WHITSUN-MONDAY,

1795.

At an open window sitting, On this day of mirth and glee, 'Cross a flow'ry vista flitting, Many passing forms I see. Ah! lovely prospect, stay awhile! And longer glad my doating eye, With poverty's delighted smile, And lighten'd step, as passing by; With labour's spruce and ruddy train, Deck'd out in all their best array, Who, months of toil and care disdain, Paid by the pleasures of a day. The village girl still let me view, Hast'ning to the neighb'ring fair; Her cap adorn'd with pink or blue, And nicely smooth her glossy hair. With sparkling eye and smiling face, Ting'd o'er with beauty's warmest glow; With timid air, and humble grace, With clear and undepressed brow. Go! lovely girl, and share the day, To thy industrious merit due; There join the dance, or choral lay; Thou blooming, village rose, adieu! And thou, O youth, so blythe and free, Bounding swiftly o'er the plain, Go, taste the joys of liberty, And cheer thy spirit, happy swain! How different to the lonely hour, When slowly following the plough, Self-buoyant joy forgets the pow'r, Which warms thy gladden'd bosom now. If some rural prize desiring, Or ambitious of applause, Loud huzzas thy wishes firing, Thy steady hand the furrow draws; Ne'er a victor fam'd in story, Greater praise and reverence drew, Than thou, attir'd in humble glory, So, guiltless conqueror, adieu! Oh, here a charming group appears! A cottage family, so gay, Whose youthful hopes, uncheck'd by fears, In smiles of thoughtless rapture play. Here, borne in fond, parental arms, The infant's roving eye we view; Boasting a thousand, thousand charms, Endearing innocents, adieu! They go! no more with beating heart, And lively, dancing step to tread; Unwillingly will they depart, To seek again their homely shed. Ah! Eve, I love thy veil of grey, Which will conceal them from my view, For, bending home their weary way, How sad would be our last adieu!

The following was suggested by reading a whimsical description, given by Scarron, of the deformity of his person, contrasted with its former elegance, in the Curiosities of Literature, vol. 2, page 247.

[!-- RULE4 7 --] PHILEMON.

