Then go, and take with thee thy praises,
   That year all my homage shall fix,
Whose worth from my mem'ry erases
   The year Eighteen hundred and six.

  From Dover who to Calais goes,
   The moral of this fable knows.

Instant destruction quench'd each visual ray;
   No mother's tears, no objects were reveal'd;
Extinguish'd was the glorious lamp of day.
   And ev'ry work of God at once conceal'd.

Where am I plung'd, with trembling voice I cried,
   Ah ! why this premature, this sudden night,
What from my view a parent's looks can hide,
   Those looks more chearing than celestial light?

Vain are affliction's sobs, or piercing cries,
   The fatal mischief baffles all relief !
The healing art no succour can devise,
   Nor balm extract from briny tears and grief !

No shivering ghost my way pursues,
   No bloodless shape my couch annoys;
Visions more sad my fancy views,
   Visions of long departed joys.

The shade of youthful hope is there,
   That linger'd long, and latest died;
Ambition all dissolved to air,
   With phantom honors at her side.

What empty shadows glimmer nigh ?
   They once were friendship, truth, and love;
Oh ! die to thought, to mem'ry die,
   Since lifeless to my heart ye prove !

If fortune, blindfold goddess, chance to knock,
   Or proud ambition lure me to her arms,
Shut, shut the door, good John, quick turn the lock,
   And shield thy master from their syren charms,

If sober wisdom hither deigns to roam,
   Nor let her in, nor send her quite away:
Tell her, at present I am not at home,
   But hope she'll call again another day.

If at my door a beauteous boy be seen;
   His little feet have oft my threshold trod;
You know the offspring of the Cyprian queen;
   His air, without his bow, bespeaks the god.

Fair fountain ! on thy margin green,
   May spring her flowers display,
And pendant shades thy bosom screen,
   From noon's obtruding ray.
Oh ! may the morn's ambrosial sky,
With pearly dew thy stores supply,
   May health infuse her balm;

A charmer was list'ning the while,
   Who caught up the tone of my lay;
"O come, then," she cried, with a smile
   "And I'll shew you the place and the way:"
I follow'd the witch to her home,
   And vow'd to be always her guest;
"Never more," I exclaim'd, "will I roam
   In search of the mansion of rest."

Play not with them tho' they charm ye,
   Shun, oh ! shun his fatal darts,
Soon or late they'll surely harm ye
   And bring sorrow to your hearts.

Heedless virgins then be wary
   How you trifle with the boy,
He his plan will never vary,
   Charms at first but to destroy.

First he with his feather tickles,
   Slily then the point he turns,
Strikes, and from the wound there trickles
   Poison that like fire burns.

When with wreaths of roses blooming
   Every bower was hung,
To thine ivy unassuming
   Not a glance was flung.
When the thrush with accents trilling
Every raptured sense was filling,
Then we bent with ears unwilling,
   To thine humble song.

Away" says how d'ye do," your mien
   Appals my chearful nature,
No name so sad as yours is seen
   For sorrows nomenclature.

Whene'er I give one sunshine hour
   Your cloud comes o'er to shade it,
Whene'er I plant one bosom flower
   Your mildew drops to fade it.

Ere how d'ye do has tun'd each tongue
   To" hope's delighted measure,"
Good bye, in friendship's ear has rung
   The knell of parting pleasure.

Go, bid the timid lover choose,
   And I'll resign my charter,
If he, for ten kind how d'ye do's,
   One kind good bye would barter.

From love and friendship's kindred source
   We both derive existence,
And they would both lose half their force
   Without our joint assistance.

'Tis well the world our merit knows,
   Since time, there's no denying,
One half in how d'ye doing goes
   And t' other in good byeing !"

He knew the song, which oft to rest
Had charmed his eyes; he knew the breast
   Which milk so oft had brought him.
And still she sang, and still she wept,
And near, and nearer, crept, and crept,
   Till to her heart she caught him.

Tho' boundless oceans roll'd between,
   If certain that his heart is near,
A conscious transport glads each scene,
   Soft is the sigh, and sweet the tear.
E'en when by death's cold hand remov'd,
   We mourn the tenant of the tomb,
To think that e'en in death he lov'd,
   Can gild the horrors of the gloom.

