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To the River Trent. Written on Recovery from Sickness.

ONCE more, O TRENT! along thy pebbly marge

A pensive invalid, reduced, and pale,
From the close sick-room newly let at large,

Wooes to his wan-worn cheek the pleasant gale.
O! to his ear how musical the tale

Which fills with joy the throstle's little throat ! And all the sounds which on the fresh breeze sail

How wildly novel on his senses float !
It was on this that many a sleepless night,

As, lone, he watched the taper's sickly gleam,
And at his casement heard, with wild affright,

The owl's dull wing, and melancholy scream, On this he thought, this, this, his sole desire, Thus once again to hear the warbling woodland choir.


GIVE me a cottage on some Cambrian wild,

Where, far from cities, I may spend my days:
And, by the beauties of the scene beguild,
May pity man's pursuits, and shun his ways.

While on the rock I mark the browsing goat,

List to the mountain torrent's distant noise, Or the hoarse bittern's solitary note,

I shall pot want the world's delusive joys; But, with my little scrip, my book, my lyre,

Shall thick my lot complete, nor covet more ; And when, with time, shall wane the vital fire,

I'll raise my pillow on the desart shore, And lay me down to rest where the wild wave Shall make sweet music o'er my lonely grave,


Supposed to have been addressed by a Female Lunatic to a Lady,

LADY, thou weepest for the Manjac's woe,

And thou art fair, and thou, like me, așt young, Oh may thy bosom never, never know,

.The pangs with which my wretched heart is wrung, I had a mother once-a brother too

(Beneath yon yew my father rests his head :) I had a lover once, –and kind, and true,

But motber, brother, lover, all are fled !
Yet, whence the tear which dims thy lovely eye?

Oh! gentle lady--not for me thus weep,


This Quatorzain had its rise from an elegant Sonnet, sioned by seeing a young Female Lunatic,” written by Mrs. Lofft, and pnblished in the Monthly Mirror.


green sod soon upon my breast will lie, And soft, and sound, will be my peaceful sleep. Go thou, and pluck the roses while they bloom

My hopes lie buried in the silent tomb.


Supposed to be written by the unhappy Poet Dermody, in a Storm,

while on board a Ship in his Majesty's service.

LO! o'er the welkin the tempestuous clouds

Successive fly, and the loud-piping wind
Rocks the poor sea-boy on the dripping shrouds,

While the pale pilot o'er the helm reclin'd,
Lists to the changeful storm: and as he plies

His wakeful task, he oft bethinks him, sad,

Of wife, and little home and chubby lad, And the half-strangled tear bedews his eyes; I, on the deck, musing on themes forlorn,

View the drear tempest, and the yawning deep,

Nought dreading in the green sea's caves to sleep,
For not for me, shall wife, or children mourn,
And the wild winds will ring my funeral knell,
Sweetly as solemn peal, of pious passing-bell.



GOD help thee, Traveller, on thy journey far;

The wind is bitter keen,--the snow o'erlays

The hidden pits, and dangerous hollow-ways, And darkness will involve thee.-No kind star To-night will guide thee, Traveller,-and the war

Of winds and elements, on thy head will break,

And in thy agonizing ear the shriek, Of spirits howling on their stormy car, Will often ring appalling-I portend

A dismal night--and on my wakeful bed

Thoughts, Traveller, of thee, will fill my head, And him, who rides where wind and waves contend, And strives, rude cradled on the seas, to guide His lonely bark through the tempestuous tide.



This Sonnet was addressed to the Author of this Volume, and was

occasioned by several little Quatorzains, misnomered Sonnets, which he published in the Monthly Mirror. He begs leave to return his thanks to the much-respected Writer, for the permission so politely granted, to insert it here, and for the good opi. nion he has been pleased to express of his productions.

YE, whose aspirings court the muse of lays,

“ Severest of those orders which belong,

“ Distinct and separate, to Delphic song," Why shun the Sonnet's undulating maze ? And why its name, boast of Petrarchian days,

Assume, its rules disown'd? whom from the throng The muse selects, their ear the charm obeys

Of its full harmony:—they fear to wrong The Sonnet, by adorning with a name

Of that distinguished import, lays, though sweet,

Yet not in magic texture taught to meet Of that so varied and peculiar frame.

O think! to vindicate its genuine praise Those it beseems, whose Lyre a favouring impulse sways.

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