Ye blooming youth, possest of every grace, Which can delight the eye, or please the ear, Who boast a polish'd mind and faultless face, Awhile the councils of Philemon hear! Let not pride lift the thoughtless head too high, Temerity arch o'er the scornful brow, Contemptuous glances arm the sparkling eye, Or the high heart with self-complacence glow! Alas! full soon the eve of life arrives, Though pale Disease's train approach not nigh; Short is the summer of the happiest lives, If no rude storm disturbs the smiling sky. This wretched body, bending to the earth, Once, on the wings of health, alert and gay, Shone forth the foremost in the train of mirth, And cloudless skies announc'd a beauteous day. My parents oft, with fond complacence view'd, The elegance of my external form; And thought my mind with excellence endued, Bright as my genius, as my fancy warm. There was a time, poor as I now appear, I admiration met in every look; And, harsh as now my words may grate your ear, Each tongue was silent when Philemon spoke. Once could this voice make every bosom thrill, As it pour'd forth the light or plaintive lay; And once these fingers, with superior skill, Upon the lute could eloquently play. By partial friendship sooth'd, by flattery fann'd, I learnt with conscious grace the dance to lead, To guide the Phaeton with careless hand, And rule, with flowing rein, the prancing steed. Sick with the glory of a trifler's fame, By folly nurtur'd, I was proud and vain; Till Chastisement in kindest mercy came, Though then her just decrees I dar'd arraign. The form that sought so late the public view, That glow'd with transport, as the world admir'd, Fill'd with false shame, from every eye withdrew, And to the shades of solitude retir'd. Consum'd by fevers, spiritless, forlorn, Blasted by apoplexy's dreadful rage, My bleeding heart by keen remembrance torn, I past my prime in premature old age. I heard my parent's ill-suppressed sighs, And wish'd myself upon the peaceful bier; I saw the anguish of their sleepless eyes, The smile dissembled, and the secret tear. Oft, with a kind of gratifying woe, I recollected every former charm, And, with the spleen of a malicious foe, Delighted still to keep my sorrows warm. "Where is the lustre of the gladsome eye, The airy smile, the animated mien, The rounding lip of liveliest crimson dye, So lately envied, now no longer seen. "I too have gloried in my waving hair, No ringlets now remain to raise my pride; Nor can I now lay the white forehead bare, And push the too luxuriant locks aside." Thus, like a child, I sigh'd for pleasures past, And lost my hours in a delusive dream; But Reason op'd my blinded eyes at last, And clear'd each mist by her refulgent beam. I saw futurity before me spread, A scourge or sceptre offer'd to my view, Alarm'd, from Folly's erring mazes fled, And to my God with humble rev'rence drew. I bow'd, submissive, at the holy shrine, His mercy with warm gratitude confest, Which had reveal'd the spark of life divine, That slumber'd in my earth-enamoured breast. Had I, as friendship and self-love desir'd, Still suck'd delirium at the fane of praise, I might, my conscience lull'd and passions fir'd, Have lost my soul in the bewitching blaze. Dear rising train, let not my words offend! Nor the pure dictates of my love despise; To one, late like yourselves, attention lend, And, taught by his experience, be wise! Ah! banish from your eye the fiend Disdain; Let fair simplicity supply its place; Nor longer let conceit the bosom stain; The child of weakness, follow'd by disgrace. Should time from you each glowing beauty wrest, You will not then those self-reproaches feel, Which every eye awaken'd in my breast, And twenty winters scarce suffic'd to heel. Nor will your friends observe each faded charm, Since still your countenance its smile retains, And the same lov'd companion, kind and warm, With unassuming manners, yet remains. SEPT. 8, 1795.

[!-- RULE4 8 --] ON A FAN.

Now I've painted these flowers, say what can I do,
To render them worthy acceptance from you?
I know of no sybil, whose wonderful art
Could to them superior virtues impart,
Who, of magical influence wonders could tell,
And, who over each blossom could mutter a spell. You only the humbler enchantments can prove,
That arise from esteem, from respect, and from love;
With such I assail you, and pow'rful the charm,
When applied to a heart sympathetic and warm;
To a heart such as that, which, if right I divine,
O C—ll—n—n! dwells in that bosom of thine. NOV. 10, 1795.

[!-- RULE4 9 --] TO SIMPLICITY.

Fair village nymph, ah! may I meet Thy pleasing form where'er I stray! With open air and converse sweet, Still cheer my undiscover'd way! With eyes, that shew the placid mind, And with no feign'd emotions roll; With mien, that sprightly or resign'd, Bespeaks the temper of the soul. With smiles, where not the lips alone Receive a brighter, vermil hue, The cheek does warmer roses own, And the eyes beam, a deeper blue! Though Fashion's minions scorn thy pow'r, And slight thee, 'cause in russet drest, Yet Joy frequents thy peaceful bow'r, And sorrow flies to thee for rest. The echoing laugh, the rapturous tear, The smile of friendship, gay and free, Delight but when they are sincere, And given, lovely nymph, by thee. When my Rosina reads a tale, Though sweet the tuneful accents flow, No studied pathos does prevail To bid the hearer's bosom glow; Her voice to sympathy resign'd, Each different feeling can impart. And, tell me not, we e'er can find A modulator, like the heart! And Mary's locks of glossy brown, That fall in waves, with graceful swell, In ever-varying ringlets thrown, The fairest curls of art excel. Still rob'd in innocence and ease, Daughter of Truth, shall thou prevail, When Affectation cannot please, And all the spells of Fashion fail. NOV. 17, 1795.

[!-- RULE4 10 --] THE TERRORS OF GUILT.

