TO THE RIVER TRENT. WRITTEN ON RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS.

ONCE more, O Trent, along thy pebbly marge,
A pensive invalid, reduced and pale,
From the close sick room newly let at large,
Woos to his wan-worn cheek the pleasant gale.
O, to his ear how musical the tale

Which fills with joy the throstle's little throat;
And all the sounds which on the fresh breeze sail,
How wildly novel on his senses float !
It was on this that many a sleepless night,
As, lone, he watched the taper's sickly gleam,
And at his casement heard, with wild affright,
The owl's dull wing and melancholy scream,
On this he thought-this, this his sole desire,
Thus once again to hear the warbling woodland
choir.

GIVE me a cottage on some Cambrian wild,
Where, far from cities, I may spend my days,
And, by the beauties of the scene beguiled,
May pity man's pursuits, and shun his ways.
While on the rock I mark the browsing goat,
List to the mountain-torrent's distant noise,
Or the hoarse bittern's solitary note,

I shall not want the world's delusive joys;
But with my little scrip, my book, my lyre,
Shall think my lot complete, nor covet more ;
And when, with time shall wane the vital fire,
I'll raise my pillow on the desert shore,
And lay me down to rest where the wild wave
Shall make sweet music o'er my lonely grave.

SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN ADDRESSED BY A
FEMALE LUNATIC TO A LADY*.

LADY, thou weepest for the maniac's woe;
And thou art fair, and thou, like me, art young;
Oh, may thy bosom never, never know

The pangs with which my wretched heart is wrung.
I had a mother once-a brother too-
Beneath yon yew my father rests his head—
I had a lover once, and kind and true!
But mother, brother, lover, all are fled!
Yet, whence the tear which dims thy lovely eye?
Oh, gentle lady! not for me thus weep;
The green sod soon upon my breast will lie,
And soft and sound will be my peaceful sleep.
Go thou and pluck the roses while they bloom-
My hopes lie buried in the silent tomb.

As thus oppressed with many a heavy care,
(Though young, yet sorrowful,) I turn my feet
To the dark woodland, longing much to greet
The form of peace, if chance she sojourn there,
Deep thoughts, and dismal, verging to despair,
Fill my sad breast; and, tired with this vain coil,
I shrink dismayed before life's upland toil.
And as amid the leaves, the evening air

*This quatorzain had its rise from an elegant sonnet, written by Mrs. Lofft, "Occasioned by seeing a young Female Lunatic."

Whispers still melody, I think, ere long,
When I no more can hear, these woods will speak;
And then a sad smile plays upon my cheek,
And mournful phantasies upon me throng,
And I do ponder with most strange delight
On the calm slumbers of the dead man's night.

SONNET

SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN BY THE UNHAPPY POET
DERMODY, IN A STORM, WHILE ON BOARD A SHIP IN HIS
MAJESTY'S SERVICE.

Lo! o'er the welkin the tempestuous clouds
Successive fly, and the loud piping wind
Rocks the poor sea-boy on the dripping shrouds,
While the pale pilot, o'er the helm reclined,
Lists to the changeful storm: and as he plies
His wakeful task, he oft bethinks him, sad,
Of wife, and little home, and chubby lad;
And the half-strangled tear bedews his eyes.
I, on the deck, musing on themes forlorn,
View the drear tempest and the yawning deep,
Nought dreading in the green sea's caves to
sleep;

For not for me shall wife or children mourn,
And the wild winds will ring my funeral knell,
Sweetly as solemn peal of pious passing-bell.

THE WINTER TRAVELLER.

GOD help thee, traveller, on thy journey far;
The wind is bitter keen, the snow o'erlays
The hidden pits and dangerous hollow ways,
And darkness will involve thee. No kind star
To-night will guide thee, traveller; and the war
Of winds and elements on thy head will break,
And in thy agonizing ear the shriek
Of spirits howling on their stormy car
Will often ring appalling! I portend
A dismal night; and on my wakeful bed
Thoughts, traveller, of thee will fill my head,
And him who rides where winds and waves contend,
And strives, rude cradled on the seas, to guide
His lonely bark through the tempestuous tide.

SONNET

BY CAPEL LOFFT, ESQ.

[This sonnet was addressed to the author of this volume,
and was occasioned by several little quatorzains, misno-
mered sonnets, which he published in "The Monthly
Mirror." He begs leave to return his thanks to the
much-respected writer, for the permission so politely
granted to insert it here, and for the good opinion he has
been pleased to express of his productions.]
YE, whose aspirings court the Muse of lays,
"Severest of those orders which belong,
Distinct and separate, to Delphic song,"
Why shun the Sonnet's undulating maze?
And why its name, boast of Petrarchian days,
Assume, its rules disowned? Whom from the throng
The Muse selects, their ear the charm obeys
Of its full harmony: they fear to wrong
The Sonnet, by adorning with a name

Of that distinguished import, lays, though sweet,
Yet not in magic texture taught to meet
Of that so varied and peculiar frame.

