth the writing of thy doom,
    The One, the living God, by thee defied;


    He, in whose balance earthly lords are tried,
    Hath weigh'd, and found thee wanting. 'Tis decreed,
    The conqueror's hands thy kingdom shall divide,
    The stranger to thy throne of power succeed;
    The days are full, they come,—the Persian and the Mede!"

    There fell a moment's thrilling silence round,
    A breathless pause! the hush of hearts that beat,
    And limbs that quiver:—is there not a sound,
    A gathering cry, a tread of hurrying feet?—
    'Twas but some echo, in the crowded street,
    Of far-heard revelry, the shout the song,
    The measur'd dance to music wildly sweet,
    That speeds the stars, their joyous course along,—
    Away! nor let a dream disturb the festal throng!

    Peace yet again!—Hark! steps in tumult flying,
    Steeds rushing on, as o'er a battle-field!
    The shout of hosts exulting or defying,
    The press of multitudes that strive or yield!
    And the loud startling clash of spear and shield,
    Sudden as earthquake's burst!—and blent with these,
    The last wild shriek of those whose doom is seal'd
    In mirth's full tide!—all rising on the breeze,
    As the long deepening roar of fast advancing seas!


    And nearer yet the trumpet's voice is swelling,
    Loud, shrill, and savage, drowning every cry!
    And lo! the spoiler in the regal dwelling,
    Death bursting on the halls of revelry!
    Ere on their brows one fragile rose-leaf die,
    The sword hath rag'd thro' joys devoted train;
    Ere one bright star be faded from the sky,
    Empire is lost, Belshazzar with the slain,
    And the dread lesson given, which proves all others vain.

    Fall'n is the golden city! in the dust,
    Spoil'd of her crown, dismantled of her state,
    She that hath made the strength of towers her trust,
    Weeps by her dead, supremely desolate!
    She that beheld the nations at her gate,
    Thronging in homage, shall be called no more
    Lady of Kingdoms!—who shall mourn her fate?
    Her guilt is full, her march of triumph o'er;
    What widow'd land shall now her widowhood deplore?

    Sit thou in silence! thou, that wert enthron'd
    On many waters! thou, whose augurs read
    The language of the planets, and disown'd
    The mighty name it blazons!—veil thy head,


    Daughter of Babylon! the sword is red
    From thy destroyer's harvest, and the yoke
    Is on thee, O most proud!—for thou hast said,
    "I am, and none besides."—Th' Eternal spoke,
    Thy glory was a spoil, thine idol-gods were broke.




    IN the sun's eye I sate, nor deem'd his ray
    Too bright to gaze on, for the autumnal breeze,
    Though gently whispering thro' the yet green trees,
    Was cool and humid, and around me lay,
    Toss'd like the billows of some mighty bay,
    Etruria's Apennines, range over range,
    Swelling in long and wave-like interchange,
    Till far beyond, with glittering hamlets gay,
    Spread the green plains of vine-clad Lombardy;
    The lights and shadows of declining day
    Flung on the whole their vast variety,
    While mingling sounds, that fill'd the subject way,
    Rose through the clear still air, and seem'd to be
    Sweet as the scene, and breath'd all harmony.




    FIRST of invaders, Hannibal, thy name
    Is proud as chief may claim, or man bestow,
    For thy historian is the conquer'd foe,
    And nature's works thy monuments of fame.
    The beautiful, the grand, thy deeds proclaim;
    The mountain, lake, where Alps are clad in snow,
    Where Thrasymenus' hill-girt waters flow,
    Thine honours are like theirs for aye the same.
    But what was thy reward? care, labour, war,
    Defeat, and exile, a self-hasten'd end—
    Enough;—for not confin'd to life, but far
    Beyond, can minds like thine their vision send,
    And see, tho' none beside, the ascending star
    Of glory, which their memories shall attend.





    WHEN ev'ning listen'd to the dipping oar,
    Forgetting the loud city's ceaseless roar,
    By the green banks, where Thames, with conscious pride,
    Reflects that stately structure on his side,
    Within whose walls, as their long labours close,
    The wanderers of the ocean find repose,
    We pass'd in social ease the hours away,
    The passing visit of a summer's day.

    While some to range the breezy hill are gone,
    I linger on the river's marge alone,
    Mingled with groups of ancient sailors grey,
    And watching the last sunshine steal away.

    As thus I mus'd amidst the various train
    Of toil-worn wand'rers of the per'lous main,
    Two sailors—well I mark'd them (as the beam
    Of parting day yet linger'd on the stream,


    And the sun sunk behind the shady reach)—
    Hasten'd with tott'ring footsteps to the beach!
    The one had lost a limb in Nile's dread fight;
    Total eclipse had veil'd the other's sight
    For ever! As I drew more anxious near,
    I stood intent, if they should speak, to hear;
    But neither said a word!—he who was blind,
    Stood, as to feel the comfortable wind
    That gently lifted his grey hair—his face
    Seem'd then of a faint smile to wear the trace.

    The other fix'd his gaze upon the light,
    Parting, and when the sun was vanish'd quite,
    Methought a starting tear that Heaven might bless,
    Unfelt, or felt with transient tenderness,
    Came to his aged eyes and touch'd his cheek!
    And then, as meek and silent as before,
    Back hand in hand they went, and left the shore.

    As they departed through th' unheeding crowd,
    A caged bird sung from the casement loud,
    And then I heard alone that blind man say,
    "The music of the bird is sweet to-day!"

    I said, "O, heavenly Father! none may know
    "The cause these have for silence or for woe!"


    Here they appear heart-stricken, yet resign'd
    Amidst th' unheeding tumult of mankind.

    There is a world—a pure unclouded clime,
    Where there is neither grief, nor death, nor time!
    Nor loss of friends! Perhaps, when yonder bell
    Beat slow, and bade the dying day farewell;
    Ere yet the glimmering landscape sunk to night,
    They thought upon that world of distant light!
    And when the blind man lifting light his hair,
    Felt the faint wind, he rais'd a warmer prayer,
    Then sigh'd, as the blithe bird sung o'er his head,
    "No morn will shine to me, till I am dead?"




    NOW, when the kindling Spring breathes life and joy
    Through earth and air, perfuming field and bow'r;
    While rings from every copse glad minstrelsy;
    And sparkling myriads float round shrub and flow'r;
    While, flashing brightness, runs the river by,
    Or darkling dimples with morn'd transient show'r,
    (As shines thro' scattering clouds the azure sky,
    And laughs the golden sun in youthful pow'r;)
    Now while all nature wakes, be my cheer'd eye
    Rais'd joyous with my heart, to Him that dwells on high.

    Father ador'd! O, let me still behold
    In these thy bounties, but thyself benign!
    Still let me trace, in this terrestrial mould,
    The faint impression of that world divine,
    Where all thy glory, wondrously unroll'd,
    Doth in the eyes of them for ever shine
    Whom sin and death no more in fetters hold:
    O, let my earth-ward thoughts, with low decline,
    No longer sink in languors dead and cold,
    But spring with eager love thy footstool to enfold!


    Give me, when song and fragrance round me flow,
    When blossoms shower above, and ev'ry spray
    Glitters with fost'ring dews; when the bright bow
    With colours jocund marks the chequer'd day;
    When the freed birds their winter cells forego;
    And the lone cuckoo to morn's glimm'ring ray
    Repeats his welcome strange; when bleat and low,
    Mingle with labour's voice and childhood's lay;
    O not alone with pleasure let me glow,
    But grateful join my song to all that hymn below!

    Give me, when Summer's universal blush
    Spreads o'er the scene; when the broad woods expand
    In screen umbrageous, and bank, and bush
    Are hung with roseate wreaths, by zephyr fann'd;
    When panting heat lists to the cooling gush
    Of gelid springs, or marks the sportive band
    Of skimming swallows o'er the gray lake rush;
    When sunny fruitage wooes each gath'ring hand,
    And all mature the year; O, let the flush
    Of raptur'd joy be mine, nor aught its transports hush!

    And when clear ev'ning's star, with trembling beam,
    Or sacred moonlight, thro' autumnal wood
    Its lustre pours; when rock and valley gleam
    In shadowy distance, and no sounds intrude,


    Save far-off village bells, or noiseless stream,
    Soothing the trance of heav'n-rapt solitude;
    When paths, leaf-strewn, invite fond man to dream
    On the brief race of pleasure's insect brood;
    Still of my musings lone be Thou the theme,
    Nor aught thy wisdom scorns, let me momentous deem.

    And when still Winter's breath the world congeals;
    When darken'd skies look mournful on the plain,
    Where gath'ring ice o'er rushy shallows steals;
    When transient thaw descends in plashy rain,
    Or sudden hail the cold blue heav'n reveals;
    When shiv'ring red-breasts join the household train,
    And the rough ass no more his scanty meals
    Finds 'mid the snow-spread waste, or desert lane;
    E'en then when nature's eye thy mercy seals,
    O, be mine fix'd on all that death-like sleep conceals!