Yon coward, with the streaming hair,
And visage, madden'd to despair,
With step convuls'd, unsettled eye,
And bosom lab'ring with a sigh,
Is Guilt!—Behold, he hears the name,
And starts with horror, fear, and shame! See! slow Suspicion by his side, With winking, microscopic eye! And Mystery, his muffled guide, With fearful speech, and head awry. See! scowling Malice there attend,
Bold Falsehood, an apparent friend;
Avarice, repining o'er his pelf,
Mean Cunning, lover of himself;
Hatred, the son of conscious Fear,
Impatient Envy, with a fiend-like sneer,
And shades of blasted Hopes, which still are hovering near! All other woes will find relief,
And time alleviate every grief;
Memory, though slowly, will decay,
And Sorrow's empire pass away.
Awhile Misfortune may controul,
And Pain oppress the virtuous soul,
Yet Innocence can still beguile
The patient sufferer of a smile,
The beams of Hope may still dispense
A grateful feeling to the sense;
Friendship may cast her arms around,
And with fond tears embalm the wound,
Or Piety's soft incense rise,
And waft reflection to the skies;
But those fell pangs which he endures,
Nor Time forgets, nor Kindness cures;
Like Ocean's waves, they still return,
Like Etna's fires, forever burn. Round him no genial zephyrs fly,
No fair horizon glads his eye,
No joys to him does Nature yield,
The solemn grove, or laughing field;
Though both with loud rejoicings ring,
No pleasure does the echo bring,
Not bubbling waters as they roll,
Can tranquillize his bursting soul,
For Conscience still, with tingling smart,
Asserts his empire o'er his heart,
And even when his eye-lids close,
With clamourous scream affrights repose. Oppress'd with light, he seeks to shun
The splendid glories of the sun;
The busy crowds that hover near,
Torment his eye, distract his ear;
He hastens to the secret shades,
Where not a ray the gloom pervades;
Where Contemplation may retreat,
And Silence take his mossy seat;
Yet even there no peace he knows,
His fev'rish blood, no calmer flows;
Some hid assassins 'vengeful knife,
Is rais'd to end his wretched life.
He shudders, starts, and stares around,
With breathless fright, to catch the fancied sound;
Seeks for the dagger in his breast,
And gripes it 'neath his ruffled vest. Lo! now he plunges in the flood,
To cleanse his garments, stain'd with blood,
His sanguine arm, in terror, laves;
But ah! its hue defies the waves.
Deprest, bewildered, thence he flies,
And, to avoid Detection, tries,
Who, frowning, still before him stands,
The sword of Justice in her hands;
Abhorrent Scorn, unpitying Shame,
And Punishments without a name,
Still on her sounding steps attend,
And every added horror lend.
He turns away, with dread and fear,
But the fell spectres still are near.
Though Falsehood's mazes see him wind!
Yet Infamy is close behind,
Lifting her horn, with horrors fraught,
Whose hideous yell is frenzy to the thought. Now, maniac-like, he comes again,
And mixes with the jocund train;
But still those eyes that wildly roll,
Bespeak the tempest in his soul.
In yon deep cave he strives to rest,
But Mem'ry harrows up his breast;
He clasps the goblet, foe to Care,
And lo! Distraction hovers there. Ah, hapless wretch! condemn'd to know,
The sad varieties of woe;
Where'er thy footsteps turn, to meet,
An earthquake yawning at thy feet,
While o'er thy head pale meteors glare,
And boding tempests fill the air,
In throbbing anguish doom'd to roam,
Yet never find a peaceful home.
Haste! to the shrine of Mercy hie,
There lift the penitential eye,
With breaking heart thy sins deplore,
And wound Integrity no more!
Repentance then thy soul shall save,
And snatch thee, ransom'd, from the grave. JULY 1796.

The death of Selred, last King of the East-Saxons, reduced that part of the Heptarchy to dependance on Mercia. The rest is imaginary.

[!-- RULE4 11 --] CEN'LIN, PRINCE OF MERCIA.

