Away, my soul, away! In vain, in vain, the birds of warning sing -And hark! 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 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 bedi God's image, sister of the Seraphim. MONODY ON THE DEATH OF WHEN faint and sad o'er Sorrow's desert wild Thee, CHATTERTON! yon unblest stones protect Yet oft ('tis nature's call) I weep, that heaven-born genius so should fall; And oft, in fancy's saddest hour, my soul And now a flash of indignation high Darts thro' the tear, that glistens in mine eye! Is this the land of song-ennobled line? Ah me! yet Spenser, gentlest bard divine, 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, How dauntless Ella fray'd the Dacyan foes; 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, Inat, changeful, wanton'd to the orient day! But soon upon thy poor unshelter'd head Diu penury her sickly mildew shed : And soon the scathing Light'ning bade thee stand Ah! where are fled the charms of vernal Grace, 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; See, see her breast's convulsive throe, Ah! dash the poison'd chalice from thy hand! And thou had'st dash'd it, at her soft command, M M Told every pang, with which thy soul must smart, Ye woods! that wave o'er Avon's rocky steep, When most the big soul feels the mad'ning pow'r, Oft pouring on the winds a broken song: Poor Chatterton! he sorrows for thy fate This chaplet cast I on thy unshap'd tomb 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 transpiere'd with viewless dart The last pale Hope, that shiver'd at my heart! Hence, gloomy thoughts! no more my soul shall dwell On joys that were! No more endure to weigh The shame and anguish of the evil day, Where Virtue calm with careless step may stray; 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 Iflows the river Otter. To this place the author conducted a party of young ladies, during the summer months of the year 1793, one of |