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TRANSLATIONS. From the Latin of Vincent Bourne-

On a Sepulchral Statue of an Infant Sleeping

The Rival Bells

Epitaph on a Dog

To David Cook, of the Parish of St. Margaret's,

THE WIFE'S TRIAL; OR, THE INTRUDING WIDOW (A

304

ON BURIAL SOCIETIES; AND THE CHARACTER OF AN

UNDERTAKER

ON THE DANGER OF CONFOUNDING MORAL WITH PER-

BEING

335

339

348

877

POEMS.

1

WAS it some sweet device of Faëry

That mock'd my steps with many a lonely glade,
And fancied wanderings with a fair-hair'd maid?
Have these things been or what rare witchery,
Impregning with delights the charmed air,"
Enlighted up the semblance of a smile

In those fine eyes? methought they spake the while
Soft soothing things, which might enforce despair
To drop the murdering knife, and let go by
His foul resolve. And does the lonely glade
Still court the footsteps of the fair-hair'd maid}
Still in her locks the gales of summer sigh?
While I forlorn do wander, reckless where,
And 'mid my wanderings meet no Anna there.

1795.

2.

WHEN last I roved these winding wood-walks green,
Green winding walks, and shady pathways sweet,

Ofttimes would Anna seek the silent scene,
Shrouding her beauties in the lone retreat.

B

No more I hear her footsteps in the shade:
Her image only in these pleasant ways
Meets me self-wandering, where in happier days
I held free converse with the fair-hair'd maid.
I pass'd the little cottage which she loved,
The cottage which did once my all contain;
It spake of days which ne'er must come again,
Spake to my heart, and much my heart was moved.
"Now fair befall thee, gentle maid!" said I,
And from the cottage turn'd me with a sigh.

1795.

3.

THE Lord of Light shakes off his drowsyhed;
Fresh from his couch up springs the lusty sun,
And girds himself his mighty race to run.
Meantime, by truant love of rambling ìed
I turn my back on thy detested walls,
Proud city, and thy sons I leave behiul,
A selfish, sordid, money-getting kind
Who shut their ears when holy Freedom calls.
I pass not thee so lightly, humble spire,
That mindest me of many a pleasure gone,
Of merriest days of love and Islington,
Kindling anew the flames of past desire;
And I shall muse on thee, slow journeying on,
To the green plains of pleasant Hertfordshire.

1795.

4.

A TIMID grace sits trembling in her eye,
As loth to meet the rudeness of men's sight,
Yet shedding a delicious lunar light,

That steeps in kind oblivious ecstasy

The care-crazed mind, like some still melody: Speaking most plain the thoughts which do possess