Meanwhile I tune, to some romantic lay,
My flageolet-and as I pensive play,

The sweet notes echo o'er the mountain scene:
The traveller late journeying o'er the moors,
Hears them aghast,-(while still the dull owl pours
Her hollow screams each dreary pause between.)

Till in the lonely tower he spies the light,
Now faintly flashing on the glooms of night,
Where I, poor muser, my lone vigils keep;
And 'mid the dreary solitude serene,

Cast a much-meaning glance upon the scene,
And raise my mournful eye to Heaven and weep.

ODE TO THOUGHT.

WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT.

I.

HENCE away vindictive thought!

Thy pictures are of pain;

The visions through thy dark eye caught,

They with no gentle charms are fraught,

So prithee back again.

I would not weep,

I wish to sleep,

Then why, thou busy foe, with me thy vigils keep?

Why dost o'er bed and couch recline?
Is this thy new delight?
Pale visitant.-It is not thine

To keep thy sentry through the mine,

The dark vault of the night:

'Tis thine to die,

While o'er the eye,

The dews of slumber press, and waking sorrows fly.

III.

Go thou and bide with him who guides

His bark through lonely seas;

And as reclining on his helm,

Sadly he marks the starry realm,

To him thou mayst bring ease;

But thou to me

Art misery,

So prithee, prithee plume thywings and from my pillow flee,

IV.

And Memory, pray what art thou?

Art thou of pleasure born?

Does bliss untainted from thee flow?

The rose that gems thy pensive brow,

Is it without a thorn?

With all thy smiles,

And witching wiles,

Yet not unfrequent bitterness thy mournful sway defiles.

V.

The drowsy night-watch has forgot
To call the solemn hour;

Lull'd by the winds he slumbers deep,

While I in vain, capricious sleep,

Invoke thy tardy power;

And restless lie,

With unclos'd eye,

And count the tedious hours as slow they minute by.

GENIU S.

AN ODE.

I. 1.

MANY there be who, through the vale of life,
With velvet pace, unnoticed, softly go,
While jarring discord's inharmonious strife
Awakes them not to woe.

By them unheeded, carking care,
Green-ey'd grief, and dull despair;
Smoothly they pursue their way,

With even tenor, and with equal breath; Alike through cloudy, and through sunny day, Then sink in peace to death.

II. 1.

But ah! a few there be whom griefs devour,
And weeping woe, and disappointment keen,
Repining penury, and sorrow sour,

And self-consuming spleen.

And these are Genius' favourites: these
Know the thought-thron'd mind to please,
And from her fleshy seat to draw

To realms where Fancy's golden orbits roll,
Disdaining all but 'wildering raptures law,
The captivated soul.

III. 1.

Genius, from thy starry throne,
High above the burning zone,

In radiant robe of light array'd,

Oh hear the plaint by thy sad favourite made,
His melancholy moan.

He tells of scorn, he tells of broken vows,

Of sleepless nights, of anguish-ridden days,

Pangs that his sensibility uprouse

To curse his being, and his thirst for praise. Thou gav'st to him, with treble force to feel,

The sting of keen neglect, the rich man's scorn, And what o'er all does in his soul preside Predominant, and tempers him to steel, His high indignant pride.

I. 2.

Lament not ye, who humbly steal through life,
That Genius visits not your lowly shed;
For ah, what woes and sorrows ever rife,
Distract his hapless head!

For him awaits no balmy sleep,

He wakes all night, and wakes to weep; Or, by his lonely lamp he sits,

At solemn midnight, when the peasant sleeps,

In feverish study, and in moody fits

His mournful vigils keeps.

II. 2.

And oh! for what consumes his watchful oil?

For what does thus he waste life's fleeting breath?

'Tis for neglect and penury he doth toil,

'Tis for untimely death.

Lo! where dejected pale he lies,

Despair depicted in his eyes,

He feels the vital flame decrease,

He sees the grave, wide-yawning for its prey,

Without a friend to soothe his soul to peace,

And cheer the expiring ray.

III. 2.

By Sulmo's bard of mournful fame,

By gentle Otway's magic name,