    UNFELT, unseen, time steals away,
    So softly with our years,
    The dewy gem of op'ning day
    Not swifter disappears.

    In childhood's thoughtless, laughing hour;
    He gaily passes by,
    Like wild bees o'er the mountain flower,
    That plunder as they fly.

    Our budding joys, as if in scorn,
    He blasts with envious care,
    And bids remembrance leave her thorn
    To tell they blossom'd there;

    Whilst e'en to beauty's fond alarms
    He plays a traitor's part,
    And mocks the smile, whose magic charms
    Had thought to win his heart.


    Yet by the ruthless wand'rer's side
    One lonely fair-one stays,
    To all his steps the faithful guide,
    In sad or prosp'rous days.

    Where'er his hidden dart he throws
    To pierce th' unguarded breast,
    Her gentle hand the balm bestows
    To lull its pangs to rest.

    And when the wearied wing of time
    Eternity shall close,
    Friendship shall seek her native clime
    In Heaven to repose.




    TRUST not yon little winged boy,
    Tho' beauteous he appears,
    Each rosy smile he yields thee now
    Thou wilt repay with tears.

    Tho' bright with Heaven's celestial dyes,
    His flutt'ring pinions play,
    Too oft upon those downy wings
    He wafts our peace away.

    The quiver, o'er his shoulders flung,
    Bears many a venom'd dart;
    Ah! who could think that one so young
    Could act a traitor's part?

    From pleasure's brow the rose he steals
    His tresses to adorn,
    And wooes the cherub joy to lend
    One leaf to hide its thorn.


    So light his little sandall'd feet
    Upon our portals tread,
    We heed not that the urchin's nigh,
    Until our heart is fled.

    And then how vainly do we sue
    And ask it back again!
    Laughing, he holds it faster bound,
    And links each golden chain.

    Enthron'd on fleeting clouds he casts
    A dimpled glance below,
    And, glorying in his triumphs there,
    Exulting mocks our woe.




    WITH rapture, Annan! all exclaim,
    Thy banks how varied and how gay!
    Why should a name, well known to fame,
    Unsung remain in modern lay?

    So rich thy dale! as, from old Rome,
    Th' invader's footsteps to induce:
    So fair! in future to become
    Your royal home, O valiant Bruce!

    ∗ Burnswork, a grand conspicuous object, commanding a view of the whole of Annandale. Solway Frith is said to have been one of the stations of Agricola, where his entrenchments may still be distinctly traced, on both sides, and on the top of the hill.

    † Lochmaben Castle, which became occasionally a royal residence, is situated on an isthmus in the Castle Loch, and near the other lakes. Sir William Wallace came there in triumph after his incursion into the north of England.

    Of time's decay, ah! how partakes
    The mansion of your bright domain;
    Surrounded with its smiling lakes,
    Which welcom'd Wallace and his train.


    While England's captive, that brave knight
    Scotland arous'd, ere your return:
    Tho' gone, his bands reclaim'd your right,
    And burst our chains at Bannockburn.

    ∗ The" Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled" are said to have been mainly instrumental in gaining the decisive victory over Edward the Second, at Bannockburn.

    Such contests crimson'd long thy wave,
    And other feuds succeeded those,
    Till blest events united have
    The Shamrock, Thistle, and the Rose.

    Lo, where huge Errick's awful rise
    Thy birth-place forms with shelt'ring wings,
    Embosom'd there, a village lies,
    Fam'd for its air and healing springs.

    † The village of Moffat.

    Peaceful 'midst woods, and meads, thy stream
    Glides gently to th' engulphing main;
    Plaintive, thy deep-ton'd murmurs seem
    Of life's short span oft to complain.

    ‡ The course of the Annan is only thirty miles from its source to the sea.


    To industry's choice, arts still lend,
    Thy aid to turn her active wheels;
    Her works to cheer thy margin tend,
    Her impulse culture also feels.

    ∗ The Annan, from its magnitude and rapidity, is particularly well adapted for manufacturing establishments. The village of Bridekirk, which was begun with the present century, has already near 400 industrious inhabitants.

    Propitious sources! whence arise
    Britain's vast trade on seas afloat;
    Thence still in size thy sea-port swells,—
    Sails crowd thy strand near Bruce's moat.

    † The town of Annan has quadrupled its population within the last thirty years, and since that time, instead of two or three, has thirty or forty vessels belonging to its port.

    And while thy sons with skill and care,
    From day to day renew their toil,
    May virtue their young minds prepare
    To prize and guard their native soil!

    Resplendent stream! tho' short thy course,
    Thy spirit rising to the sky,
    In clouds embodied, is the source
    Whence nursing showers thy rills supply.


    Thus we, the children of a day,
    Who see thy beauteous vale improve,
    Will hope, when life has pass'd away,
    To view thy progress from above.




    O, FRESH blows the gale o'er the wide mantling ocean,
    And proudly the frigate repels the white foam;
    And high beats my heart with tumultuous emotion,
    On leaving, for fortune, my dear native home.

    Perhaps, for the last time, my father has blest me,
    I see his white locks and the tears on his cheek:
    And my mother—how close to her bosom she press'd me!
    And kiss'd me, and sobb'd, as her kind heart would break.

    I may roam thro' the wide world, and friendship may court me,
    And love on my heart its soft characters trace,
    But ne'er shall affection lend aught to support me
    So sacred—so pure as that parting embrace.

    Friends and protectors! when dangers surround me,
    When pleasure, when wealth spread their lures for my fame,
    That moment's good angel shall hover around me,
    To chase every thought would dishonour your name.




    LONG gone, for ever gone! the joys of Spring;
    And Summer's brighter objects, riper cares;
    Now Autumn's lingering train are on the wing,
    For me the yellow leaf all nature wears!

    Yet Hope, benignant power! with cheering smile,
    Still bids me tune the lyre, and wake the muse;
    Illumes the wintry prospect for a while,
    And dreams of springs, and summers past, renews.




    HAIL, Memory! whose magic pow'r
    Can gild the present gloomy hour
    With the gay colours of the past,
    Can smooth the wrinkled brow of age,
    The pangs of absence can assuage,
    And bid love's fleeting transports last!

    At dawn of life's tempestuous day,
    Ere reason had assum'd the sway,
    Ere passion's mingled storm arose,
    Thou deign'dst before mine infant eyes,
    As yet unskill'd the boon to prize,
    Thy golden treasures to disclose.

    At length, enrich'd, by thee I wove,
    (Soaring the vulgar throng above )
    Fair garlands for the shrine of truth.
    O, may I long thy favour share
    Ere all-destroying time impair
    The generous gifts bestow'd in youth.


    "Coetusque vulgares, et udam
    Spernit humum, fugiente penna." —HOR.


    Yon gorgeous palace! solemn fane!
    Yon floating castle on the main!
    To whose providing owe we these?
    Could art her lofty fabrics build,
    Should bounteous nature cease to yield
    Her marbles bright, her towering trees?


    "——The gorgeous palaces,
    The solemn temples."—SHAKSPEARE.

    And what would fancy's powers avail
    If all thy treasur'd stores should fail,
    Sav'd in the dark eclipse of time?
    Rich stores of action! passion, thought!
    Short joys, by long repentance bought!
    And grov'ling vice, and worth sublime.

    Without thee, mute the living lyre;
    Though touch'd by Phoebus' hallow'd fire,
    Silent the tuneful poet's tongue;
    On thee, the brave for fame rely;
    Unsung without thee, patriots die;
    And god-like heroes bleed unsung.

    Even life itself to thee we owe,
    Thou canst the wond'rous charm bestow
    To stop the moments as they fly;


    And but for thee, they fleet so fast,
    (Yet hardly present when they're past )
    That man with every breath would die.


    "Fugit hora; hoc quod loquor hinc est." —PERSIUS.
    "Le mement on je parle est deja loin de moi." —BOILEAU.

    1817.␣␣O stay, and soothe my sorrows still,
    A motley life of good and ill
    Was mine,—is every mortal's fate;
    But I have known long years of bliss,
    O, let me still remember this,
    Though widow'd now, and desolate.

    1819.␣␣Ah! no, for me no balm hast thou,
    A widow'd, childless father now!
    And grief my earthly—endless doom.
    Yet hope still lives beyond the grave;
    God surely tries us but to save!
    They beckon me;—I come! I come!




