The shame and anguish of the evil day, 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. THE Pixies, in the superstition of Devonshire, are a race of beings invisibly small, and harmless or friendly to man. At a small distance 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 flows 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. I. WHOм 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; II. When fades the moon all shadowy pale, That glows on Summer's scented plume: III. But not our filmy pinion We scorch amid the blaze of day Aye, from the sultry heat We to the cave retreat, O'ercanopied by huge roots intertwin'd With wildest texture, blacken'd o'er with age: Round them their mantle green the ivies bind. Beneath whose foliage pale Fann'd by the unfrequent gale We shield us from the Tyrant's mid-day rage. IV. Thither, while the murm'ring throng As round our sandy grot appear Weaving gay dreams of sunny-tinctur'd hue We glance before his view: O'er his hush'd soul our soothing witch'ries shed And twine our fairy garlands round his head. V. When Evening's dusky car, Crown'd with her dewy star, Steals o'er the fading sky in shadowy flight; On leaves of aspern trees We tremble to the breeze, Veil'd from the grosseren of mortal sight. Along our wild sequestred walk, We listen to th' enamour'd rustic's talk; Heave with the heavings of the maiden's breast, Where young-eyed Loves have built their turtle nest; Or, guide of soul-subduing power, Th' electric flash, that from the melting eye VI. Or thro' the mystic ringlets of the vale We flash our fairy feet in gamesome prank; Or, silent-sandal'd, pay our defter court Circling the Spirit of the Western Gale, Where, wearied with his flower-caressing sport, Supine he slumbers on a violet bank; Then with quaint music hymn the parting gleam, By lonely Otter's sleep-persuading stream, Or where his wave with loud unquiet song, Dash'd o'er the rocky channel, froths along; Or where his silver waters smooth'd to rest, The tall tree's shadow sleeps upon his breast. VII. Hence! thou lingerer Light! Mother of wildly-working dreams! we view Thy power the Pixies own, And clouds, in watery colours drest, Float in light drapery o'er thy sable vest; What time the pale moon sheds a softer day, Mellowing the woods beneath its pensive beam: For mid the quiv'ring light 'tis ours to play, Aye dancing to the cadence of the stream. VIII. Welcome, Ladies! to the cell, Where the blameless Pixies dwell. But thou, sweet nymph! proclaim'd our Fairy Queen Thy presence shall we greet? With Honour's softer mien: Mirth of the loosely-flowing hair, As snow-drop wet with dew. IX. Unboastful Maid! tho' now the Lily pale THE ROSE. As late each flower that sweetest blows Within the petals of a Rose A sleeping love I spied. Around his brows a beamy wreath Of many a lucent hue; All purple glow'd his cheek beneath, |