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VI.

TO MELANCHOLY.

OH Melancholy! many a lingering day,

And weary night, I've felt thy presence nigh; And I have brushed the tear, suppressed the sigh, In proud resistance to thy baleful sway;

In vain attempts to chase thee far away,

With feeble hand I've tried to wield the pen, To frame some moral tale or sportive lay;

But found thee hovering o'er my head again :
Intrusive still, perched on my artless lyre,

Like night's ill-boding bird, with flapping wing;
When I essayed in cheerful notes to sing,
Thy pinions, as they touched the sounding wire,
With chilling torpor chilled my languid fire,

And pensive, jarring strains fell from the trembling

string.

VII.

TO THE SAME.

LONG hast thou, Melancholy, reigned a queen
Within my breast; and I am still thy slave;
And troublous thy capricious rule has been,

Wild as the wind, and restless as the wave;
For thou could'st show, to mock my anguish keen,
How stern Adversity had fixed my doom
Where storms untimely ravaged all the scene,

And blighted every earth-born flowret's bloom: But though, by thee, my calm and sun-bright day Was changed to winter's dismal, lowering gloom ; There still remains an unextinguished ray

Of trembling light, that twinkles o'er the tomb; Where man shall sleep, in death's long, dreamless night, But, renovated, wake to life and lasting light!

VIII.

ON READING

WORDSWORTH'S "EXCURSION."

METHINKS thy song diffuse, mild WORDSWORTH, seems
Much like some ever-varying landscape, seen

When Fancy triumphs, and Elysian dreams

Show brighter skies, and fields of lovelier green;
'Midst castled cliffs, pure streams, and flowrets fair,
The breath of eve seems sweeter in the vale ;
Celestial music floats along the air,

Melodious, mingling with the fragrant gale:
Though many an object, richly haloed round,
Is dimly seen in the resplendent haze;

Though strange and new the soft harmonious sound,
Still pleased we listen, still delighted gaze,

And, though bewildered, linger on the plain,

So rich the fairy scene,-so sweet the hallowed strain.

IX.

TO SLEEP.

O, GENTLE power! I court thy kind embrace;
Come, o'er my eyelids wave thy ebon wand;
Pale Melancholy's crowding phantoms chase,
And soothe my sorrows with thy slumbers bland.
Oh! why canst thou the sons of health caress,
And still the mourner's invocation spurn?

My downy pillow, see, in vain I

press,

And nightly on the couch of sadness turn :
I wake when all is hushed. Come gentle Sleep,
O cool my throbbing brow; life's fever calm :
The sense of pain in dull oblivion steep,

And lull reflection with thy opiate balm;
Or, kinder still-in blissful vision, shed

The scenes of happier days around my weary head!

X.

TO THE LAUREL.

BEWITCHING tree! what magic's in thy name?
What are thy secret and seductive charms,
To lure the great in song, the brave in arms,
Who deem thy verdant wreath the badge of Fame ?
And while they listen to her loud acclaim,

Life's purple tide with quicker motion warms.

Full oft, alas! the hero and the bard

Find thee their only meed, their sole reward;
But, like the rainbow in a summer shower,

Or gaudy poppy, of fugacious bloom,

'Tis thine to flourish for a transient hour, Then, withered, sink in dark oblivion's womb :

Thy greenest leaves, thy rich perennial flower, Buds in thy votary's life, but blossoms on his tomb!

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