O think! to vindicate its genuine praise
Those it beseems. whose lyre a favouring impulse
sways.

SONNET

RECANTATORY, IN REPLY TO THE FOREGOING ELEGANT
ADMONITION.

LET the sublimer Muse, who, wrapped in night,
Rides on the raven pennons of the storm,
Or o'er the field, with purple havoc warm,
Lashes her steeds, and sings along the fight,
Let her, whom more ferocious strains delight,
Disdain the plaintive Sonnet's little form,
And scorn to its wild cadence to conform
The impetuous tenor of her hardy flight.
But me, far lowest of the sylvan train,

Who wake the wood-nymphs from the forest shade
With wildest song; me, much behoves thy aid
Of mingled melody, to grace my strain,
And give it power to please, as oft it flows
Through the smooth murmurs of thy frequent close.

TO CAPEL LOFFT, ESQ.

LOFFT, unto thee one tributary song
The simple Muse, admiring, fain would bring;
She longs to lisp thee to the listening throng,
And with thy name to bid the woodlands ring.
Fain would she blazon all thy virtues forth,
Thy warm philanthropy, thy justice mild,
Would say how thou didst foster kindred worth,
And to thy bosom snatched Misfortune's child:
Firm she would paint thee, with becoming zeal,
Upright, and learned, as the Pylian sire,
Would say how sweetly thou couldst sweep the lyre,
And show thy labours for the public weal,
Ten thousand virtues tell with joys supreme,
But ah she shrinks abashed before the arduous
theme.

ON HEARING THE SOUNDS OF AN
EOLIAN HARP.

So ravishingly soft upon the tide
Of the infuriate gust it did career,

It might have soothed its rugged charioteer,
And sunk him to a zephyr : then it died,
Melting in melody; and I descried,
Borne to some wizard stream, the form appear
Of druid sage, who on the far-off ear
Poured his lone song, to which the surge replied:
Or thought I heard the hapless pilgrim's knell,
Lost in some wild enchanted forest's bounds,
By unseen beings sung; or are these sounds
Such, as 'tis said, at night are known to swell
By startled shepherd on the lonely heath,
Keeping his night-watch sad, portending death?

TO THE MOON.

WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER.

SUBLIME, emerging from the misty verge
Of the horizon dim, thee, Moon, I hail,
As sweeping o'er the leafless grove, the gale
Seems to repeat the year's funereal dirge.
Now autumn sickens on the languid sight,
And leaves bestrew the wanderer's lonely way;
Now unto thee, pale arbitress of night,
With double joy my homage do I pay.
When clouds disguise the glories of the day,
And stern November sheds her boisterous blight,
How doubly sweet to mark the moony ray
Shoot through the mist from the ethereal height,
And, still unchanged, back to the memory bring
The smiles Favonian of life's earliest spring.

MISFORTUNE, I am young, my chin is bare,
And I have wondered much when men have told,
How youth was free from sorrow and from care,
That thou shouldst dwell with me, and leave the old.
Sure dost not like me! Shrivelled hag of hate,
My phiz, and thanks to thee, is sadly long;
I am not either, beldame, over strong;
Nor do I wish at all to be thy mate,
For thou, sweet fury, art my bitter hate.
Nay, shake not thus thy miserable pate;

I am yet young, and do not like thy face;
And lest thou shouldst resume the wild-goose chase,
I'll tell thee something all thy heat to assuage-
Thou wilt not hit my fancy in my age.

TO APRIL.

EMBLEM of life, see changeful April sail
In varying vest along the shadowy skies,
Now bidding summer's softest zephyrs rise,
Anon recalling winter's stormy gale,
And pouring from the cloud her sudden hail;
Then, smiling through the tear that dims her eyes,
While Iris with her braid the welkin dyes,
Promise of sunshine, not so prone to fail.
So, to us sojourners in life's low vale,
The smiles of Fortune flatter to deceive,
While still the Fates the web of misery weave.
So Hope exultant spreads her airy sail,
And from the present gloom the soul conveys
To distant summers and far happier days.

YE unseen spirits, whose wild melodies,
At evening rising slow, yet sweetly clear,
Steal on the musing poet's pensive ear,
As by the wood-spring stretched supine he lies;
When he, who now invokes you, low is laid,
His tired frame resting on the earth's cold bed,
Hold ye your nightly vigils o'er his head,
And chant a dirge to his reposing shade!
For he was wont to love your madrigals;
And often by the haunted stream that laves
The dark sequestered woodland's inmost caves,
Would sit and listen to the dying falls,
Till the full tear would quiver in his eye,
And his big heart would heave with mournful
ecstacy.