    THOUGH roseate odours float on every gale
    That sweeps, sad Pæstum, o'er thy desart vale;
    Though each soft zephyr bear upon its wing
    The sweets and promise of perennial spring,
    Like life's illusions o'er the captive sense
    Veiling in smiles the ruin they dispense;
    Thy perfum'd breath a venom'd shaft conveys,
    And the lorn pilgrim at thy shrine betrays!
    Yet joy'd the man on whose rapt vision first
    The prostrate glories of thy city burst;
    With kindred feeling traced thy classic plains,
    Thy tower-capt walls,—thy desecrated fanes,
    Whose massive columns from their deep repose
    In mingled symmetry and ruin rose,
    And as the wonders of the scene he view'd,
    Broke the long silence of thy solitude.

    ∗ The roses of Pæstum are celebrated as peculiarly fragrant, and blowing twice every year; yet, though the air is thus perfumed, it is destructive, as the malaria prevails.

    † The temples of Pæstum, though in a situation so open to notice, remained unknown for centuries; they were then, it is said, discovered by a painter.


    Lo! 'mid the desart, grateful to the eye,
    As a green spot in sandy Araby,
    Yon hallow'd porch, above each rival form,
    Bright in a sunbeam through the coming storm,
    Stands, like the ancient genius of the place,
    Evoking from the tomb, his Dorian race!
    Beauteous in ruin, in decay sublime,
    A splendid trophy o'er the wreck of time;
    Struggling with fate,—the glorious past recalls,
    And rob'd in majesty, like Cæsar falls.—
    Seems still the whispering breeze to bear along
    The mournful melody of Grecian song,
    As when in solemn rite thy patriot band
    Sang of their fathers in a stranger land.
    And yet, 'tis desolate! no voice invokes,
    No victim bleeds,—no teeming incense smokes!
    Where be thy gods? beneath the general gloom
    Sleep they too in the silence of the tomb?—
    See, on yon moss-grown stone, with front serene,
    The unmov'd idol 'mid the changeful scene,
    As when he gave thy sons to be, of yore,
    Lords of the dark-blue sea that laves thy shore;
    His shrine, the shadow of that empty boast,
    Stands a lone beacon on thy desart coast!

    ∗ The largest of the temples was dedicated to Neptune, the tutelary deity of ancient Posidonia: it is of Doric architecture.


    So flits the pageant of life's troubled dream,
    So float man's works down time's oblivious stream;
    But nature still the same through ages past,
    Blush'd in the rose, and thunder'd in the blast;
    And in her great unerring laws we trace
    The mighty mind that fills all time—all space.
    Prostrate the star on Bethlehem's Plain we hail,
    Which o'er the wreck of worlds, and through the Vale
    Of Death itself spreads its celestial ray,
    And breaks from darkness to eternal day.




    GIFTED of Heaven! who hast, in days gone by,
    Moved every heart, delighted every eye,
    While age and youth, of high and low degree,
    In sympathy were join'd, beholding thee,
    As in the drama's ever changing scene
    Thou heldst thy splendid state, our tragic queen!
    No barriers there thy fair domain confin'd,
    Thy sovereign sway was o'er the human mind;
    And, in the triumph of that witching hour,
    Thy lofty bearing well became thy power.

    Th' impassion'd changes of thy beauteous face,
    Thy stately form and high imperial grace;
    Thine arms impetuous tost, thy robe's wide flow,
    And the dark tempest gather'd on thy brow,
    What time thy flashing eye and lip of scorn
    Down to the dust thy mimic foes have born;
    Remorseful musings, sunk to deep dejection,
    The fix'd and yearning looks of strong affection;


    The action'd turmoil of a bosom rending,
    When pity, love, and honour are contending;—
    Who have beheld all this, right well I ween!
    A lovely, grand, and wond'rous sight have seen.

    Thy varied accents, rapid, fitful, slow,
    Loud rage, and fear's snatch'd whisper, quick and low,
    The burst of stifled love, the wail of grief,
    And tones of high command, full, solemn, brief;
    The change of voice and emphasis that threw
    Light on obscurity, and brought to view
    Distinctions nice, when grave or comic mood,
    Or mingled humours, terse and new, elude
    Common perception, as earth's smallest things
    To size and form the vesting hoarfrost brings,
    Which seem'd as if some secret voice, to clear
    The ravell'd meaning, whisper'd in thine ear,


    And thou had'st even with him communion kept,
    Who hath so long in Stratford's chancel slept,
    Whose lines, where Nature's brightest traces shine,
    Alone were worthy deem'd of powers like thine;—
    They, who have heard all this, have proved full well
    Of soul-exciting sound the mightiest spell.

    But though time's lengthen'd shadows o'er thee glide,
    And pomp of regal state is cast aside,
    Think not the glory of thy course is spent;
    There's moon-light radiance to thy evening lent,
    Which from the mental world can never fade,
    Till all who've seen thee in the grave are laid.
    Thy graceful form still moves in nightly dreams,
    And what thou wert to the wrapt sleeper seems:
    While feverish fancy oft doth fondly trace
    Within her curtain'd couch thy wonderous face.
    Yea; and to many a wight, bereft and lone,
    In musing hours, though all to thee unknown,
    Soothing his earthly course of good and ill,
    With all thy potent charm thou actest still.

    And now in crowded room or rich saloon,
    Thy stately presence recogniz'd, how soon
    The glance of many an eye is on thee cast,
    In grateful memory of pleasures past!


    Pleas'd to behold thee with becoming grace
    Take, as befits thee well, an honour'd place
    (Where, blest by many a heart, long may'st thou stand)
    Amongst the virtuous matrons of the land.

    ∗ Those who have been happy enough to hear Mrs. Siddons read, will readily acknowledge, that the discrimination and power with which she gave effect to the comic passages of Shakspeare, were nearly as remarkable and delightful as those which she displayed in passages of a grave or tragic character. It is to be regretted, that only those who have heard her read, are aware of the extent or variety of her genius, which has on the stage been confined almost entirely to tragedy; partly, I believe, from a kind of bigotry on the side of the public, which inclines it to confine poet, painter, or actor to that department of their art in which they have first been acknowledged to excel, and partly from the cast of her features, and the majesty of her figure, being peculiarly suited to tragedy.




    SPIRIT of evil, with which earth is rife,
    Revenge, Revenge! thee all abjure and blame,
    Yet, when their hour is come, invoke thy name.
    Base men for thee in secret bare the knife;
    The brave partake the peril and the strife;
    The weak, the sword more sure of justice claim;
    The strong, when they have blasted power and fame,
    Give to their foe in scorn the curse of life—
    The keenest, bitterest vengeance—for these all
    Are only shapes thou tak'st to goad the mind,
    Turning the heart's pure, generous blood to gall;
    And thus, Revenge, thou stalk'st through all the kind,
    Till mighty nations madden at thy call,
    And earth is waste, and seas incarnardin'd,




    THE marks of death were on him, and he bore
    In every feature that sharp, clear, cold look,
    Which is not of this world; his weak frame shook,
    Yet not with terror shook; for oft before
    He had sought death amid the battle's roar;
    Nor shrank he now, when in his chamber lone,
    Death, visible death, for three long moons had shewn
    His dart uprais'd, but struck not; still he wore
    His brow, though sad, undaunted; for he knew
    This was his last great fight, whose promise high
    Was endless glory to the faithful few,
    Whose courage can endure to victory.—
    And so he conquer'd, and a soldier true
    And gallant, as he liv'd, did G——n die.




    THE ministering spirits from above
    Descend with energy creative fraught,
    They breathe on nature with the breath of love,
    And lo! she wakens into life and thought.

    Where all was dull and dark, inert and cold,
    Now power and motion, light and heat abound;
    The heavens are bright with azure and with gold,
    And green and rosy hues adorn the ground.

    With life the waters tremble, every hour
    New tints, new forms of loveliness appear;
    The limpid dew breathes odour in the flower,
    And new-born music fills the vernal air.

    But not alone through matter's fairest forms
    And genial powers, does beauteous order reign,
    The lightning's flash, the blast of angry storms,
    And the tumultuous raging of the main,


    Alike are engines of Eternal Will,
    For good and useful ends: that Will whose sway
    Has ever acted, and is acting still,
    Whilst planets, worlds, and systems all obey;

    Without whose power creative, mortal things
    Were still and dead,—an inharmonious band,
    Silent as are the harp's untuned strings,
    Without the touches of the minstrel's hand:

    But for whose power conserving; they would pass
    Back into chaos, stars on stars would fall;
    Suns would be darken'd, and the mighty mass
    Of nature rest beneath her funeral pall.

    A portion of the one Intelligence,
    Th' immortal mind of man its image bears,
    Vested with organs in the world of sense,
    Oppress'd, but not subdued by human cares.

