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The debt discharg'd, then should her soldier | Through all the world in vain for ages sought, [home; But fate has doom'd thee now, and thou art

come

Gay from the field, and flush'd with conquest,
With equal ardor her affection meet,
And lay his laurels at his mistress' feet.
He ceas'd, and sighing took a kind adieu;
Then urg'd his steed; the fierce Grifippo flew
With rapid force, outstripp'd the lagging wind,
And left the blissful shores, and weeping fair
behind;

Now o'er the seas pursu'd his airy flight,
Now scour'd the plains, and climb'd the moun-
tain's height.
[run
Thus driving on at speed, the prince had
Near half his course, when, with the setting

sun,

As through a lonely lane he chanc'd to ride,
With rocks and bushes fenc'd on either side,
He spied a waggon full of wings, that lay
Broke and o'erturn'd across the narrow way:
The helpless driver on the dirty road
Lay struggling crush'd beneath th' incumbent
Never in human shape was seen before [load.
A wight so pale, so feeble, and so poor,
Comparisons of age would do him wrong,
For Nestor's self if plac'd by him were young.
His limbs were naked all, and worn so thin,
The bones seeni'd starting through the parch-
ment skin;
[weak,
His eyes half drown'd in rheum, his accents
Bald was his head, and furrow'd was his cheek.
The conscious steed stopt short in deadly
fright,

And back recoiling stretch'd his wings for flight;

While thus the wretch with supplicating tone,
And rueful face, began his piteous moan;
And, as he spake, the tears ran trickling down:
O gentle youth, if pity e'er inclined
Thy soul to gen'rous deed, if e'er thy mind
Was touch'd with soft distress, extend thy care
To save an old man's life, and ease the load I
bear.

So

may propitious heaven your journey speed, Prolong your days, and all your vows succeed. Mov'd with the pray'r the kind Porsenna staid,

Too nobly minded to refuse his aid;
And, prudence yielding to superior grief,
Leapt from his steed, and ran to his relief;
Remov'd the weight, and gave the pris'ner
breath,

Just choak'd and gasping on the verge of death, Then reach'd his hand, when lightly with a bound

The grizly spectre, vaulting from th' ground, Seiz'd him with sudden gripe; th' astonish'd prince

Stood horror-struck, and thoughtless of defence.

O King of Russia! with a thund'ring sound Bellow'd the ghastly fiend, at length thou'rt found;

Receive the ruler of mankind, and know,
My name is Time, thy ever dreaded foe. [see
These feet are founder'd, and the wings you
Worn to the pinions in pursuit of thee;

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caught.

Then round his neck his arms he nimbly cast, And seiz'd him by the throat, and grasp'd him fast;

Till forc'd at length the soul forsook its seat, And the pale breathless corse fell bleeding at

his feet.

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SONNETS, BY SMITH.

$130. To the Moon. QUEEN of the silver bow! by thy pale beam, Alone and pensive I delight to stray, And watch thy shadow trembling in the stream, Or mark the floating clouds that cross thy way.

And while I gaze, thy mild and placid light

Sheds a soft calm upon my troubled breast; And oft I think, fair planet of the night!

That in thy orb the wretched may have rest; The sufferers of the earth perhaps may go,

Releas'd by death, to thy benignant sphere; And the sad children of despair and woe

Forget, in thee, their cup of sorrow here. O! that I soon may reach thy world serene, Poor wearied pilgrim-in this toiling scene!

$131. On the Departure of the Nightingale. SWEET poet of the woods-a long adieu!

Farewell, soft minstrel of the early year! Ah! 'twill be long ere thou shalt sing anew, And pour thy music on the night's dull ear.'

Whether on spring thy wandering flights await,
Or whether silent in our groves you dwell,
The pensive muse shall own thee for her mate,
And still protect the song she loves so well.
With cautious step the love-lorn youth_shall
glide
[nest,
Thro' the lone brake that shades thy mossy
And shepherd girls from eyes profane shall hide
The gentle bird, who sings of pity best:
For still thy voice shall soft affections move,
And still be dear to sorrow and to love!

