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Till sympathetic drops unbidden start,
And pangs, quick-springing, muster round his heart;
And soft he treads, with other gazers round,
And fain would catch her sorrow's plaintive sound:
One word alone is all that strikes the ear,
One short, pathetic, simple word, “Oh dear!”
A thousand times repeated to the wind,
That wasts the sigh, but leaves the pang behind!
For ever of the proffer'd parley shy,
She hears th' unwelcome foot advancing nigh;
Nor quite unconscious of her wretched plight,
Gives one sad look, and hurries out of sight.
Fair-promised sunbeams of terrestrial bliss—
Health's gallant hopes—and are ye sunk to this
For in life's road, though thorns abundant grow,
There still are joys poor Anne can never know;
Joys which the gay companions of her prime
Sip, as they drift along the stream of time;
At eve to hear beside their tranquil home
The lifted latch, that speaks the lover come :
That love matured, next playful on the knee
To press the velvet lip of infancy;
To stay the tottering step, the features trace-
Inefitimable sweets of social peace


on BEHolding Bodlha M CAstle, on THE BANK OF THE Rother, 1N sussex.

Oh thou, brave ruin of the passed time,
When glorious spirits shone in burning arms,
And the brave trumpet, with its sweet alarms,
Call'd honour! at the matin hour sublime,
And the gray ev'ning; thou hast had thy prime,
And thy full vigour, and the eating harms
Of age have robb'd thee of thy warlike charms,
And placed thee here,x. image in my rhyme;

The owl now haunts thee, and oblivion's plant, The creeping ivy, has o'er-veil'd thy towers;

And Rother, looking up with eye askant, Recalling to his mind thy brighter hours,

Laments the time when, fair and elegant, Beauty first laugh’d from out thy joyous bowers!

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SLEEP breathes at last from out thee,
My little patient boy;

And balmy rest about thee
Smooths off the day's annoy.

I sit me down, and think
Of all thy winning ways;
Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink,

That I had less to praise.

Thy sidelong pillow'd meekness,
Thy thanks to all that aid,

Thy heart, in pain and weakness,
Of fancied faults afraid;

The little trembling hand
That wipes thy quiet tears,
These, these are things that may demand

Dread memories for years.

Sorrows I’ve had, severe ones,
I will not think of now ;

And calmly, mid my dear ones,
Have wasted with dry brow;

But when thy fingers press
And pat my stooping head,
I cannot bear the gentleness, *

The tears are in their bed.

Ah, first-born of thy mother,
When life and hope were new,

Kind playmate of thy brother,
Thy sister, father too;

My light where’er I go,
My bird when prison-bound,
My hand-in-hand companion—no,

My prayers shall hold thee round.

To say, “He has departed,”
“His voice—his face—is gone;”
To feel impatient-hearted,
Yet feel we must bear on ;
Ah! I could not endure
To whisper of such wo,
Unless I felt this sleep ensure
That it will not be so.

- Yes, still he's fix’d and sleeping !

This silence, too, the while—
Its very hush and creeping
Seem whispering us a smile :
Something divine and dim

Seems going by one’s ear,

Like parting wings of Cherubim,
Who say, “We’ve finished here.”

CHARLEs DIBD IN. 1745–1814.


HERE, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, .
The darling of our crew ;

No more .# hear the tempest howling,
For death has broach'd him to.

His form was of the manliest beauty,
His heart was kind and soft;

Faithful below he did his duty,
And now he's gone aloft.

Tom never from his word departed,
His virtues were so rare;

His friends were many and true-hearted,
His Poll was kind and fair.

And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly,
Ah! many's the time and oft;

But mirth is turn'd to melancholy,
For Tom is gone aloft.

Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather,
When He who all commands

Shall give, to call life's crew together,
The word to pipe all hands.

Thus death, who kings and tars despatches,
In vain Tom's life has doff'd :

For, though his body's under hatches,
His soul is gone aloft.

Rob ERT South Ey.


How beautiful is night! A dewy freshness fills the silent air; No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain, Breaks the serene of Heaven: In full-orb’d glory yonder moon divine Rolls through the dark blue depths. Beneath her steady ray The desert-circle spreads, Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky. How beautiful is night!

Who at this untimely hour
Wanders o'er the desert sands 1
No station is in view,
Nor palm-grove islanded amid the waste.

The mother and her child,
The widow’d mother and the fatherless boy,
They at this untimely hour
Wander o'er the desert sands.


Where'er his eye could reach, Fair structures, rainbow-hued, arose; And rich pavilions through the opening woods Gleam'd from their waving curtains sunny gold; And winding through the verdant vale Flow'd streams of liquid light; And fluted cypresses rear'd up Their living obelisks; And broad-leaved plane-trees in long colonnades O'er-arched delightful walks, Where round their trunks the thousand-tendrill'd vine Wound up and hung the boughs with greener wreaths, And clusters not their own. Wearied with endless beauty, did his eyes Return for rest! beside him teems the earth With tulips, like the ruddy evening streak'd; And here the lily hangs her head of snow; And here, amid her sable cup, Shines the red eye-spot, like one brightest star, The solitary twinkler of the night; And here the rose expands Her paradise of leaves.

Then on his ear what sounds
Of harmony arose!
Far music and the distance-mellow'd song
From bowers of merriment;
The waterfall remote;
The murmuring of the leafy groves;
The single nightingale
Perch'd in the rosier by, so richly toned,

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