    A germ preparing in the winter's frost,
    To rise and bud and blossom in the spring;
    A new-plum'd eagle by the tempest tost,
    And gaining from its fury strength of wing:


    The child of trial, to mortality
    And all its changeful influences given,
    Yet dimly conscious of its destiny,
    And that its high inheritance is heaven:

    Feeling its life amidst the forms of death
    To be eternal, not a spark that flies
    But a pure portion of th' immortal breath,
    Kindling a flame where'er its essence lies:

    Though clouded, still to feel that flame endure,
    By joy exalted or by pain refin'd,
    Till sense is lost in passion high and pure,
    And intellectual light absorbs the mind:

    Soon as it breathes to feel the mother's form
    Of orbed beauty thro' its organs thrill,
    To press the limbs of life with rapture warm,
    And drink with transport from a living rill:

    To view the skies with morning radiance bright,
    Majestic mingling with the ocean blue,
    Or bounded by green hills or mountains white,
    Or peopled plains of rich and varied hue:


    To feel pure pleasure at the wond'rous face
    Of nature! but a higher joy to prove,
    In viewing living charms, expression, grace,
    Awakening sympathy, compelling love:

    The heavenly balm of mutual hope to taste,
    Soother of life, affection's bliss to share,
    Sweet as the stream amidst the desert waste,
    As the first blush of arctic day-light fair:

    The father's sacred name in joy to bless,
    Whilst life's sweet op'ning blossoms round him rise,
    With virtue's odours, hues of happiness,
    Binding with flowery wreaths his civic ties:

    To mingle with its kindred, to descry
    The path of power, in public life to shine;
    To gain the voice of popularity,
    The idol of to-day, the man divine:

    To govern others by an influence strong,
    As that high law which moves the murm'ring main,
    Raising and carrying all its waves along,
    Beneath the full-orb'd moon's meridian reign:


    How quickly palsied the strong arm of power,
    The breath of praise how mutable,—to know,
    The thunder-storm dissolving in the shower,
    The winter's zephyr trembling on the snow:

    To view the mighty victims of the lust
    Of domination fall'n—the statesman low
    As the poor peasant in ignoble dust:
    And those whose triumphs kept the world in awe,

    Who play'd with sceptres and dispos'd of thrones,
    Whose great achievements wondering millions sung,
    Dying without a trophy for their bones,
    Or in inglorious exile, not a tongue

    Daring, except in whisp'rings low to speak
    Of their high deeds:—To feel that glory's light
    Rising from arms and empire, when the weak
    Or lose their freedom in th' unequal fight,

    Or for their country and their laws expire,—
    Is, as the red volcano's wond'rous birth,
    Fair in the distance,—near, an awful fire,
    Which desolates the green and fertile earth:


    To wake from low ambition's splendid dream,
    Its gauds, its pomps, its toys, to feel how vain,
    Like glitt'ring foam upon the turbid stream,
    Or Iris' tints, upon the falling rain:

    To dwell upon utility alone,
    As the true source of honour, to aspire
    To something which posterity may own,
    A guiding lamp, not a consuming fire:

    To hail those pure and hallow'd sympathies,
    Which into future ages bear the mind,
    Th' eternal converse with the good and wise,
    The high abstracted love of human kind:

    To forests to retire, amidst the whole
    Of natural forms, whose generations rise
    In lovely change, in beauteous order roll,
    On land, in ocean, in the glitt'ring skies:

    To live in pure and happy solitude,
    In adoration of th' Eternal Cause,
    And wonder of his works with love imbued
    Of inspiration gain'd from nature's laws:


    To feel, as its decaying organs fade,
    That mortal burdens seem to pass away,
    And in the glimm'ring through its twilight shade,
    To hail the dawning of a glorious day;

    So in the northern summer, morning beams
    Ere the last western purple leaves the skies;
    So in th' autumnal night the moonshine gleams,
    Pointing to where the orient sunbeams rise:

    His soil'd and wearying earthly vest to tear,
    To give to nature all her borrowed powers,
    Dust to the earth, and moisture to the air,
    And balm to cheer the fainting herbs and flowers:

    Then, as awak'ning from a dream of pain,
    Its pristine form of glory to assume,
    Untouch'd by Time, and free from mortal stain,
    The raptured seraph's everlasting bloom:

    To its first source of being to return,
    To bask in the eternal Fount of light,
    With hope amidst fruition still to burn
    In the unsated love of knowledge infinite.




    IN a Devonshire lane, as I trotted along,
    T'other day, much in want of a subject for song,
    Thinks I to myself, I have hit on a strain,—
    Sure marriage is much like a Devonshire lane.

    In the first place, 'tis long, and when once you are in it,
    It holds you as fast as the cage holds a linnet,
    For howe'er rough and dirty the road may be found,
    Drive forward you must, since there's no turning round.

    But tho' 'tis so long, it is not very wide,
    For two are the most that together can ride;
    And ev'n then 'tis a chance, but they get in a pother,
    And jostle and cross, and run foul of each other.

    Oft poverty greets them with mendicant looks,
    And care pushes by them o'erladen with crooks,
    And strife's grating wheels try between them to pass,
    Or stubbornness blocks up the way on her ass.


    Then the banks are so high, both to left hand and right,
    That they shut up the beauties around from the sight;
    And hence you'll allow, 'tis an inference plain,
    That Marriage is just like a Devonshire lane.

    But, think I too, these banks within which we are pent,
    With bud, blossom, and berry are richly besprent;
    And the conjugal fence which forbids us to roam,
    Looks lovely, when deck'd with the comforts of home.

    In the rock's gloomy crevice the bright holly grows,
    The ivy waves fresh o'er the withering rose,
    And the ever-green love of a virtuous wife,
    Smoothes the roughness of care,—cheers the winter of life.

    Then long be the journey and narrow the way!
    I'll rejoice that I've seldom a turnpike to pay;
    And, whate'er others think, be the last to complain,
    Tho' marriage is just like a Devonshire lane.

    DAWLISH, Dec. 1811.




    WHOSE imp art thou, with dimpled cheek,
    And curly pate and merry eye,
    And arm and shoulders round and sleek,
    And soft and fair? thou urchin sly!

    What boots it who, with sweet caresses,
    First call'd thee his, or squire or hind?—
    For thou in every wight that passes,
    Dost now a friendly play-mate find.

    Thy downcast glances, grave but cunning,
    As fringed eye-lids rise and fall,
    Thy shyness, swiftly from me running,—
    'Tis infantine coquetry all!

    But far afield thou hast not flown,
    With mocks and threats half-lisp'd half-spoken,
    I feel thee pulling at my gown,
    Of right good-will thy simple token.


    And thou must laugh and wrestle too,
    A mimick warfare with me waging,
    To make, as wily lovers do,
    Thy after-kindness more engaging.

    The wilding rose, sweet as thyself,
    And new-cropt daisies are thy treasure,
    I'd gladly part with worldly pelf,
    To taste again thy youthful pleasure.

    But yet for all thy merry look,
    Thy frisks and wiles, the time is coming,
    When thou shalt sit in cheerless nook,
    The weary spell or horn book thumbing.

    Well; let it be! thro' weal and woe,
    Thou know'st not now thy future range;
    Life is a motley shifting show,
    And thou a thing of hope and change.




    AND can his antiquarian eyes,
    My Anglo-Saxon C despise?
    And does Lord Harcourt, day by day,
    Regret th' extinct initial K?
    And still, with ardour unabated,
    Labour to get it reinstated?—
    I know, my Lord, your generous passion
    For ev'ry long-exploded fashion;
    And own the Catherine you delight in,
    Looks irresistibly inviting,
    Appears to bear the stamp, and mark,
    Of English, used in Noah's Ark;
    "But all that glitters is not gold,"
    Nor all things obsolete, are old.
    Would you but take the pains to look
    In Doctor Johnson's quarto book,
    (As I did, wishing much to see
    Th' aforesaid letter's pedigree),
    Believe me, 't would a tale unfold,
    Would make your Norman blood run cold.