§ 132. Written at the Close of Spring. THE garlands fade that Spring so lately wove, Each simple flow'r which she had nurs'd in dew,

Anemonies, that spangled every grove,
The primrose wan, and hare-bell mildly blue.
No more shall violets linger in the dell,

Or purple orchis variegate the plain,
Till spring again shall call forth every bell,
And dress with humid hands her wreaths
again.-

Ah! poor humanity! so frail, so fair,

Are the fond visions of thy early day, Till tyrant passion and corrosive care

Bid all thy fairy colours fade away! Another May new buds and flow'rs shall bring;

Ah! why has happiness-no second Spring?

§ 133. Should the lone Wanderer. SHOULD the lone wanderer, fainting on his way,

Rest for a moment of the sultry hours, And tho' his path thro' thorns and roughness lay,

Pluck the wild rose, or woodbine's gadding flow'rs; Weaving gay wreaths, beneath some sheltering

tree,

The sense of sorrow he a while may lose; So have I sought thy flow'rs, fair Poesy! So charm'd my way with Friendship and the Muse.

But darker grows life's unhappy day,

Dark with new clouds of evil yet to come: Her pencil sickening Fancy throws away,

And weary Hope reclines upon the tomb;

And points my wishes to that tranquil shore, Where the pale spectre Care pursues no more.

§ 134. To Night.

I LOVE thee, mournful sober-suited night, When the faint moon, yet lingering in her

wane,

And veil'd in clouds, with pale uncertain light
Hangs o'er the waters of the restless main.
In deep depression sunk, th' enfeebled mind
Will to the deaf, cold elements complain,
And tell th' embosom'd grief, however vain,
To sullen surges and the viewless wind:
Tho' no repose on thy dark breast I find,
I still enjoy thee, cheerless as thou art;
For in thy quiet gloom th' exhausted heart
Is calm, tho' wretched; hopeless, yet resign'd:
While to the winds and waves its sorrows given,
May reach-though lost on earth-the ear of
Heaven!

§ 135. To Tranquillity.

In this tumultuous sphere, for thee unfit,
How seldom art thou found, Tranquillity!
Unless 'tis when with mild and downcast
eye

By the low cradles thou delight'st to sit
Of sleeping infants, watching the soft breath,

And bidding the sweet slumberers easy lie, Or sometimes hanging o'er the bed of death, Where the poor languid sufferer hopes to die. O beauteous sister of the halcyon peace!

I sure shall find thee in that heavenly scene Where care and anguish shall their power resign; [cease; Where hope alike and vain regret shall And Memory, lost in happiness serene, Repeat no more-that misery has been mine!

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Then to the tomb where now the father slept Whose rugged nature bad her sorrows flow, Frantic she turn'd-and beat her breast and wept, Invoking vengeance on the dust below.

Lo! rising there above each humble heap, Yon cipher'd stones his name and wealth relate,

Who gave his son, remorseless, to the deep,
While I, his living victim, curse my fate.
O my lost love! no tomb is plac'd for thee,
That may to strangers' eyes thy worth impart!
Thou hast no grave but in the stormy sea,
And no memorial but this breaking heart.
Forth to the world a widow'd wanderer driven,
I pour to winds and waves th' unheeded tear;
Try with vain effort to submit to heaven,
And fruitless call on him "who cannot
hear."

O might I fondly clasp him once again,
While o'er my head th' infuriate billows pour,
Forget in death this agonizing pain,
And feel his father's cruelty no more!
Part, raging waters! part, and show beneath,
In your dread caves his pale and mangled

form;

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Now, while the demons of despair and death
Ride on the blast, and urge the howling storm!
Lo! by the lightning's momentary blaze,
I see him rise the whitening waves above,
No longer such as when in happier days
He gave th' enchanted hours to me and love:
Such as when daring the enchafed sea,
That every peril, one soft smile from me,
And courting dangerous toil, he often said,
One sigh of speechless tenderness, o'erpaid :
But dead, disfigured, while between the roar
Of the loud waves his accents pierce mine ear,
And seem to say-Ah, wretch! delay no more,
But come, unhappy mourner-meet me here.
Still let me hear him!-'Tis already past;
Yet, powerful fancy, bid the phantom stay,
Along the waves his shadow glides away,
I lose his voice amid the deafening blast.
He hears not, comes not from his wat'ry bed;
Ah! wild illusion, born of frantic pain!
My tears, my anguish, my despair are vain,
Th' insatiate ocean gives not up its dead.
'Tis not his voice! Hark! the deep thunders
roll!