TO A TAPER.

"TIs midnight. On the globe dead slumber sits,
And all is silence-in the hour of sleep,
Save when the hollow gust, that swells by fits,
In the dark wood roars fearfully and deep.
I wake alone to listen and to weep,

To watch my taper, thy pale beacon, burn;
And, as still Memory does her vigils keep,
To think of days that never can return.
By thy pale ray I raise my languid head,
My eye surveys the solitary gloom;
And the sad meaning tear, unmixed with dread,
Tells thou dost light me to the silent tomb.
Like thee I wane; like thine, my life's last ray
Will fade in loneliness, unwept, away.

QUICK o'er the wintry waste dart fiery shafts,
Bleak blows the blast-now howls-then faintly
And oft upon its awful wings it wafts [dies,
The dying wanderer's distant, feeble cries.
Now, when athwart the gloom gaunt horror stalks,
And midnight hags their damned vigils hold,
The pensive poet 'mid the wild waste walks,
And ponders on the ills life's paths unfold.
Mindless of dangers hovering round, he goes,
Insensible to every outward ill;

Yet oft his bosom heaves with rending throes,
And oft big tears adown his worn cheeks trill.
Ah! 'tis the anguish of a mental sore,
Which gnaws his heart, and bids him hope no more.

YES, 'twill be over soon!-This sickly dream
Of life will vanish from my feverish brain;
And death my wearied spirit will redeem
From this wild region of unvaried pain.
Yon brook will glide as softly as before,
Yon landscape smile, yon golden harvest grow,
Yon sprightly lark on mounting wing will soar,
When Henry's name is heard no more below.
I sigh when all my youthful friends caress,
They laugh in health, and future evils brave;
Them shall a wife and smiling children bless,
While I am mouldering in the silent grave.
God of the just, thou gav'st the bitter cup;
I bow to thy behest, and drink it up.

TO CONSUMPTION.

GENTLY, most gently, on thy victim's head,
Consumption, lay thine hand!-Let me decay,
Like the expiring lamp, unseen, away,
And softly go to slumber with the dead.
And if 'tis true what holy men have said,
That strains angelic oft foretell the day
Of death, to those good men who fall thy prey,
O let the aërial music round my bed,
Dissolving sad in dying symphony,
Whisper the solemn warning in mine ear;
That I may bid my weeping friends good bye
Ere I depart upon my journey drear;
And, smiling faintly on the painful past,
Compose my decent head, and breathe my last.

TRANSLATION

FROM THE FRENCH OF M. DESBARREAUX.

THY judgments, Lord, are just; thou lov'st to wear
The face of pity, and of love divine;

But mine is guilt-thou must not, canst not spare,
While Heaven is true, and equity is thine.
Yes, oh my God, such crimes as mine, so dread,
Leave but the choice of punishment to thee;
Thy interest calls for judgment on my head,
And e'en thy mercy dares not plead for me!
Thy will be done-since 'tis thy glory's due,
Did from mine eyes the endless torrents flow;
Smite-it is time-though, endless death ensue,
I bless the avenging hand that lays me low.
But on what spot shall fall thine anger's flood,
That has not first been drenched in Christ's atoning
blood?

WHEN I sit musing on the checkered past,
(A term much darkened with untimely woes,)
My thoughts revert to her, for whom still flows
The tear, though half disowned; and binding
fast

Pride's stubborn cheat to my too yielding heart,
I say to her, she robbed me of my rest,
When that was all my wealth. 'Tis true, my
breast

Received from her this wearying, lingering smart;
Yet, ah! I cannot bid her form depart :
Though wronged, I love her-yet in anger love,
For she was most unworthy. Then I prove
Vindictive joy; and on my stern front gleams,
Throned in dark clouds, inflexible

The native pride of my much-injured heart.

FOR FAMILY WORSHIP.

O LORD, another day is flown,

And we, a lonely band,

Are met once more before thy throne,
To bless thy fostering hand.

And wilt thou bend a listening ear,
To praises low as ours?

Thou wilt for thou dost love to hear

The song which meekness pours.
And, Jesus, thou thy smiles wilt deign,
As we before thee pray;

For thou didst bless the infant train,
And we are less than they.

O let thy grace perform its part,
And let contention cease;
And shed abroad in every heart

Thine everlasting peace!

Thus chastened, cleansed, entirely thine, A flock by Jesus led;

The Sun of Holiness shall shine

In glory on our head.