    My Lord, you'll find the K's no better
    Than an interpolated letter,—
    A wand'ring Greek, a franchis'd alien,
    Deriv'd from Cadmus or Deucalion,
    And, why, or wherefore, none can tell,
    Inserted 'twixt the J and L.
    The learned say, our English tongue
    On Gothic beams is built and hung;
    Then why the solid fabric piece
    With motley ornaments from Greece?
    Her letter'd despots had no bowels
    For northern consonants and vowels;
    The Norman and the Greek grammarian
    Deem'd us, and all our words, barbarian,
    Till those hard words, and harder blows,
    Had silenced all our haughty foes,
    And proud they were to kiss the sandals
    (Shoes we had none) of Goths and Vandals.
    So call we now the various race
    That gave the Roman eagle chace,
    Nurtur'd by all the storms that roll
    In thunder round the Arctic Pole,
    And from the bosom of the North,
    Like gelid rain-drops scatter'd forth—
    Dread Odin's desolating sons,
    Teutones, Cimbrians, Franks, and Huns;—


    But hold, 't would try Don Quixote's patience,
    To nomenclate this mob of nations:
    Whose names a poet's teeth might break,
    And only botanists could speak,
    They at a single glance would see us
    Rang'd in the system of Linnæus;
    Would organize the mingled mass,
    Assign their genus, order, class,
    And give, as trivial, and specific,
    Names harder still, and more terrific.
    But since our Saxon line we trace
    Up to this all-subduing race,
    Since flows their blood in British veins,
    Who led the universe in chains,
    And from their "sole dominion" hurl'd
    The giants of the ancient world,
    Their boasted languages confounding,
    And with such mortal gutturals wounding,
    That Greek and Latin fell or fled,
    And soon were number'd with the dead;
    Befits it us, so much their betters,
    To spell our names with conquer'd letters?
    And shall they rise and prate again,
    Like Falstaff, from among the slain?
    A licence quite of modern date
    Which no long customs consecrate;


    For since this K, of hateful sound,
    First set his foot on British ground,
    'Tis not, as antiquaries know,
    A dozen centuries ago.—
    That darling theme of English story,
    For learning fam'd and martial glory,—
    Alfred, who quell'd th' unsurping Dane,
    And burst, indignant, from his chain;
    Who slaves redeemed, to reign o'er men,
    Changing the faulchion for the pen,
    And outlin'd, with a master's hand,
    Th' immortal charter of the land;
    Alfred, whom yet these realms obey,
    In all his kingdom own'd no K,
    From foreign arms, and letters free,
    Preserv'd his Cyngly[∗] dignity,
    And wrote it with a Saxon C.
    —This case in point from Alfred's laws
    Establishes my client's cause;
    Secures a verdict for defendant,
    K pays the costs, and there's an end on't.
    The suit had linger'd long, I grant, if
    Counsel had first been heard for plaintiff;
    Who might, to use a new expression,
    Have urg'd the plea of dis-possession,

    asterisk in brackets. [∗ In the original printed text, the "g" in Cyngly is the character from the Anglo-Saxon alphabet for the letter "g" and is not represented here. Ed.]


    And put our better claims to flight,
    By pre-, I mean proscriptive right,
    Since that which modern times explode,
    The world will deem the prior mode.—
    But grant this specious plea prevailing,
    And all my legal learning failing;
    There yet remains so black a charge,
    Not only 'gainst the K's at large,
    But th' individual K in question,
    You'd tremble at the bare suggestion,
    Nor ever more a wish reveal
    So adverse to the public weal.

    Dear gentle Earl, you little know
    That wish might work a world of woe;
    The ears that are unborn would rise,
    In judgment 'gainst your lordship's eyes
    The ears that are unborn would rue
    Your letter patent to renew
    The dormant dignity of shrew.
    The K restor'd takes off th' attainder,
    And grants the title, with remainder
    In perpetuity devis'd,
    To Katherines lawfully baptiz'd.
    What has not Shakspeare said and sung,
    Of our pre-eminence of tongue!


    His glowing pen has writ the name
    In characters of fire and flame;
    Not flames that mingle as they rise
    Innocuous, with their kindred skies;
    Some chemic, lady-like solution,
    Shewn at the Royal Institution;
    But such, as still with ceaseless clamour,
    Dance round the anvil, and the hammer.
    See him the comic muse invoking,
    (The merry nymph with laughter choking)
    While he exhibits at her shrine
    The unhallow'd form of Katherine;
    And there the Gorgon image plants,—
    Palladium of the termagants.
    He form'd it of the rudest ore
    That lay in his exhaustless store,
    Nor from the crackling furnace drew,
    Which still the breath of genius blew,
    Till (to preserve the bright allusion)
    The mass was in a state of fusion.
    Then cast it in a Grecian mould,
    Once modell'd from a living scold;
    When from her shelly prison burst
    That finished vixen, Kate the curst!

    If practice e'er with precept tallies,
    Could Shakspeare set down aught in malice?


    From nature all his forms he drew,
    And held the mirror to to her view;
    And if an ugly wart arose,
    Or freckle upon nature's nose,
    He flatter'd not th' unsightly flaw,
    But mark'd and copied what he saw;
    Strictly fulfilling all his duties
    Alike to blemishes and beauties:
    So that in Shakspeare's time 'tis plain,
    The Katherines were scolds in grain,
    No females louder, fiercer, worse:—
    Now contemplate the bright reverse;
    And say amid the countless names,
    Borne by contemporary dames,—
    Exotics, fetch'd from distant nations,
    Or good old English appellations,—
    Names hunted out from ancient books,
    Or form'd on dairy-maids, and cooks,
    Genteel, familiar, or pedantic,
    Grecian, Roman, or romantic,
    Christian, Infidel, or Jew,
    Heroines, fabulous or true,
    Ruths, Rebeccas, Rachels, Sarahs,
    Charlottes, Harriets, Emmas, Claras,
    Auroras, Helens, Daphnes, Delias,
    Martias, Portias, and Cornelias,


    Nannys, Fannys, Jennys, Hettys,
    Dollys, Mollys, Biddys, Bettys,
    Sacharissas, Melesinas,
    Dulcibellas, Celestinas,—
    Say, is there one more free from blame,
    One that enjoys a fairer fame,
    One more endow'd with Christian graces,
    (Although I say it to our faces,
    And flattery we don't delight in,)
    Than Catherine, at this present writing?
    Where, then, can all the difference be?
    Where, but between, the K, and C:
    Between the graceful curving line,
    We now prefix to atherine,
    Which seems to keep with mild police,
    Those rebel syllables in peace,
    Describing, in the line of duty,
    Both physical, and moral beauty,
    And that impracticable K
    Who led them all so much astray—
    Was never seen in black and white,
    A character more full of spite!
    That stubborn back, to bend unskilful,
    So perpendicularly wilful!
    With angles, hideous to behold,
    Like the sharp elbows of a scold,


    In attitude, where words shall fail,
    To fight their battles tooth and nail.—
    In page the first, you're sagely told
    That "all that glitters is not gold;"
    Fain would I quote one proverb more—
    "N'eveillez pas le chat qui dort."
    Here some will smile, as if suspicious
    That simile was injudicious;
    Because in C A T they trace
    Alliance with the feline race.
    But we the name alone inherit,
    C has the letter, K the spirit,
    And woe betide the man who tries
    Whether or no the spirit dies!
    Tho' dormant long, it yet survives,
    With its full complement of lives.
    The nature of the beast is still
    To scratch and claw, if not to kill;
    For royal Cats, to low-born wrangling
    Will superadd the gift of strangling.
    Witness in modern times the fate
    Of that unhappy potentate,
    Who, from his palace near the pole,
    Where the chill waves of Neva roll,
    Was snatch'd, while yet alive and merry,
    And sent on board old Charon's ferry.


    The Styx he travers'd, execrating
    A Katherine of his own creating.
    —Peter the Third—illustrious peer!
    Great autocrat of half the sphere!
    (At least of all the Russias, he
    Was Emperor, Czar of Muscovy)—
    In evil hour, this simple Czar,
    Impell'd by some malignant star,
    Bestow'd upon his new Czarina,
    The fatal name of Katerina;
    And, as Monseigneur l'Archévêque
    Chose to baptize her à la Grecque,
    'Twas Katerina with a K:
    He rued it to his dying day:
    Nay died, as I observ'd before,
    The sooner on that very score—
    The Princess quickly learnt her cue,
    Improv'd upon the part of shrew,
    And as the plot began to thicken,
    She wrung his head off like a chicken.
    In short this despot of a wife
    Robb'd the poor man of crown and life;
    And robbing Peter, paid not Paul;
    But clear'd the stage of great and small,
    No corner of the throne would spare,
    To gratify her son and heir,


    But liv'd till threescore years and ten,
    Still trampling on the rights of men.—
    Thy brief existence, hapless Peter!
    Had doubtless longer been, and sweeter,
    But that thou wilfully disturb'dst
    The harmless name she brought from Zerbst.
    Nor was it even then too late,
    When crown'd and register'd a Kate;
    When all had trembling heard, and seen,
    The shriller voice, and fiercer mien—
    Had'st thou e'en then, without the measure,
    That Russian boors adopt at pleasure,
    On publishing a tedious ukase,
    To blab to all the world the true case,
    By virtue of the Imperial knout
    But whipt th' offending letter out—
    She, in the fairest page of fame,
    Might then have writ her faultless name,
    And thou retain'd thy life, and crown,
    Till time himself had mow'd them down.




    O! HOLY Mary, hear the blast!
    The elms 'twill overthrow,
    Where, hung in chains, a murderer's bones
    Are tossing to and fro.
    The robber Polydore is up,
    And listens to the moan;
    He fears to sleep, for on the heath
    His cottage stands alone.