When Britain many chiefs obey'd,
And seven Saxon princes sway'd,
The Mercian monarch, fam'd afar,
In peace respected, fear'd in war,
Favour'd by heav'n above the rest,
In his brave son was fully blest;
For none like Cen'lin did arise,
So virtuous, elegant, and wise. Of partial Mercian eyes the joy,
His parents idoliz'd the boy;
Saw with just pride each op'ning grace,
His charms of mind, of form, and face.
And as he oft, with modest air,
His thoughts and feelings did declare,
His father would delighted hear,
Would fondly drop the grateful tear;
And proudly cast his eyes around,
But not an equal could be found.
Warm from each lip applauses broke,
And every tongue his praises spoke;
The list'ning courtiers spread his fame,
And blessings follow'd Cen'lins name. Now twenty summer's suns had flown,
And Mercia's hopes were fully blown;
When ah! conceal'd in coarse disguise,
To Selred's[12] court their darling flies.
Selred, his father's scorn and hate,
Became the ruler of his fate.
There flatter'd, lov'd, the youth remain'd,
Till Cenulph's threats his heir regain'd.
But ah! no more the son of mirth,
His pensive eye now sought the earth;
No more within the dance to move,
Or list to sages, did he love;
But from surrounding friends would fly,
To pour in solitude the sigh.
And soon again the youth withdrew,
Again to th' Eastern-Saxons flew.
His father heard, opprest with woe,
His aged heart forgot to glow;
He learnt his foes an army led,
With youthful Cen'lin at their head,
He call'd his warriors forth to meet,
And stretch the rebel at his feet:
Tears from his eyes in anguish broke,
As thus the aged monarch spoke: "Ye Mercians, let your banners fly!
The graceless youth this day shall die!
For, since he dares an army bring
Against his father and his king,
Though dear as life, I will not spare,
Nor listen to affection's pray'r!
If all my people should implore,
I'll pardon the rash boy no more!
His harden'd heart, to duty blind,
No ties of gratitude can bind;
This hoary head would else have rest,
And pleasure warm this aching breast.
Ah, cruel youth! thy wrongs I feel,
More deep than wounds of pointed steel.
For, if forlorn the parent's doom,
Who bears his offspring to the tomb,
Some comfort still his breast may know,
Some soothing thought may calm his woe,
And when he gives a loose to pain,
He feels not that he mourns in vain,
But fancies still his darling nigh,
And grateful for each bursting sigh,
Still bending o'er, with list'ning ear,
Each weeping, fond complaint to hear,
The dear-lov'd phantom hovers round,
And pours a balm in every wound. "How doubly poignant is my smart,
Bereaved of my Cen'lin's heart!
Exil'd from that deluded breast,
Where I had fondly hop'd to rest,
With faith undoubting, sweet repose,
Till Death should bid my eye-lids close.
And sometimes yet will hope arise;
Till now he ever scorn'd disguise;
Some cursed fiend might taint his youth,
And warp a temper form'd for truth.
When late he humbly knelt for grace,
And clasp'd my knees in close embrace,
Upon his lips a secret hung,
But something seem'd to stay his tongue;
I prest not, for my anger slept,
And fondness only saw he wept;
Ah! fatal haste! then had I known
The serpent, I had sav'd my son!
Yet surely pardon frank as mine,
A noble heart would more confine!
When leaguing with my bitter foe,
To strike some grand, decisive blow;
Perhaps to rob me of my throne,
And make it, ere the time, his own;
Or, should wan guilt a danger dread,
To humble this devoted head,
Each throbbing pang of conscience drown,
And seize, with bloody hands, the crown.
O'er this offence I cast a veil,
And fondly hush'd the whisper'd tale.
Ah fool! deluded by the grace,
Of that fine form, and perfect face;
I thought his bosom free from sin,
Nor dreamt a demon lurk'd within.
His voice, which ever could controul,
Each passion of the hearer's soul,
With ease my partial heart beguil'd,
Who knew no sorrows when he smil'd.
And ah! my friends, your downcast eyes,
Your pensive air, and smother'd sighs,
All tell me you lament the fate,
Of him, whom yet you cannot hate.
And shall I bear then to behold,
That form inanimate and cold,
His smiling lips depriv'd of breath,
His eyes for ever clos'd in death!
Ah no! my heart with anguish swells,
And every throbbing vein rebels.
Let sorrow weep, or anger thrill,
Yet all the parent triumphs still. "Oh Father! who in mercy reigns,
If thy all-ruling will ordains,
That my unhappy Cen'lin dies,
Remove the picture from my eyes!
At the same moment set us free,
Both rebel sons, my God, to thee!"
Thus did the king pour forth his pray'r,
With all the wildness of despair;
Then, stilling every rising sigh,
He calm'd the anguish of his eye,
And though within the burthen lay,
He wip'd the falling tears away. When lo! there comes a youthful train,