In vain does memory renew
   The hours once ting'd in transport's dye !
The sad reverse soon starts to view,
   And turns the past to agony.
E'en time itself despairs to cure
   Those pangs to evey feeling due;
Ungenerous youth ! thy boast how poor,
   To win a heart, and break it too !

No cold approach, no alter'd mien,
   Just what would make suspision [lit.] start,
No pause the dire extremes between,
   He made me blest, and broke my heart.

And is the poor exile at rest from his woe,
   No longer the sport of misfortune and chance?
Mourn on village mourners, my tears too shall flow,
   For the stranger ye lov'd, the poor exile of France.

Oh ! kind was his nature, tho' bitter his fate,
   And gay was his converse, tho' broken his heart;
No comfort, no hope, his own breast could elate,
   Tho' comfort and hope he to all could impart.

Ever joyless himself, in the joys of the plain
   Still foremost was he, mirth and pleasure to raise,
How sad was his soul, yet how blith was his strain,
   When he sung the glad song of more fortunate days.

And when round his death bed profusely we cast,
   Ev'ry gift, ev'ry solace, our hamlet could bring;
He blest us with signs, which we thought were his last,
   But he still had a prayer, for his country, and King.

Poor exile adieu ! undisturb'd be thy sleep !
   From the feast, from the wake, from the village
      green dance,
How oft shall we wander, at moonlight to weep,
   O'er the stranger we lov'd, the poor exile of France.

To the church going bride shall thy mem'ry impart,
   One pang, as her eyes on thy cold relicks glance,
One flower from her garland, one tear from her heart,
   Shall drop on the grave of the exile of France.

Oh ! then shall his turf bed with flow'rs ever crown'd,
   And with tears ever dew'd, time's inclemency brave;
For hands more than mortal shall garden the ground,
   And Angels shall weep, o'er the emigrants grave.

By thee impell'd, by thee endued
With more than human fortitude,
   Each conflict I'll despise,
And spite of this seducing world
And all the shafts 'gainst virtue hurl'd
   Soar onward to the skies !

Whate'er my faults, whate'er my grief
'Tis thine to minister relief,
   For in thy cheering lore,
Such marks of heavenly love appear
As quickly teach us not to fear,
   Or fearing, to adore;

Protect me still celestial power,
Nor quit me in that trying hour
   When death appals my sight,
But guide me to the realms of day,
Where thy fair form shall flit away,
   Mid certainty's clear light.

Perhaps tho' now neglected and unknown,
   A parent once survey'd thee with delight,
The darling of a father's heart alone,
   Or the lov'd idol of a mother's sight.

For thee perhaps they toil'd and watch'd and pray'd,
   O'er thy sweet innocence with rapture hung,
And well they thought their tenderness repay'd
   To hear the artless music of thy tongue.

For who alas can know thy secret worth,
   What soft angelic virtues might appear;
That bosom laid defenceless on the earth
   Might once be grateful, gen'rous and sincere.

The lips that knew no friend to bid farewell,
   Might once the noblest sentiments express;
The wretched head that unsupported fell
   Might once be turn'd to stories of distress.

Some base deceiver practis'd to betray,
   Might win thy easy faith, destroy thy frame,
Then cast thee like a loathsome weed away,
   The sport of fortune and the child of shame.

Poor wanderer, perhaps thou coulds't no find
   One lib'ral hand the slender gift to spare,

Then from the world despairing and forlorn,
   Careless of life and hopeless of relief,
Thy agonizing heart retir'd to mourn
   And breathe its last in unmolested grief.

The swallow oft beneath my thatch
   Shall twitter from her clay built nest,
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch
   And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivy'd porch shall spring
   Each fragrant flower that sips the dew,
And Lucy at her wheel shall sing,
   In russet gown, and apron blue.

The village Church among the trees,
   Where first our marriage vows were giv'n,
With merry peals shall swell the breeze,
   And point with taper spire to Heav'n.