Upheaves the ground; the rocky barriers fail;
Approach, ye horrors that delight my soul,
Despair, and Death, and Desolation, hail!"
The ocean hears-th' embodied waters come,
Rise o'er the land, and with resistless sweep
Tear from its base the proud aggressor's tomb,
And bear the injur'd to eternal sleep!

$139. Elegy to Pity. ANON. HAIL, lovely Pow'r! whose bosom heaves the sigh,

When Fancy paints the scene of deep distress;

Whose tears spontaneous crystallize the eye, When rigid Fate denies the pow'r to bless. Not all the sweets Arabia's gales convey

From flow'ry meads, can with that sigh compare :

Not dew-drops glittering in the morning ray Seem near so beauteous as that falling tear. Devoid of fear, the fawns around thee play; No blood-stain'd traces mark thy blameless Emblem of peace, the dove before thee flies;

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Or turn to nobler, greater tasks thy care,
To me thy sympathetic gifts impart;
Teach me in Friendship's grief to bear a share,
And justly boast the generous feeling heart.
Teach me to soothe the helpless orphan's grief,
With timely aid the widow's woe assuage,
To Misery's moving cry to yield relief,

And be the sure resource of drooping age. So when the genial spring of life shall fade,

And sinking nature owns the dread decay, Some soul congenial then may lend its aid, And gild the close of life's eventful day.

§ 140. Extract from a Poem on his own approaching Death, by MICHAEL BRUCE. Now spring returns; but not to me returns The vernal joy my better years have known: Dim in my breast life's dying taper burns, And all the joys of life with health are flown.

Starting and shiv'ring in th' inconstant wind,
Meagre and pale, the ghost of what I was,
Beneath some blasted tree I lie reclin'd,
And count the silent moments as they pass:
The winged moments, whose unstaying speed
No art can stop, or in their course arrest ;
Whose flight shall shortly count me with the
dead,

And lay me down in peace with them that

rest.

Oft morning dreams presage approaching fate;
And morning dreams, as poets tell, are true:
Led by pale ghosts, I enter death's dark gate,
And bid the realms of light and life adieu!
I hear the helpless wail, the shriek of woe;
I see the muddy wave, the dreary shore,
The sluggish streams that slowly creep below,

Which mortals visit, and return no more. Farewell, ye blooming fields! ye cheerful plains!

Enough for me the churchyard's lonely mound,

Where Melancholy with still Silence reigns, And the rank grass waves o'er the cheerless ground.

There let me wander at the close of eve,

When sleep sits dewy on the laborer's eyes, The world and all its busy follies leave,

And talk with wisdom where my Daphnis lies.

There let me sleep, forgotten, in the clay, When death shall shut these weary aching

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Ah! let the gay, the roseate morning hail,
When, in the various blooms of light array'd,
She bids fresh beauty live along the vale,
And rapture tremble in the vocal shade:
Her choral melodies benignly rise;
Sweet is the lucid morning's op'ning flow'r,

Yet dearer to my soul the shadowy hour,
At which her blossoms close, her music dies:
For then mild nature, while she droops her
head,

Wakes the soft tear 'tis luxury to shed.

§ 142. Sonnet to Expression.

MISS WILLIAMS. EXPRESSION, child of soul! I love to trace Thy strong enchantments, when the poet's lyre,

The painter's pencil, catch the vivid fire,
And beauty wakes for thee each touching grace!
But from my frighted gaze thy form avert,
When horror chills thy tear, thy ardent sigh,
When phrensy rolls in thy impassion'd eye,
Or guilt lives fearful at thy troubled heart;
Nor ever let my shudd'ring fancy hear
Of him the Muses lov'd*, when hope forsook
The wasting groan, or view the pallid look
His spirit, vainly to the Muses dear-
For charm'd with heavenly song, this bleeding

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LONGalov'd fair had bless'd her consort's sight With amorous pride, and undisturb'd delight; Till Death, grown envious, with repugnantaim Frown'd at their joys, and urg'd a tyrant's claim. He summons each disease!—the noxious crew, Writhing in dire distortions, strike his view! From various plagues, which various natures know,

Forth rushes beauty's fear'd and fervent foe. Fierce to the fair the missile mischief flies, The sanguine streams in raging ferments rise! It drives, ignipotent, through every vein, Hangs on the heart, and burns around the

brain!

