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Away, my soul, away! In vain, in vain, the birds of warning sing -And bark! I hear the famish'd brood of prey Flap their lank pennons on the groaning wind !

Away, my soul, away! I, unpartaking of the evil thing,

With daily prayer, and daily toil

Soliciting for food my scanty soil, Have wail'd my country with a loud lament. Now I recentre my immortal mind

In the deep sabbath of blest self-content; Cleansed from the fears and anguish that bedin God's image, sister of the Seraphim.

MONODY ON THE DEATH OF

CHATTERTON. WHEN faint and sad o'er Sorrow's desert wild Slow journeys onward poor Misfortune's child ; When fades each lovely form by fancy dress’d, And inly pines the self-consuming breast; (No scourge

of scorpions in thy right arm dread, No helmet terrors nodding o'er thy head,) Assume, O Death ! the cherub wings of Peace, And bid the heart-sick wanderer's anguish cease!

Thee, CHATTERTON ! yon unblest stones protect
From want, and the bleak freezings of neglect !
Escap'd the sore wounds of affliction's rod
Meek at the throne of mercy,

and of God, Perchance, thou raisest high th' enraptur'd hymn

Amid the blaze of Seraphim ! Yet oft ('tis nature's call) I weep, that heaven-born genius so should fall ;

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 * caine.

Light-hearted youth ! he hastes along,

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

See, as floating high in air

Glitter the sunny visions fair, His

cyes 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,

Inat, changeful, wanton'd to the orient day! But soon upon thy poor unshelter'd head Diu penury her sickly mildew shed : Ani ovun 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,
Prepard 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;

. M

Told every pang, with which thy soul must smart,

Neglect, and grinning Scorn, and Want combin'd! Recoiling quick, thou bad’st the friend of pain Roll the black tide of Death thro' every freezing

vein !

Ye woods! that wave o'er Avon's rocky steep,
To Fancy's ear sweet is your murm'ring deep!
For here she loves the cypress wreath to wave
Watching, with wistful eye, the sad’ning tints of eve.
Here, far from men, amid this pathless grove,
in solemn thought the Minstrel wont to rove,
Like star-beam on the slow sequester'd tide
Lone-glittering, thro' the high tree branching wide.
And here, in Inspiration's eager hour,
When most the big soul feels the mad’ning pow'r,
These wilds, these caverns roaming o'er,
Round which the screaming sea-gulls soar,
With wild unequal steps he pass’d along,
Oft pouring on the winds a broken song:
Anon, upon some rough rock's fearful brow
Would pause abrupt—and gaze upon the waves below

Poor Chatterton! he sorrows for thy fate
Who would have prais'd and lov'd thee, ere too late,
Poor Chatterton ! farewell! of darkest hues

This chaplet cast I on thy unshap'd tomb,
But dare no longer on the sad theme muse;

Lest kindred woes persuade a kindred doom: For oh! big gall-drops, shook from Folly's wing, Have blacken’d the fair promise of my spring ; And the stern Fate transpier&d with viewless dart

The last pale Hope, that shiver'd at my heart ! Hence, gloomy thoughts! no more my soul shalldwell On joys that were! No more endure to weigh

The shame and anguish of the evil day,
Wisely forgetful! O'er the ocean swell
Subline of Hope I seek the cottag'd deil,
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 yain 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

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