The obedient spirit flies.
Aid to salvation's heirs ordain'd to lend,
Ministrant hosts his flight attend.
Hark to the song that rends the skies !

'Tis thine the drooping virtues now to raise,
The virtues known in Latian times of old;
For empire, arts, and arms to shine enrolled,
To emulate, to rival Pallas' praise !

But, Oh ! what glories to thy brows impart
Increasing splendour ! while thy fostering hands
Hold the sad alien sufferers to thy heart.

Unequal to the theme the poet stands
In wonder rapt, nor Phoebus' heavenly art
Can pay such tribute as thy fame demands.

When the Sun conceals his head,
Beneath the western Ocean's bed;
Of thee, my God, I ask repose
To calm with sleep my pains and woes.

When I press the bed of death,
Take, Oh take, my parting breath,
Save me by thy gracious power,
From all the horrors of that hour.

Oh then may I, and mine rejoice
To hear the Trumpet's awful voice,
And cloth'd in white-robes ever sing,
Hosannas to our heavenly King.

The Sun dispels sad April's gloom,
And darts again his cheering ray.
And wakes all Nature from her tomb,
To hail with him the lovely May !

O doubly welcome art thou, May,
For sad were gloomy April's tears;
No "blossoms cloth the hawthorn spray,"
And scarce a budding leaf appears!

And scatter'd by the driving hail—
       [?handwritten dash]
Where erst fair violets bloom'd around,
And spread their perfume on the gale
The mangled primrose strews the ground.

From yonder bush the blast so rude
The blackbird's clay-built nest has torn,
The grove where late his bride he woo'd
Now echoes to his notes forlorn.

All Nature felt the general chill,
The lightest heart a gloom confest,
It deaden'd Fancy's magic thrill,
Imagination's fire represt,

But at thy mild approach, fair May ;
      [reversed 'i' used as a semi-colon?]
Shall Spring his fainting charms renew;
The Sun's enliv'ning beams shall play
On meadows bright with morning dew

The meek-eyed lamb on verdant plain
With frolic mien shall skip and play;
The black-bird build his nest again,
And gaily chaunt his amorous lay.

Again the glowing ray inspires,
And nature all around is gay;
And cold the heart, and dull its fires,
That feels not thy enchantment, May.

      Ungentle sollitudes ! un-bless'd retreats !
What inharmonious, un-poetick seats
There no sooth'd Bard, inspir'd by nature, wooes
In sweet retirement the inclining muse.
Haunt of the feather'd choirs, there no kind grove
Incites to music, or persuades to love.
There Philomela charms no chosen spray;
No sprightly Linnet once vouchsafes a lay:
Nor there the Lark, nor there the Thrueh [lit.] are heard;
Mute is the voice of ev'ry tuneful bird:
While clam'ring Toads, whose dirge no numbers rule,
Croak their dull discords to the slumb'ring pool.

      Confus'dly mingling with the farthest skies,
How the long Fen mourns ever in my eyes !

Tho' low in the dust his proud spirit expires,
   The dust by his bleeding form press'd:
'Tis Glory his soul's last emotion that fires,
   And heaves the last throb of his breast.

Immortal shall bloom each bright wreath of his fame;
   'Tis valour's illustrious meed:
Lisping infants shall sigh as they murmur his name.
   And learn for their country to bleed:

Hence Cowards ! who wake not to freedom's loud call,
   Hence ! seek an inglorious grave!
Those only, who dare for their country to fall,
   Those only shall sleep with the brave!

Of dear departed hours,
   Too fondly loved to last,
—The dew,the breath, the bloom of flowers,
   That died untimely in the blast:

Of long, long years of future care
   Till lingering Nature yields her breath;
And endless ages of despair
   Beyond the judgment day of death—

Would gladness move a sprightlier strain,
   And wake this wild Harp's clearest tones;
The strings, impatient to complain,
   Are dumb, or only utter moans.

And yet to soothe the mind
   With luxury of grief,
The Soul, to suffering all resign'd,
   In sorrow's music feels relief.

Thus o'er the light Æolian lyre,
   The winds of dark November stray,
Touch the quick nerve of every wire
   And on its magic pulses play.

