A ring to me Cecilia sends
A serious toyman in the city dwelt
A time like this, a busy, bustling time A vicar died, and left his daughter poor A wanton chaos in my breast raged high A wealthy lord of far-extended land A weary Traveller walk'd his way Again the Brothers saw their friend the priest Ah! blest be the days when with Mira I took Ah! Shelburne, blest with all that's good or great All the comforts of life in a tavern are known An ardent spirit dwells with christian love An honest man was Farmer Jones, and true And is thy soul so wrapt in sleep? Anna was young and lovely-in her eye Ask you what lands our pastor tithes ?-Alas! At length the Brothers met, no longer tried. At sea when threatening tempests rise.
TO A LADY WHO DESIRED SOME VERSES AT PARTING
Он! do not ask the Muse to show
Or how we met, or how we part: The bliss, the pain, too well I know,
That seize in turn this faithful heart. That meeting-it was tumult all—
The eye was pleased, the soul was glad; But thus to memory I recall,
And feel the parting doubly sad. Yes, it was pleasant so to meet
For us, who fear'd to meet no more, When every passing hour was sweet-
Sweeter, we thought, than all before. When eye from eye new meanings steal, When hearts approach, and thoughts unite- Then is, indeed, the time to feel,
But, Laura! not a time to write. And when at length compell'd to part, When fear is strong, and fancy weak, When in some distant good the heart
For present ease is forced to seek,- When hurried spirits fall and rise,
As on the changing views we dwell, How vainly then the sufferer tries
In studied verse his pains to tell! Time brings, indeed, his slow relief,
In whom the passions live and die; He gives the bright'ning smile to grief, And his the soft consoling sigh : Till then, we vainly wish the power To paint the grief, or use the pen : But distant far that quiet hour;
And I must feel and grieve till then.
LINES FROM A DISCARDED POEM [1817]
ONE calm, cold evening, when the moon was high,
And rode sublime within the cloudy sky, She sat within her hut, nor seem'd to feel Or cold, or want, but turn'd her idle wheel; And with sad song its melancholy tone Mix'd-all unconscious that she dwelt alone.
ON DEATH OF SIR SAMUEL ROMILLY
THUS had I written, so a friend advised, The best of guides to my assuming pen, Whom as the first of counsellors I prized, The best of fathers, husbands, judges, men. 'This will he read,' I said, ' and I shall hear Opinion wise, instructive, mild, sincere, For I that mind respect, for I the man revere.'
I had no boding fear! but thought to see Those who were thine, who look'd for all to thee;
And thou wert all! there was, when thou wert by,
Diffused around the rare felicity That wisdom, worth, and kindness can impart To form the mind and gratify the heart.
Yes! I was proud to speak to thee, as one Who had approved the little I had done, And taught me what I should do!-Thou wouldst raise
My doubting spirit by a smile of praise, And words of comfort! great was thy delight Fear to expel, and ardour to excite, To wrest th' oppressor's arm, and do the injured right.
Thou hadst the tear for pity, and thy breast Felt for the sad, the weary, the oppress'd! And now, afflicting change! all join with me, And feel, lamented ROMILLY, for thee.
Aldborough, October, 1823. THUS once again, my native place, I come Thee to salute-my earliest, latest home: Much are we alter'd both, but I behold In thee a youth renew'd-whilst I am old. The works of man from dying we may save, But man himself moves onward to the grave.
To part is painful; nay, to bid adieu
Trades and Professions-these are themes the Muse Two busy Brothers in our place reside.
Unhappy is the wretch who feels.
We had a sprightly nymph-in every town. We name the world a school, for day by day What I have ask'd are questions that relate 'What is a Church? '-Let Truth and Reason speak What! though no trophies peer above his dust What vulgar title thus salutes the eye. When all the fiercer passions cease
When native Britons British lands possess'd. When summer's tribe, her rosy tribe, are fled When the sad soul, by care and grief oppress'd Where ends our chancel in a vaulted space. Who on the new-born light can back return Who thus aspiring sings? would'st thou explore. Whom pass'd we musing near the woodman's shed Why force the backward heart on love
Why, true, thou say'st the fools at Court denied. With our late vicar, and his age the same Within a village, many a mile from town
Ye gentle Gales, that softly move
Ye idle things, that soothed my hours of care Yes, I behold again the place
Yes! I must go! it is a part
Yes! I must leave thee, brother of my heart
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