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Or hie me to some ruin'd tower

Faintly shown by moonlight gleam, Where the lone wand'rer owns my power

In shadows dire that substance seem;

In thrilling sounds that murmur woe,
And pausing silence make more dread;
In music breathing from below

Sad, solemn strains, that wake the dead.

Unseen I move-unknown am fear'd!
Fancy's wildest dreams I weave;
And oft by bards my voice is heard
To die along the gales of eve.

ODE.

THOMSON.

TELL me, thou soul of her I love,
Ah! tell me, whither art thou fled;
To what delightful world above,
Appointed for the happy dead?

Or dost thou, free, at pleasure roam,
And sometimes share thy lover's woe;
Where, void of thee, his cheerless home
Can now, alas! no comfort know?

Oh! if thou hover'st round my walk,
While under ev'ry well-known tree

I to thy fancied shadow talk,

And ev'ry tear is full of thee;

Should then the weary eye of grief,
Beside some sympathetic stream,
In slumber find a short relief,

O visit thou my soothing dream!

SONG.

GOLDSMITH.

O MEMORY! thou fond deceiver,
Still importunate and vain,
To former joys recurring ever,

And turning all the past to pain;

Thou, like the world, th' opprest oppressing,
Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe!
And he who wants each other blessing,
In thee must ever find a foe.

TELL ME, ELIZA.

DIBDIN.

TELL me, Eliza, must I yield

That lovely hand, that heart refin'd;
And unrepining leave the field

To rivals wanting sense and mind?
Say, shall this form, that face, those eyes,
Be some uncultur'd rustic's prize?
Can such thy fond attention prove?

Forbid it, Fate! forbid it, Love!

HS

Tell me, Eliza, on that breast,

Which gently heaves with feeling's glow, Unconscious shall a clown be blest,

Who half your worth can never know? What though his heart be just and true, Will manners rude suffice for you? Such union shall Eliza prove? Forbid it, Fate! forbid it, Love!

FISHERMAN'S SONG.

JOANNA BAILLIE.

No fish stir in our heaving net,
And the sky is dark, and the night is wet;
And we must ply the lusty oar,

For the tide is ebbing from the shore;

And sad are they whose faggots burn,
So kindly stor❜d for our return.

Our boat is small, and the tempest raves,
And nought is heard but the lashing waves,
And the sullen roar of the angry sea,
And the wild winds piping drearily :
Yet sea and tempest rise in vain,
We'll bless our blazing hearths again.

Push bravely, Mates! our guiding star
Now from its tow'rlet streameth far;
And now along the nearing strand,
See, swiftly moves yon flaming brand:
Before the midnight watch is past,
We'll quaff our bowl, and mock the blast.

THOUGHTS.

WORDSWORTH.

HAST thou seen, with flash incessant,
Bubbles gliding under ice,
Bodied forth and evanescent,

No one knows by what device?

Such are thoughts;-a wind-swept meadow
Mimicking a troubled sea;

Such is life;-and death a shadow
From the rock eternity!

THE VAGRANT.

CRABBE.

TAKE, take away thy barbarous hand,
And let me to thy master speak;
Remit a while the harsh command,
And hear me, or my heart will break.

My crime-this sick'ning child to feed,
I seiz'd the food, your witness saw;
I knew your laws forbade the deed,
But yielded to a stronger law.

Know'st thou, to Nature's great command All human laws are frail and weak? Nay! frown not-stay this eager hand, And hear me, or my heart will break.

In this, th' adopted babe I hold
With anxious fondness to my breast,
My heart's sole comfort I behold,

More dear than life, when life was blest;
I saw her pining, fainting, cold;
I begg'd-but vain was my request.

I saw the tempting food, and seiz'd-
My infant suff'rer found relief;
And, in the pilfer'd treasure pleas'd,
Smil'd on my guilt, and hush'd my grief.

But I have griefs of other kind,

Troubles and sorrows more severe; Give me to ease my tortur'd mind, Lend to my woes a patient ear; And let me if I may not find

A friend to help-find one to hear.

My mother dead, my father lost,

I wander'd with a vagrant crew; A common care, a common cost,

Their sorrows and their sins I knew; With them, on want and error forc'd, Like them I base and guilty grew.

Few are my years, not so my crimes;
The age, which these sad looks declare,

Is sorrow's work, it is not time's,

And I am old in shame and care.

Taught to believe the world a place
Where ev'ry stranger was a foe;
Train'd in the arts that mark our race,
To what new people could I go?
Could I a better life embrace,

Or live as virtue dictates? No!

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