    A knock comes thund'ring to the door,
    The robber's heart leaps high.
    "Now open quick, dost thou not mind
    Thy comrade Gregory?"—
    "Whoe'er thou art, with smother'd voice
    Strive not to cheat mine ear;
    My comrade Gregory is dead,
    His bones are hanging near."—


    "Now ope thy door, nor parley more;
    'Tis true I'm Gregory;
    And, if 'twere not for the gibbet rope,
    My voice were clear and free.
    The wind is high, the wind is loud,
    It bends the old elm tree;
    The blast has toss'd my bones about,
    This night most wearily.

    "The elm was dropping on my hair,
    The shackles galled my feet;
    To hang in chains is a bitter lair,
    And, oh! a bed is sweet.
    I've borne my lot for many a night,
    Nor yet disturb'd thee here;
    Then sure a pillow thou wilt give
    Unto thy old compeer?"

    "Tempt me no more," the robber cried,
    And struggled with his fear;
    Were this a night to ope my door,
    Thy taunts should cost thee dear."—
    "Ah! comrade, you did not disown,
    Nor bid me brave the cold;
    The door was open soon when I
    Brought murder'd Mansell's gold.


    "When for a bribe you gave me up
    To the cruel gallows' tree,
    You made my bed with readiness,
    And stirr'd the fire for me.
    But I have sworn to visit thee,
    Then cease to bid me go;
    And ope, or soon thy bolts and bars
    Shall burst beneath my blow."

    Oh! sick at heart grew Polydore,
    And wish'd the dawn of day;
    That voice had quell'd his haughty heart,
    He knew not what to say.
    For now the one that stood without,
    For entrance crav'd no more,
    And when no voice in answer came,
    He struck, and burst the door.

    "Why shrink'st thou thus, good comrade, now
    With such a wilder'd gaze?
    Dost fear my rusted shackles' clank?
    Dost fear my wither'd face?
    But for the gallows' rope, that face
    Had ne'er thus startled thee,
    And the gallows' rope, was't not the fruit
    Of thy foul treachery?


    "But come thou forth, we'll visit now
    The elm with the wither'd rind,
    For though thy door was barr'd to me,
    Yet I will be more kind.
    That is my home, the ravens there
    Are all my company,
    And they and I will both rejoice
    In such a guest as thee.

    "The tempest's loud, but clasp my arm
    Why, why dost thou delay?
    That arm thou did'st not doubt to clasp,
    When my life was sold away."
    The stormy wind sung wild and loud
    Round trembling Polydore;
    As by his dead companion led,
    He struggled o'er the moor.

    And soon they reach'd a wilderness,
    By human foot unpress'd,
    The wind grew cold, the heather sigh'd,
    As conscious of their guest:
    Soon did they on the dreary heath
    The wither'd elm-tree find,
    Where a halter, with a ready noose,
    Hung dancing to the wind.


    Then turning round, his ghastly face
    Was twisted with a smile,
    "Now living things are far remote,
    We'll rest us here awhile.
    Brothers we were, good Polydore,
    We robb'd in company;
    Brothers we were, and we in death
    Shall also brothers be.

    "Behold the elm, behold the rope,
    Which I prepar'd before.
    Thou'rt pale!—'tis but a struggle, man,
    And soon that struggle's o'er.
    Tremble no more, but cheerful come,
    And like a brother be;
    I'll hold the rope, and in my arms
    I'll help you up the tree."

    The eyes of Polydore grew dim,
    He rous'd himself to pray,
    But a heavy weight sat on his breast,
    And took all voice away.
    The rope is tied, then from his lips
    A cry of anguish broke,
    Too powerful for the bands of sleep,
    And Polydore awoke.


    All vanish'd now the cursed elm,
    His dead companion gone,
    With troubled joy he found himself
    In darkness and alone.
    But still the wind with hollow gusts
    Fought ravening on the moor,
    And check'd his transports, while it shook
    The bolted cottage door.




    COLD is the hand that gives thee to the flame,
    Sweet source of pleasure in my early years!
    But, O ye friends! to me impute no blame,
    I mark its quick destruction thro' my tears.

    Cold was the hand that at one cast destroy'd
    Sweet friendship, which, upon that crackling scroll,
    Depicted was; even where, with skill employ'd,
    Her pen had traced the kindness of her soul.

    Ah! why the proof of former joy preserve!
    A present grief 'twere folly to retain;
    Years to encrease the change would only serve,
    And every change would add severer pain.




    YE who love the shady bow'r,
    Ye who fear the sultry hour;
    Ye who peace delight to meet,
    Come to my sequester'd seat.

    Ye whose bosoms pant with fears,
    Ye who wish to hide your tears;
    Ye who pine with secret love,
    Seek my quiet whispering grove!

    If meditation suit thee best,
    Come with me contented rest,
    For here each flower and rising tree
    Declares the present Deity.




    FLOWER of the waste! the heath-fowl shuns
    For thee the brake and tangled wood,—
    To thy protecting shade she runs,
    Thy tender buds supply her food;
    Her young forsake her downy plumes
    To rest upon thy opening blooms.

    Flower of the desert tho' thou art!
    The deer that range the mountain free,
    The graceful doe, the stately hart,
    Their food of shelter seek from thee;
    The bee thy earliest blossom greets,
    And draws from thee her choicest sweets.

    Gem of the heath! whose modest bloom
    Sheds beauty o'er the lonely moor;
    Tho' thou dispense no rich perfume,
    Nor yet with splendid tints allure,
    Both valour's crest and beauty's bower,
    Oft hast thou deck'd, a favourite flower.


    Flower of the wild! whose purple glow
    Adorns the dusky mountain's side,
    Not the gay hues of Iris' bow,
    Nor garden's artful, varied pride,
    With all its wealth of sweets could cheer,
    Like thee, the hardy mountaineer.

    Flower of his heart! thy fragrance mild,
    Of peace and freedom seems to breathe;
    To pluck thy blossoms in the wild,
    And deck his bonnet with the wreath,
    Where dwelt of old his rustic sires,
    Is all his simple wish requires.

    Flower of his dear-lov'd native land!
    Alas, when distant, far more dear!
    When he from some cold foreign strand,
    Looks homeward thro' the blinding tear,
    How must his aching heart deplore,
    That home and thee he sees no more!




    HAIL, falling shades! hail, stillest ev'ning hour!
    Sacred to verse; and thou sublimest power,
    Imagination! thou, while slumber light
    Lays me to rest upon the lap of night,
    Draw near my couch—and bear my soul away
    From earth's dull shades to scenes of brighter day:
    Lead her to each lone vale, and hallow'd mount;
    To each enchanted oak and mystic fount;
    But chiefly lead her to the Choral Hall
    Of old Oceanus—and, at thy call,
    Bid soft Autona at my will prepare,
    And tell of deeds that mark'd her borders fair.

    The song prevail'd—and, deck'd with varied flower
    Of reed and lily—from her watery bow'r
    Autona rose; and, turning her dark head
    To shade and meadow, pensive thus she said:
    "Hail, Fothringay! tho' faded now thy bow'rs,
    Thy princes vanish, gone thy stately tow'rs;
    Borne on the breeze from yon lone bank thy sigh
    Murmurs of glory past.—To poet's eye


    Fair in thy mourning weeds. Amid the vale,
    I hail thee queen, and would record thy tale.
    Lo! on that mound in days of feudal pride
    Thy tow'ring castle frown'd above the tide,
    Flung wide her gates, where troops of vassals met
    With awe, the brow of high Plantaganet.
    But ah! what chiefs in sable crest appear!
    What great achievement marks yon warrior's bier!
    'Tis York's—from Agincourt's victorious plain,
    They bear the fallen hero o'er the main,
    Thro' all the land his blooming laurels shed,
    And to thy bosom give the mighty dead.
    When from thy lap the vengeful Richard sprung,
    A boding sound in all my borders rung;
    It spoke a tale of blood—fair Nevile's woe,
    York's murd'rous hand—and Edward's future foe.

    "In darkest night for ever veil the scene
    When thy cold walls receiv'd the captive Queen.
    For this hath ruin torn thee from the ground,
    Spread her wild bramble and her thistle round,
    Burst on thy princely tower with whelming tide,
    Nor left one vestige to relate thy pride.

    "I saw her on that bank in sorrow tear
    The golden circlet from her graceful hair;


    While thus she spoke,—'Hence shall the scorner see
    That all my royal state consists in thee!'
    Hence, bauble, hence to pow'r! nor bind that head
    That bows degraded o'er this humble bed.
    Fair stream! my prison's guard, yet still and slow
    In seeming rev'rence of the captive's woe;
    Were but mankind as gentle as thy flood,
    As deep their friendship, and as clear their good!
    Could'st thou convey me to the sounding tide,
    This hand should spread the sail—the steerage guide;
    The lovely bark my Gallia's shore would gain,
    And England's Queen confess my pow'r to reign.
    But vain the wish!—To me no more is giv'n
    Of joy or hope,—but that which rests in heav'n."
    She sighs—and lo! thro' yonder portal come
    Nobles and Judges to pronounce her doom.
    She pleads indignant—"Bring ye, subjects, laws
    Unjustly here to try a Monarch's cause?
    Your's is nor law nor truth, resolv'd on wrong,
    Death clouds your brow, and rancour arms your tongue."
    She ceas'd.—At Howard's name her sorrows flow,
    How lov'd his mem'ry, how deplor'd his woe!