Descending swiftly to the plain,
Drest like the fairest sons of day,
In floating robes and colours gay;
No crested helmets there appear,
No glittering shield or pointed spear,
But youths with honey-suckles crown'd,
Or their fair locks with fillets bound,
Whose circling ranks and varied dyes,
Shew'd like the bow, that gilds the skies.
Whilst in the van a pair were seen,
Of peerless charms and graceful mien;
One lovely form the Mercians knew,
And gladden'd at the pleasing view,
Who, with the glow of youthful prime,
Had all the majesty of time.
And beauteous was the fair he led,
As any fabled Grecian maid;
The nymphs who tend Aurora's car,
And usher in the morning star,
Though made inhabitants of air,
Were not more elegant and fair;
Nor Dian's ever-healthful train,
When skimming o'er the spacious plain.
Had not more pure, more lively dyes,
Or brighter lustre in their eyes. The king, so late by woe deprest,
Felt hope reanimate his breast,
And as his Cen'lin nearer drew,
His waking hopes more vivid grew.
"My friends," he cried, "will you believe,
That open mien can e'er deceive?
That blooming form can e'er unfold,
A heart ungenerous and cold,
That melting softness of the eye,
Can harbour direst cruelty?
Ah no! a poison's baleful pow'r,
Lurks not beneath so fair a flow'r.
Nor are those youths with amber hair,
Such as fell treason would prepare,
An aged monarch to dethrone,
And hear, unmov'd, a father's groan.
Gay are their looks, no dark disguise,
Dims the mild radiance of their eyes;
No murderous thoughts their souls employ,
But, heralds of transporting joy,
They come to bid suspicion cease,
And sooth my sorrow into peace."
Caution could scarce awhile controul
The strong delights of Cenulph's soul,
When Cen'lin knelt, and by his side
Half-kneeling, bent his lovely bride.
But, when he first essay'd to speak,
A hasty blush pass'd o'er his cheek,
He hung awhile his graceful head,
Till thus, with air confus'd he said:
"I come, by love with honours crown'd,
Yet sorrow casts a shade around,
That when my consort here I bring,
The heiress of a potent king,
The Mercians, clad in armour, come,
To lead their princess to her home.
No joyful hail our nuptial greets,
No proof of love my Ela meets,
But scarlet banners, waving high,
The bridal knot and wreath supply.
Alas! I see mistrust has won
E'en Cenulph's fondness from his son;
Or could my ever-honour'd sire,
A proof of Cen'lin's faith require?
Can force so needful now appear,
To aid a pow'r which I revere?
When eager beauty's form to view,
I first to Selred's court withdrew,
A single wish thy pow'r maintain'd,
A single wish thy son regain'd.
I left the maid whose matchless charms,
Each rooted prejudice disarms,
Who rul'd my heart with sovereign sway,
And taught a Mercian to obey
Laws that East-Saxons can impart,
When wit and beauty string the dart;
Left her when hope my doubts beguil'd,
And on our love her father smil'd.
Oft have I tried to win thine ear,
The fond, romantic tale to hear,
But when I found a lonely hour,
My coward soul has lost the pow'r;
As on my lips the accents hung,
Thy hate to Selred check'd my tongue.
Yet flattering hopes my passion fed,
And from thy court again I fled;
I thought when you my fair beheld,
And knew how greatly she excell'd,
In every charm, each art refin'd,
And virtue of the female mind,
Thy judgment would approve my choice,
And bless it with a cheerful voice.
And ah! though fortune did combine
With love, in making Ela mine,
I cannot from a grief refrain,
Remembering that I gave thee pain.
Yet if thy Cen'lin e'er could please,
If e'er my cares could give thee ease,
Let mild affection now arise,
And beam forgiveness from thine eyes!
No more thy son shall make thee know
A pain, or give thee cause of woe.
No nights the Mercians have to fear,
For all I love is center'd here,"
He spoke, and o'er his father's soul,
A stream of healing comfort stole;
He rose, with slow, majestic grace,
Tears of delight adorn'd his face,
His pious heart with rapture glow'd,
And joy a second youth bestow'd. "To meet thee thus, my son," he cried,
"This peerless maiden for your bride,
Bids each distressing thought depart,
And joy again possess my heart.
Fair princess, thine the happy fate,
To heal the wounds of mutual hate;
No longer shall this bosom know,
An Eastern-Saxon as my foe;
And she, who bids that passion rest,
Doubt not, shall be supremely blest;
The part is holy and benign,
Befitting such a form as thine.
This day, far dearer than before,
Kind heav'n does twice my son restore,
For by those speaking looks I see,
Another valued child in thee." As then he raised them to his breast,
Around the joyful Mercians prest,
And made their shouts of triumph rise,
To the fair concave of the skies. OCTOBER 1795.