And thou wilt turn our wandering feet,
And thou wilt bless our way;

Till worlds shall fade, and faith shall greet
The dawn of lasting day.

O LORD, my God, in mercy turn,
In mercy hear a sinner mourn!
To thee I call, to thee I cry,

O leave me, leave me not to die!

I strove against thee, Lord, I know,
I spurned thy grace, I mocked thy law;
The hour is past-the day's gone by,
And I am left alone to die.

O pleasures past, what are ye now
But thorns about my bleeding brow!
Spectres that hover round my brain,
And aggravate and mock my pain.
For pleasure I have given my soul ;
Now, Justice, let thy thunders roll!
Now vengeance smile-and with a blow,
Lay the rebellious ingrate low.

Yet Jesus, Jesus! there I'll cling,
I'll crowd beneath his sheltering wing;
I'll clasp the cross, and holding there,
E'en me, oh bliss! his wrath may spare.

In Heaven we shall be purified, so as to be able to endure the splendours of the Deity.

AWAKE, Sweet harp of Judah, wake,
Retune thy strings for Jesu's sake;
We sing the Saviour of our race,
The Lamb, our shield, and hiding-place.

When God's right arm is bared for war,
And thunders clothe his cloudy car,
Where, where, oh where shall man retire,
To escape the horrors of his ire?

'Tis he, the Lamb, to him we fly,
While the dread tempest passes by;
God sees his Well-beloved's face,
And spares us in our hiding-place.
Thus while we dwell in this low scene,
The Lamb is our unfailing screen;
To him, though guilty, still we run,
And God still spares us for his Son.

While yet we sojourn here below,
Pollutions still our hearts o'erflow;
Fallen, abject, mean, a sentenced race,
We deeply need a hiding-place.

Yet courage-days and years will glide,
And we shall lay these clods aside;
Shall be baptized in Jordan's flood,
And washed in Jesu's cleansing blood.

Then pure, immortal, sinless, freed,
We through the Lamb shall be decreed;
Shall meet the Father face to face,
And need no more a hiding-place.*

*The last stanza of this hymn was added extemporaneously by our author, one summer evening, when he was with a few friends on the Trent, and singing it, as he was used to do on such occasions.

LINES BY LORD BYRON.

FROM THE "ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS."

UNHAPPY White *! while life was in its spring,
And thy young Muse just waved her joyous wing,
The spoiler came; and all thy promise fair
Has sought the grave, to sleep for ever there.
Oh! what a noble heart was here undone,
When science' self destroyed her favourite son!
Yes! she too much indulged thy fond pursuit,
She sowed the seeds, but death has reaped the fruit.
'Twas thine own genius gave the final blow,
And helped to plant the wound that laid thee low.
So the struck eagle, stretched upon the plain,
No more through rolling clouds to soar again,
Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart,
And wing'd the shaft that quivered in his heart.
Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel,
He nursed the pinion which impelled the steel;
While the same plumage that had warmed his nest
Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast.

SONNET ON HENRY KIRKE WHITE.
BY CAPEL LOFFT.

MASTER SO early of the various lyre
Energic, pure, sublime !-Thus art thou gone!
In its bright dawn of fame that spirit flown,
Which breathed such sweetness, tenderness, and
Wert thou but shown to win us to admire, [fire!
And veil in death thy splendour ?—But unknown
Their destination who least time have shone,
And brightest beamed. When these the Eternal
Sire:

Righteous, and wise, and good are all his ways—
Eclipses as their sun begins to rise,

Can mortal judge, for their diminished days,
What blest equivalent in changeless skies,
What sacred glory waits them?-His the praise;
Gracious, whate'er he gives, whate'er denies.

Oct. 24, 1806.

* Henry Kirke White died at Cambridge in October, 1806, in consequence of too much exertion in the pursuit of studies that would have matured a mind which disease and poverty could not impair, and which death itself destroyed rather than subdued. His poems abound in such beauties as must impress the reader with the liveliest regret that so short a period was allotted to talents, which would have dignified even the sacred functions he was destined to assume.

SONNET OCCASIONED BY THE SECOND OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

BY CAPEL LOFFT.

YES, fled already is thy vital fire,

And the fair promise of thy early bloom
Lost, in youth's morn extinct; sunk in the tomb ;
Mute in the grave sleeps thy enchanted lyre!
And is it vainly that our souls aspire ?
Falsely does the presaging heart presume
That we shall live beyond life's cares and gloom;
Grasps it eternity with high desire,

But to imagine bliss, feel woe, and die ;
Leaving survivors to worse pangs than death?
Not such the sanction of the Eternal Mind.
The harmonious order of the starry sky,
And awful revelation's angel breath,
Assure these hopes their full effect shall find.
Dec 25, 1806.