    See the last sun to Mary's eye descend,
    And night her curtain o'er the scene extend!


    Her watchful train in speechless anguish weep;
    The captive's eyes alone are clos'd in sleep.
    See the last morning break—with mournful state,
    Forth comes the royal captive to her fate.
    Death cannot move her soul—the sighing breath
    Of pitying bosoms gives the sting of death.
    Be calm," she said, "for Stuart soon shall be
    Above the sphere of mortal majesty;
    Her little triumphs and her wrongs be o'er,
    Weep no more, faithful Melville! weep no more!"
    Religion's hope her last sad words express;
    Scotland admonish—ruthless England bless:
    But oh!—the pause that follow'd—and the groan
    Struck every nerve, and froze the blood to stone!
    Trembling I hid my brow beneath the wave,
    And sank in terror to my inmost cave.
    Farewell—I mark with hate that murd'rous hour,
    And glide in silent grief to ocean's bow'r!




    SWEET lake! while shades are closing round,
    I love to haunt thy tranquil shore,
    And mournful tread the hallow'd ground
    Which Emma's form shall grace no more.

    There's not a rock thy waters lave
    But brings her to my fancy's eye;
    There's not a ripple on thy wave
    But murmurs of departed joy.

    Beneath yon birch's shadowy screen,
    Oft have we watch'd the fading day,
    Or slowly, o'er yon twilight green,
    In pensive bliss, have mused our way.

    And is she gone?—and do I live
    To hover round our favourite spot,
    In vain o'er blighted hopes to grieve,
    And joys that will not be forgot.


    Sweet lake! this brain where memory glows,—
    This heart which throbs in anguish now,
    Oh, that at length they might repose
    As cold, as motionless as thou!


    SONNET TO ——


    WHETHER thy locks in natural beauty stray,
    Clust'ring like woodbind wild, or haply bound,
    Like ivy wreath thy polish'd brows around;
    Whether within thine eyes' blue mirror play
    Mirth's arrowy beams or love's more soften'd ray;
    Whether to the gay viol's pleasant sound
    Thou minglest in the dance's airy round,
    Thy light feet twinkling like the darts of day;
    Or whether o'er the graceful harp thy frame,
    More graceful yet, with eyes up-rais'd thou bendest,
    And with its tones thy own, far sweeter, blendest;
    Still thou art loveliest, varying, yet the same,
    Still o'er my soul thine absolute sway extendest,
    And from all other loves my heart defendest.




    I'VE seen my day before its noon decline,
    And dark is still the future, nor, alas!
    Can Hope, with all the magic of her glass,
    Irradiate the deep gloom which fate malign
    Has gather'd round;—yet will I not repine;
    For tho' the courage, that can do and dare,
    Be brightest glory, unsubdued to bear,
    That calmer, better virtue may be mine;—
    For this is of the mind;—to slay, be slain,
    Asks but a moment's energies, and Fame
    First wakens and then keeps alive the flame;
    But Patience must itself, itself sustain,
    And must itself reward, nor hope to find
    The praise or the compassion of mankind.




    THERE is a virtue, which to Fortune's height
    Follows us not, but in the vale below,
    Where dwell the ills of life, disease and woe,
    Holds on its steady course, serenely bright:
    So some lone star, whose softly beaming light
    We mark not in the blaze of solar day,
    Comes forth with pure and ever constant ray,
    That makes ev'n beautiful the gloom of night.
    Thou art that star so lovely and so lone,
    That virtue of distress—Fidelity!
    And thou, when every joy and hope are flown,
    Cling'st to the relics of humanity,
    Making with all its sorrows life still dear,
    And death, with all its terrors, void of fear.




    WHERE are the tamers of the deep,
    The gallant and the brave?
    Heaven's angry whirlwinds o'er them sweep,
    Cold ocean is their grave.

    Was it, their sun of glory waned
    Amid the cloudy fight,
    When through the mists of battle rained
    A shower of deathly light?

    Arose they from the strife of blood
    On victory's eagle pinion,
    Waving in death above the flood
    The banner of dominion?

    I would not mock their fate with sorrow,
    Let woman melt in tears,
    Fame's gorgeous purple I would borrow
    To shroud their glorious biers.


    No; on their dark and dismal hour
    No star of conquest rose;
    Vain was their boast of strength and power,
    The tempests were their foes.

    Haughty they rode the passive deep,
    And bade the waves give place;
    They called the wild winds from their sleep,
    To waft them on their race.

    They saw not from the deep arise
    The spirit of the storm,
    And mingle with the dark'ning skies
    His dim and scowling form.

    But God to him strange might had given
    To wreak his wrath on man;
    By rushing blasts the skies were riven,
    The waves their war began.

    Where are the tamers of the deep,
    The gallant and the brave?
    Go ask the wild winds where they sleep,
    Search ocean for their grave.


    Was heard on Denmark's wintry shore
    The drear distress-gun moaning?
    'Twas night, amid the tempest's roar
    That dying men were groaning.

    And Ocean, like a conqueror proud,
    In triumph rolled to land,
    And with his gallant spoils bestrewed
    The waste and silent sand.

    There are, who sweetly sleep at home
    With calm and careless breast,
    And those they love in slumber come
    To cheer their couch of rest.

    Oh, wake them not, from those to part,
    Who in their dreams survive!
    To-morrow to the bleeding heart,
    For aye, they cease to live!




    YES,—whilst my sight is yet allow'd to rest
    On those dear features, (which it calms my breast
    To look upon, and, as I watch them, give
    The purest bliss that mortals may receive,)
    Let me preserve their image for a space,
    And from the life a faint resemblance trace.
    Oh! if the likeness were correctly made,
    And if my colours were not such as fade,
    Through time's long year the Portrait would be prais'd,
    And future ages profit, as they gaz'd.

    Lovely is youth,—but, robb'd of vermil hue,
    Age may be lovely, and enchant the view,
    When the soul brightens, and th' immortal ray
    Is seen more dearly through the shrine's decay;
    When the mild aspect, cloudless and serene,
    Reveals in silence what the life has been—
    Untroubled as the awful close draws near,
    Still fondly turn'd to all remaining here;
    Still breathing peace, and tenderness, and love,
    Illum'd with nearer radiance from above.


    Such, such 'tis mine to witness day by day,
    And more than filial reverence to pay.
    For, if I owe her life, and ev'ry flow'r
    That ere I gather'd since my natal hour,
    And (more than life, or happiness, or fame,)
    The fear of God, since I could lisp his name:
    If no conflicting ties divide my heart,
    And chance, nor change, have forc'd us yet apart;
    If for the other each too oft has fear'd,
    And mutual woes and peril have endear'd;
    Now that her spirit undisturb'd remains
    By sharpen'd trials and increasing pains,
    I view the mother and the saint in one,
    And pay beyond the homage of a son.

    Ye who approach her threshold, cast aside
    The world, and all the littleness of pride;
    Come not to pass an hour, and then away
    Back to the giddy follies of the day;—
    With reverent step and heav'n-directed eye,
    Clad in the robes of meek humility,
    As to a temple's hallow'd courts, repair,
    And come the lesson, as the scene, to share;
    Gaze on the ruin'd frame, and pallid cheek,
    Prophetic symptoms, that too plainly speak!


    Those limbs that fail her as she faulters by;
    Pangs, that from nature will extort a sigh;
    See her from social intercourse remov'd,
    Forbid to catch the friendly voice she lov'd;
    Then mark the look compos'd, the tranquil air,
    Unfeign'd contentment still enthroned there!
    The cheerful beams, that, never quench'd, adorn
    That cheek, and gladden those who thought to mourn;
    Benignant smiles for all around that shine,
    Unbounded love, and charity divine!
    This is Religion—not unreal dreams,
    Enthusiast raptures and seraphic gleams;
    But Faith's calm triumph—Reason's steady sway,
    Not the brief lightning, but the perfect day.

    Mark we the close of years without offence?
    Of more than this, and more than innocence,—
    A life of deeds—a long, unblemish'd course
    Of gen'rous action, and of moral force.

    Her have I seen assail'd by deepest woe,
    O'erwhelming desolation's sudden blow;
    How much she felt, the body's ills display;
    From that dread hour began the slow decay.
    Yet she, who quiver'd at another's pain,
    Her own with stoic firmness could sustain;


    Stood unsubdued—but meekly kiss'd the rod,
    And took with patience all that came from God;
    And curb'd her grief, when sorrow's cup ran o'er,
    Lest those who saw her weep, should weep the more.