Now a chill damp the charmer's lustre dims:
Sad o'er her eyes the livid languor swims!
Her eyes, that with a glance could joy inspire,
Like setting stars, scarce shoot a glimmering

fire.

Here stands her consort, sore with anguish
press'd,

Grief in his eye, and terror in his breast.
The Paphian Graces, smit with anxious care,
In silent sorrow weep the waning fair.
Eight suns, successive, roll their fire away,
And eight slow nights see their deep shades
decay.

While these revolve, though mute each Muse appears,

Each speaking eye drops eloquence in tears. On the ninth noon great Phoebus listening bends, On the ninth noon each voice in prayer ascendsGreat God of light, of song, and physic's art, Restore the languid fair, new soul impart ! Her beauty, wit, and virtue claim thy care, And thine own bounty's almost rivall'd there. Each paus'd: the god assents. Would death

advance?

Phoebus unseen arrests that threatening lance!
Down from his orb a vivid influence streams,
And quickening earth imbibes salubrious beams;
Each balmy plant increase of virtue knows,
And art inspir'd with all her patron glows.
The charmer's opening eye kind hope reveals,
Kind hope her consort's breast enlivening feels;
Each grace revives, each Muse resumes the lyre,
Each beauty brightens with relumin'd fire:
As health's auspicious pow'rs gay life display,
Death, sullen at the sight, stalks slow away.

§ 146. Ode to Pity. COLLINS.
O THOU, the friend of man assign'd,
With balmy hands his wounds to bind,
And charm his frantic woe;
When first Distress, with dagger keen,
Broke forth to waste his destin'd scene,
His wild unsated foe!

| By Pella's Bard, a magic name,
By all the griefs his thought could frame,
Receive my humble rite:
Long, Pity, let the nations view
Thy sky-worn robes of tenderest blue,
And eyes of dewy light!

But wherefore need I wander wide
To old Ilissus' distant side,

Deserted stream, and mute?
Wild Arun too has heard thy strains,
And Echo, 'midst iny native plains,
Been sooth'd by Pity's lute."

There first the wren thy myrtles shed
On gentlest Otway's infant head:

To him thy cell was shown:
And while he sung the female heart,
With youth's soft notes unspoil'd by art,
The turtles mix'd their own.
Come, Pity, come, by fancy's aid,
E'en now my thoughts, relenting maid,
Its southern site, its truth complete
Thy temple's pride design:

Shall raise a wild enthusiast heat,

In all who view the shrine.

There Picture's toil shall well relate
How chance or hard involving fate,

O'er mortal bliss prevail:

The buskin'd Muse shall near her stand,
And sighing prompt her tender hand,
With each disastrous tale.
There let me oft, retir'd by day,
In dreams of passion melt away,

Allow'd with thee to dwell:"
There waste the mournful lamp of night,
Till, Virgin, thou again delight
To hear a British shell!

§ 147. Ode to Fear. COLLINS.
THOU, to whom the world unknown
With all its shadowy shapes is shown;
Who seest appall'd th' unreal scene,
While Fancy lifts the veil between:

Ah, Fear! ah, frantic fear!
I see, I see thee near.

I know thy hurried step, thy haggard eye!
For, lo, what monsters in thy train appear!
Like thee I start, like thee disorder'd fly;
Danger, whose limbs of giant mould'
What mortal eye can fix'd behold?
Who stalks his round, a hideous form,
Howling amidst the midnight storm,
Or throws him on the rigid steep
Of some loose hanging rock to sleep;
And with him thousand phantoms join'd,
Who
prompt to deeds accurst the mind:
And those, the fiends, who near allied,
O'er nature's wounds and wrecks preside;
While Vengeance, in the lurid air,
Lifts her red arm, expos'd and bare:
On whom that ravening brood of fate,
Who lap the blood of Sorrow, wait :
Who, Fear, this ghastly train can see,
And look not madly wild, like thee?

* A river in Sussex.

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