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And oft, in fancy's saddest hour, my soul
Averted shudders at the poison'd bowl.
Now groans my sickening heart, as still 1 view

Thy corse of livid hue :
And now a flash of indignation high
Darts thro’ the tear, that glistens in mine eye!

Is this the land of song-ennobled line?
Is this the land, where Genius ne'er in vain

Pour'd forth his lofty strain ?
Ah me! yet Spenser, gentlest bard divine,
Beneath chill disappointment's shade,
His weary limbs in lonely anguish lay'd :

And o'er her darling dead

Pity hopeless hung her head, While “mid the pelting of that merciless storm,” Sunk to the cold earth Otway's famish'd form !

Sublime of thought, and confident of fame,
From vales where Avon winds the Minstrel* came,

Light-hearted youth ! he hastes along,

And meditates the future song,
How dauntless Ælla fray'd the Dacyan foes;

See, as floating high in air

Glitter the sunny visions fair,
His eyes dance rapture, and his bosom glows !

Yes! clad in nature's rich array, And bright in all her tender hues, Sweet tree of hope! thou loveliest child of spring Most fair didst thou disclose thine early bloom, Loading the west-winds with its soft perfume ! And fancy, elfin form of gorgeous wing,

Avon, a river near Bristol, the birthplace of Chatterton.

On every

blossom hung her fostering dews, l'hat, changeful, wanton'd to the orient day! But soon upon thy poor unshelter'd head Diu penury her sickly mildew shed : Anú owon the scathing Lightning bade thee stand In frowning horror o'er the blighted land !

Ah! where are fled the charms of vernal Grace,
And Joy's wild gleams, light-flashing o'er thy face?

Youth of tumultuous soul, and haggard eye!
Thy wasted form, thy hurried steps I view,
On thy cold forehead starts the anguish'd dew:
And dreadful was that bosom-rending sigh!
Such were the struggles of the gloomy hour,

When Care, of wither'd brow,
Prepar'd the poison's power :
Already to thy lips was rais’d the bowl,

When near thee stood Affection meek

(Her bosom bare, and wildly pale her cheek)
Thy sullen gaze she bade thee roll
On scenes that well might melt thy soul;
Thy native cot she flash'd upon thy view,
Thy native cot, where still, at close of day,
Peace smiling sate, and listen’d to thy lay
Thy Sister's shrieks she bade thee hear,
And mark thy Mother's tear ;

See, see her breast's convulsive throe,

Her silent agony of woe!
Ah! dash the poison'd chalice from thy hand!

And thou had'st dash'd it, at her soft command,

But that Despair and Indignation rose,

And told again the story of thy woes; Told the keen insult of th' unfeeling heart;

The dread dependence on the low-born mind į



The shame and anguish of the evil day,
Wisely forgetful! O'er the ocean swell
Sublinie of Hope I seek the cottag'd dell,
Where Virtue calm with careless step may stray ;
And, dancing to the moon-light roundelay,
The wizard Passion weaves an holy spell !

O Chatterton! that thou wert yet alive!

Sure thou would'st spread the canvass to the gale, And love, with us, the tinkling team to drive

O’er peaceful Freedom's undivided dale,
And we, at sober eve, would round thee throng
Hanging, enraptur’d, on thy stately song !
And greet with smiles the young-eyed Poesy

All deftly mask'd, as hoar Antiquity.
Alas vain Phantasies ! the fleeting brood
Of Woe self solac'd in her dreamy mood !
Yet will I love to follow the sweet dream,
Where Susquehannah pours his untam'd stream;
And on some hill, whose forest-frowning side
Waves o'er the murmurs of his calmer tide,
Will raise a solemn Cenotaph to thee,
Sweet Harper of time-shrouded Minstrelsy!
And there, sooth'd sadly by the dirgeful wind,
Muse on the sore ills I had left behind.

SONGS OF THE PIXIES. Tas Pixies, in the superstition of Devonshire, are a raco of beings invisibly small, and harmless or friendly to man. At & small dis. tance from a village in that country, half way up a wood-covered hill, is an excavation, called the Pixies' Parlour. The roots of old trees form its ceiling; and on its sides are innumerable cyphers, among which the author discovered his own cypher and those of his brothers, cut by the hand of their childhood. At the foot of the hill fows the river Otter. To this place the author conducted a party of young ladies, during the summer months of the year 1793, one of

whom, of stature elegantly small, and of complexion colourless yet clear, was proclaimed the Fairy Queen, on which occasion, and at which time, the following irregular ode was written.


Whom the untaught Shepherds call
Pixies in their madrigal,
Fancy's children, here we dwell :
Welcome, Ladies ! to our cell.
Here the wren of softest note

Builds it's nest and warbles well;
Here the blackbird strains his throat:

Welcome, Ladies ! to our cell.


When fades the moon all shadowy pale,
And scuds the cloud before the gale,
Ere Morn, with living gems bedight
Streaks the East with purple light,
We sip the furze-flow'r's fragrant dews
Clad in robes of rainbow hues
Richer than the deepen'd bloom
That glows on Summer's scented plume :
Or sport amid the rosy gleam,
Sooth'd by the distant tinkling team,
Whilst lusty Labour, scouting sorrow,
Bids the Dame a glad good morrow,
Who jogs th' accustom'd road along,
And paces cheery to her cheering song.


But not our filmy pinion

We scorch amid the blaze of day
When Noontide's fiery-tressed minion
Flashes the fervid ray.

Aye, from the sultry heat
We to the cave retreat,

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