    Her have I seen when Death was at her side,
    And Hope no longer to our prayers replied,
    Nor then celestial visions blest her sight,
    Or angels waiting for the spirit's flight;
    Awe she confest—but awe devoid of fear,
    In death, as life, who knew her Maker near.—
    Yet she, whose claim (if any may) will prove
    Sure of the joys that crown the just above,
    Humbly preferr'd no title of her own,
    And on redeeming grace repos'd alone.
    In acts of prayer life's ebbing moments past,
    Or acts of love, benignant to the last;
    Nor one forgot, nor fail'd to recommend
    Each poor dependant—name each valued friend;
    And, most resign'd to summons all but given,
    Still human, griev'd to leave us, though for heav'n.

    Nor hers alone the virtues that require
    Some stroke of fate to rouse their latent fire;
    Great for an hour, heroic for a scene,
    Inert through all the common life between.


    But such as each diurnal task perform,
    Pleas'd in the calm, unshaken by the storm.
    In her had Nature bounteously combin'd
    The tend'rest bosom with the strongest mind;
    Sense that seem'd instinct, so direct it caught
    The just conclusion, oft refus'd to thought;
    Simplicity of heart, that never knew
    What meant the baubles which the world pursue;
    All these, by not a taint of self alloy'd,
    All these were hers—for others all employ'd.
    To seek the haunts of poverty and pain,
    Teach want to thrive, and grief to smile again;
    To guide young footsteps to the right, and win
    The old in error from the ways of sin;
    To ease the burthens of the human race,
    Mend ev'ry heart, and gladden ev'ry face,
    She liv'd and breath'd,—not from the world estrang'd,
    But mov'd amongst it, guileless and unchang'd;
    Still lov'd to view the picture's brighter side;
    The first to cherish, and the last to chide.

    For this around the time-struck ruin wait
    Admiring crowds, the lowly and the great;
    Thither for this, the young, the good, repair,
    And watch around with unremitted care;


    For this the orphans of the village bring
    Unbidden gifts, the earliest wreath of spring,
    Homage, that scarce encircles youth, or power,
    In court of kings, or beauty's vernal bower.

    Thus cheer'd, yet thus forbid to labour more,
    Wanting herself the aid she gave before;
    When feeble mortals peevishly complain,
    Regret past pleasures, and survive in vain;
    She, like the silver lamp, that, night and day,
    Before some altar sheds its hallow'd ray,
    Serenely shines, in pure effulgence bright,
    With pious lustre, and attractive light;
    Dispels the black'ning shades that gather round,
    And guides the wanderer to the sacred ground.—

    Servant of God! thy task is nearly done!
    And soon, too soon, thy wages will be won.
    Yet how shall I contend with grief alone?
    How bear this cheerless earth when thou art gone?
    Dear being! 'tis thyself would still bestow
    Whate'er of comfort the bereft may know!
    For when, (how else shall I employ the hours?)
    Of thee I think, thy virtues, and thy powers,
    Shall I despair? thou did'st not:—or repine?
    Did ever murmur spring from lips of thine?


    Yes—I will strive—though, at the thought, my heart
    Sickens, and nature trembles at her part.
    I will not wholly lose thee, but believe,
    That, from on high, thy care I still receive;
    And, as I wander through the silent glade,
    Trace the sequester'd brook, or seek the shade,
    Through day's long hours; or in the night profound,
    When stillness breathes a sacred calm around;
    Discourse with thee in spirit, though disjoin'd,
    And catch the influence of angelic mind.
    The force of virtue lasts beyond the grave,
    Still shalt thou watch, console me, guide, and save!
    Lead me from ill, and keep my steadfast eye,
    Fill'd with the prospect of futurity;
    Where, soon or later, if I teach my feet
    Thy steps to follow—we again shall meet.

    ∗ Since the above was put into the editor's hands, the amiable and excellent original of the Portrait has been removed to that higher state of existence, for which she was so well prepared.




    YES, 'tis a year since last that plaintive cry,
    "Pity the prisoners," touch'd my wand'ring ear:
    And now again their hat is lower'd from high,
    And the same famish'd, sharpen'd features peer
    Through the stern bars.—Can the revolving year,
    With its rich interchange of joys, have brought
    Health to my body, transport to my thought,
    Whilst man hath left his fellow-creatures here?

    France! I have trod thy vine-clad hills, and eyed
    Milan's cathedral, the blue Glacier's wall,
    Como's fair lake in all its summer's pride;
    Baronial Heidelberg, Schaffhausen's fall;
    Till lost in ecstasy, my spirit flew
    Forth with the breeze, exulting o'er the view,
    And, as that breeze along a bank of flowers
    Gathers their odours, with a silent awe
    Incorporating them into my powers,
    I mingled with the mighty things I saw,


    Bold forms, sweet tints, soft Nature's whisper'd tone,
    And made the feelings of the Alps my own:
    Just as the lake, beneath the mountain's brow,
    Reflects the charms that on its borders glow,
    Receives them to its breast, and seems to blend
    Their nature in its own, as friend to friend.
    And I at will have seen and mused on man,
    His varied character and social plan,—
    The prudent Dutchman, the more simple Swiss,
    Till, home returning, the familiar kiss
    Of loving lips received me.——
    ———— Out, alas!
    On human mercy! whilst my hours have flown
    Lovely as sunbeams through the prism glass,
    Your bondaged months have dragged their weight alone,
    Poor barr'd and pittanced thralls! to you the same
    How bright the day, or rich the harvest came!
    Oh, how can guilty souls presume to meet
    Him, who redeem'd them, on his judgment-seat,
    Who taught them but one daily prayer to Heaven,
    "As we forgive, so may we be forgiven!"
    Bankrupts and beggars! how can they forget
    The retribution of his awful threat,
    On fierce exactors of a fellow-servant's debt?
    Away! no kneeling mockery to your Lord!
    When ye but ask'd him, he forgave you all;


    Ev'n you, whose patience will not once afford
    A doit's forbearance at a brother's call.
    Yourselves have judg'd yourselves, and wrath defied,
    By every drop of comfort you denied;
    And heap'd consuming horrors on your head
    In ev'ry tear your with'ring victims shed;
    Those tears which baffled avarice can spurn,
    Then, reckless, to life's breathing world return
    To feast with Pharisees, the sunbeam share,
    Weep o'er a play, nor tremble at a prayer.
    Grasping the pound of flesh revenge makes dear,
    Age after age, man pens his equal here.
    He owed you monies, therefore, whilst the blood
    Boils at his heart, and children cry for food;
    Whilst strong his energies, erect his form,
    His feelings fresh about him,—like a storm,
    You, the rich tyrant, fasten'd on your prey,
    Carried him from his plunder'd home away;
    And to this living sepulchre consign'd,
    A fading body, and a writhing mind.
    Here, left in hateful solitude to die,
    By the slow poison of much misery.—

    Pity the prisoners! Yes; tho' thrown aside,
    Like serpents that dar'd cross the path of pride.


    And darken, with your wretched looks, the day
    Of purse-swol'n neighbours, whom want could not pay;
    And though ye lose, withdrawn from public sight,
    The throng'd world's sympathy, your humble right,
    Yet do your cruel sorrows justice find,
    Among the human portion of mankind,—
    The glorious few, who, true to virtue's cause,
    Would mend their country's by religion's laws;
    They who have made the better part their choice,
    And pass'd protected through life's furnace flame,
    Nor need, like me, the suff'rer's pleading voice,
    To wake their nature to a sense of shame;
    Who, amidst fashion's taint and pleasure's lure,
    Have fought the thankless battles of the poor;
    Wrench'd from the worldly hand its iron rod,
    And best have serv'd, by most resembling God.
    Whilst me, yet loit'ring on a foreign strand,
    Life's labyrinth-thread deceives, and seems but sand,
    Which from my feeble fingers slips away,
    Like the delusion of a vacant dream,
    Or mountain music of some shallow stream,
    That, pleas'd in list'ning its own worthless sound,
    Cools no parch'd lip, revives no thirsty ground.
    In those brief hours of light which yet remain,
    If yet, oh, teach me not to live in vain!


    Teach me, Great Master to redeem the time,
    And heavenward teach my sacred thoughts to climb.
    Then shall I, from sin's slavish thraldom free,
    Love all thy Gospel loves, and humbly honour Thee.




    YES, thou mayst walk in silk attire,
    If thou'lt consent to be his bride,
    Whose wealth can satiate each desire
    That ministers to pride.

    If thou'lt forswear thy plighted love,
    And leave his aching heart to break,
    With whom, in Teviot's evening grove,
    Thou vow'dst life's lot to take.

    To whom thy stainless, youthful heart,
    Pledg'd its affections earliest glow,
    And bade thy faltering lips impart
    Bliss he no more can know.

    When life to thee, as then to him,
    Beam'd in its freshest, loveliest hue,