O snatch the harp from Sorrow's hand,
   Hope! who hast been a stranger long:—
O strike it with sublime command,
   And be the Poet's life my song!

Of vanish'd troubles sing,
   Of tears for ever fled,
—Of flowers, that hear the voice of Spring,
   And burst and blossom from the dead!

Of home, contentment, health, repose,
   Serene delights, while years increase;
And weary life's triumphant close
   In some calm sunset hour of peace;—

Sing heavenly Hope—and dart thine hand
O'er my frail harp, untuned so long;
That harp shall breath at thy command,
   Immortal sweetness thro' thy song.

Ah ! then this gloom controul,
   And at thy voice shall start
A new creation in my soul,
And a new Eden in my heart!

Aquarius stern ! of rigid birth,
   His urn relentless pours;
Th' impetuous stream descends to earth,
   Dropping in frigid show'rs.

Domestic birds with ruby'd breast,
   Their scatter'd food to scan;
Braving that hand which robs their nest,
   Approach the haunts of man.

To yonder shiv'ring child of woe,
   Haste, and relief impart;
The sadden'd soul, sweet solace show,
   Heal sorrows' bleeding heart.

When seated at the banquet gay,
   Where plenty lavish smiles;
Think on the wretch, whose gloomy day
   No halcyon hope beguiles.

The favoured few, by Fortune blest,
   With all profusive store;
Heed not those cares which only rest,
   At want's unguarded door

Deign, lovely Nymph, my pray'r to hear,
   Thy bounteous blessings bring
With smile divine: then seasons drear,
   Will change to blooming spring.

What time dun vested Night her deep repose
Reluctant leaves chas'd by the jocund dawn,
            And incoherent song
            Of wild Pan's restless reed.

Now the fierce Sun uprears his flaming shield,
And mounts in martial pomp his Eastern Car !
            Forests and tow'ring hills,
            Start from the golden blaze !

I see thee triumph o'er th' inactive plain,
When ruddy Noon obeys the sultry pow'r,
            And stretch'd in thoughtless ease
            The toil-worn peasant lies.

'Tis then I seek the thick-wall'd Cloister's shade,
And from some nook observe the languid flocks?
            Or by the gray fly stung,
            The bounding heifer's rage.

Or hear the light Cicala's ceaseless din.
That vibrates shrill; or the near weeping brook
            That feebly winds along,
            And mournes her channel shrunk.

And to the wand'ring virgin of the sky,
As thro' the azure vault supreme she sails,
            Scatters her silv'ry beam,
            And points the Horizon's bound.

While warbled measures fill the panting gale,
The Luciola, beside each dark'ning grove,
            His momentary lamp
            Alternate shows and hides;

Or leads the lovers to some secret bow'r,
And flits around, and darts his mimic ray
            Upon the maiden's breast,
            And lights th' adorning eye.

Yet stay awhile, Sweet Summer ! nor too soon
Avert thy blushing face, but cheer the kind
            With gifts, that Plenty pours
            From her redundant Horn !

   To-morrow ! sure no darker day
Can frown upon the front of time;
   To-morrow wafts each joy away
With Delia to a distant clime.

   O Delia ! 'tis a pain to part
Or bid a common friend adieu;
   But what a pang must rend the heart
That takes a long farewell of you !

   Whose beauty baffles all defence,
Whose merit can the mind controul,
   Who strike your victim thro' the sense,
And chain him by the conquer'd soul.

   Be hush'd, ye winds ! ye seas subside !
Let no rude blast nor billow roar:
   Her course, good angels, hov'ring guide,
And guard her to the destin'd shore.

   My freindship fondly greet her there;
Love, peace, and joy, compose her train.
   May health still bless the blooming fair,
And time restore her soon again.

   Yet think, lov'd Delia, while you stray
Where brighter suns gild Nature's dome,
   'Tis sunless here while you're away,
'Tis night in all our hearts at home.

   And should conjecture e'er suggest
One thought of him who thinks of you,
   Believe his heart is here express'd,
And take these lines, pour dire adieu !