EPIGRAM ON ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.
BLOOMFIELD, thy happy omen'd name
Ensures continuance to thy fame;
Both sense and truth this verdict give,
While fields shall bloom, thy name shall live!
OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF MR. GILL, WHO WAS
DROWNED IN THE RIVER TRENT, WHILE
BATHING, 9TH AUGUST, 1802.
He sunk, the impetuous river roll'd along,
The sullen wave betray'd his dying breath;
And rising sad the rustling sedge among,
The gale of evening touch'd the cords of death.
Nymph of the Trent! why didst not thou appear To snatch the victim from thy felon wave!
Alas! too late thou camest to embalm his bier, And deck with waterflags his early grave.
Triumphant, riding o'er its tumid prey,
Rolls the red stream in sanguinary pride; While anxious crowds, in vain, expectant stay, And ask the swoln corse from the murdering tide.
The stealing tear-drop stagnates in the eye,
The sudden sigh by friendship's bosom proved,
I mark them rise-I mark the general sigh!
Unhappy youth! and wert thou so beloved?
On thee, as lone I trace the Trent's green brink,
When the dim twilight slumbers on the glade;
On thee my thoughts shall dwell, nor Fancy shrink
To hold mysterious converse with thy shade.
Of thee, as early, I, with vagrant feet,
Hail the gray-sandal'd morn in Colwick's vale,
Of thee my sylvan reed shall warble sweet,
And wild-wood echoes shall repeat the tale.
And, oh! ye nymphs of Pæon! who preside
O'er running rill and salutary stream,
Guard ye in future well the halcyon tide
From the rude death-shriek and the dying
INSCRIPTION FOR A MONUMENT TO THE MEMORY OF COWPER.
READER! if with no vulgar sympathy
Thou view'st the wreck of genius and of worth,
Stay thou thy footsteps near this hallow'd spot.
Here Cowper rests. Although renown have made
His name familiar to thine ear, this stone
May tell thee that his virtues were above
The common portion :-that the voice, now hush'd
In death, was once serenely querulous
With pity's tones, and in the ear of woe
Spake music. Now, forgetful, at thy feet,
His tired head presses on its last long rest,
Still tenant of the tomb;-and on the cheek,
Once warm with animation's lambent flush,
Sits the pale image of unmark'd decay.
Yet mourn not. He had chosen the better part
And these sad garments of Mortality
Put off, we trust, that to a happier land
He went a light and gladsome passenger.
Sigh'st thou for honours, reader? Call to mind
That glory's voice is impotent to pierce
The silence of the tomb! but virtue blooms
Even on the wreck of life, and mounts the skies
So gird thy loins with lowliness, and walk
With Cowper on the pilgrimage of Christ.
“I'M PLEASED, AND YET I'M SAD.”
WHEN twilight steals along the ground,
And all the bells are ringing round,
One, two, three, four, and five,
I at my study window sit,
And, wrapp'd in many a musing fit,
To bliss am all alive.
But though impressions calm and sweet
Thrill round my heart a holy heat,
And I am inly glad;
The tear-drop stands in either eye,
And yet I cannot tell thee why,
I'm pleased, and yet I'm sad.
The silvery rack that flies away,
Like mortal life or pleasure's ray,
Does that disturb my breast?
Nay, what have I, a studious man,
To do with life's unstable plan,
Or pleasure's fading vest?
Is it that here I must not stop,
But o'er yon blue hill's woody top
Must bend my lonely way?
No, surely no! for give but me
My own fireside, and I shall be
At home where'er I stray.
Then is it that yon steeple there,
With music sweet shall fill the air,
When thou no more canst hear?
Oh, no! oh, no! for then, forgiven,
I shall be with my God in heaven,
Released from every fear.
Then whence it is I cannot tell,
But there is some mysterious spell
That holds me when I'm glad; And so the tear-drop fills my eye, When yet in truth I know not why, Or wherefore I am sad.
It is not that my lot is low,
That bids this silent tear to flow;
It is not grief that bids me moan;
It is that I am all alone.
In woods and glens I love to roam,
When the tired hedger hies him home;
Or by the woodland pool to rest,
When pale the star looks on its breast.
Yet when the silent evening sighs,
With hallow'd airs and symphonies,
My spirit takes another tone,
And sighs that it is all alone.
The autumn leaf is sere and dead,
It floats upon the water's bed;
I would not be a leaf, to die
Without recording sorrow's sigh!
The woods and winds, with sullen wail,
Tell all the same unvaried tale;
I've none to smile when I am free,
And when I sigh, to sigh with me.
Yet in my dreams a form I view,
That thinks on me, and loves me too;
I start, and when the vision's flown,
|