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And sootb’d with many a dream the hour of rest ;
TO THE RIVER OTTER.
DEAR native Brook! wild Streamlet of the West !
Gleam'd thro' thy bright transparence to the gaze !
COMPOSED WHILE CLIMBING THE LEFT ASCENT OF
BROCKLEY COOMB, IN THE COUNTY OF
SOMERSET, MAY, 1795. With many a pause and oft reverted eye I climb the Coomb's ascent : sweet songsters near Warble in shade their wild-wood melody: Far off th' unvarying Cuckoo soothes my ear. Up scour the startling stragglers of the Flock That on green plots o'er precipices browze : From the forc'd fissures of the naked rock The Yew tree bursts! beneath its dark green boughs (Mid which the May-thorn blends its blossoms white) Where broad smooth stones jut out in mossy seats, I rest. And now have gain’d the topmost site. Ah! what a luxury of landscape meets My gaze! Proud Towers, and Cots more dear to me Elm-shadow'd Fields, and prospect-bounding Sea ! Deep sighs my lonely heart: I drop the tear : Enchanting spot! O were my Sara here !
That hang from thy white beard and numb thy breast.
SONNET VII. PALE Roamer, thro' the Night! thou poor Forlora ! Remorse that man on his death-bed possess, Who in the credulous hour of tenderness Betray'd, then cast thee forth to Want and Scorn. The world is pityless; the Chaste one's pride, Mimic of Virtue, scowls on thy distress : Thy Loves and they that envied thee deride : And vice alone will shelter Wretchedness! 0! I am sad to think, that there should be Cold-bosom’d lewd ones, who endure to place Foul offerings on the shrine of Misery, And force from Famine the caress of Love ! May He shed healing on thy sore disgrace, He, the great Comforter that rules above !
SONNET VIII. TO THE AUTHOR OF " THE ROBBERS." SCHILLER ! * that hour I would have wish'd to die, If thro' the shudd'ring midnight I had sent
* One night in Winter, on leaving a College-friend's room, with whorn I had supped, I carelessly took away with me “The Robbers”' a drama, the very name of which I had never before heard of :a winter midnight—the wind high-and “The Robbers” for the first time-The readers of Schiller will conceive what I felt. Schiller introduces no supernatural beings ; yet his human beings agitate and astonish, more than all the goblin rout even of Siaks. peare.
From the dark Dungeon of the Tower time-rent
COMPOSED ON A JOURNEY HOMEWARD; THE AU
THOR HAVING RECEIVED INTELLIGENCE OF THE
BIRTH OF A SON, SEPTEMBER, 20, 1796. Oft o'er my brain does that strange fancy roll Which makes the present (while the flash doth last) Seem a mere semblance of some unknown past, Mix'd with such feelings as perplex the soul Self-question'd in her sleep: and some have said We liv'd, ere yet this fleshy robe we wore. O my sweet Baby! when I reach my door, If heavy looks should tell me, thou wert dead (As sometimes, thro' excess of hope, I fear) I think that I should struggle to believe Thou wert a Spirit, to take this nether sphere Sentenc'd for some more venial crime to grieve; Didst scream, then spring to meet Heaven's quick
reprieve. While we wept idiy o'er thy little bier !
TO A FRIEND, WHO ASKED HOW I FELT, WHEN THE
NURSE FIRST PRESENTED MY INFANT TO ME.
CHARLES! my slow heart was only sad, when first
ON HAVING LEFT A PLACE OF RETIREMENT,
Low was our pretty Cot: our tallest Rose