[!-- Note Anchor 12 --]12: King of the East-Saxons.

[!-- RULE4 12 --] RHAPSODY.

Lo! here a cloud comes sailing, richly clad
In royal purple, which the parting beams
Of bounteous Phoebus edge with tints of gold
And lucid crimson. One might fancy it
A noble bird, that laves its graceful form,
And bathes its rosy bosom in the light.
Look! how it swells and rears its snowy crest
With haughty grandeur; while the blue expanse,
In smiling patience lets the boaster pass,
And swell his train with all the lazy vapours
That hover in the air: an easy prey
To the gigantic phantom, whose curl'd wing,
Sweeps in these worthless triflers of the sky,
And wraps them in his bosom. Go, vain shadow!
Sick with the burthen of thy fancied greatness,
A breath of zephyr wafts thee into nothing,
Scatters thy spreading plumes, uncrowns thy front,
And drives thee downward to thy mother earth,
To mix with vapour and dissolve in dew. Such are the dreams of hope, which to the eye
Of youthful inexperience, seem to touch
The pure, unclouded sky of certainty.
Buoy'd up by the fond eloquence of thought,
And nurtur'd by the smile of vanity,
Each hour the air-born vision gathers bulk,
And Fancy decks it with a thousand hues,
Varied and wild, till it abounds in charms
Which sink the soul to sadness, when the breath
Of gentle Reason breaks the beauteous bubble,
And leaves us nought but vain regret behind. FEBRUARY 1, 1797.

[!-- RULE4 13 --] HUMAN PLEASURE OR PAIN.

When clouds and rain deform the sky, And light'nings glare around, Amidst the dreary, cheerless scene, Some comfort may be found. There will, at some far-distant spot, A streak of light appear, Or, when the sullen vapours break, The ether will be clear. And if the sun illumes the east, And sheds his gladsome ray, Some boding mist, or passing cloud Will threat the rising day. The heart rejoicing in the view, And dancing with delight, Oft feels the touch of palsied fear, And sinks at thought of night. So Hope's bright torch more clearly shines, Amidst surrounding gloom, And, beldame Fortune vainly throws Her mantle o'er the tomb. MARCH 15,1797.