Chapter II: Part 2

As then he raised them to his breast, Around the joyful Mercians prest, And made their shouts of triumph rise, To the fair concave of the skies.

OCTOBER 1795.

* * * * *

[Footnote 12: King of the East-Saxons.]

RHAPSODY.

Lo! here a cloud comes sailing, richly clad In royal purple, which the parting beams Of bounteous Phoebus edge with tints of gold And lucid crimson. One might fancy it A noble bird, that laves its graceful form, And bathes its rosy bosom in the light. Look! how it swells and rears its snowy crest With haughty grandeur; while the blue expanse, In smiling patience lets the boaster pass, And swell his train with all the lazy vapours That hover in the air: an easy prey To the gigantic phantom, whose curl'd wing, Sweeps in these worthless triflers of the sky, And wraps them in his bosom. Go, vain shadow! Sick with the burthen of thy fancied greatness, A breath of zephyr wafts thee into nothing, Scatters thy spreading plumes, uncrowns thy front, And drives thee downward to thy mother earth, To mix with vapour and dissolve in dew.

Such are the dreams of hope, which to the eye Of youthful inexperience, seem to touch The pure, unclouded sky of certainty. Buoy'd up by the fond eloquence of thought, And nurtur'd by the smile of vanity, Each hour the air-born vision gathers bulk, And Fancy decks it with a thousand hues, Varied and wild, till it abounds in charms Which sink the soul to sadness, when the breath Of gentle Reason breaks the beauteous bubble, And leaves us nought but vain regret behind.

FEBRUARY 1, 1797.

HUMAN PLEASURE OR PAIN.

When clouds and rain deform the sky,
And light'nings glare around,
Amidst the dreary, cheerless scene,
Some comfort may be found.

There will, at some far-distant spot,
A streak of light appear,
Or, when the sullen vapours break,
The ether will be clear.

And if the sun illumes the east,
And sheds his gladsome ray,
Some boding mist, or passing cloud
Will threat the rising day.

The heart rejoicing in the view,
And dancing with delight,
Oft feels the touch of palsied fear,
And sinks at thought of night.

So Hope's bright torch more clearly shines,
Amidst surrounding gloom,
And, beldame Fortune vainly throws
Her mantle o'er the tomb.

MARCH 15,1797.

THE COMPLAINT OF FANCY.

To A.R.C.

As, musing, late I sat reclin'd, And waking dreams absorb'd my mind, A damsel came, of various dyes, Like painted Iris from the skies; A purfled saffron was her vest, And sweet gum-cistus form'd her crest; In many a playful ring, her hair Flew light and flossy in the air; The mantle, blue and gold, she wore, A rose of opals held before, While, graceful in her fairy hand, Appear'd a crimson-tufted wand, Whose shade on every object threw A glowing tint of roseate hue.

"Whence art thou, blooming nymph?" I cried, And thus a tuneful voice replied: "Men call me Fancy; at my shrine Myriads confess my power divine; There painters bend the willing knee, And laurell'd poets sue to me: For mine is every vivid ray, Which partial Nature gave the day; And, to the music of my song, A thousand nameless charms belong.

"The friend of Happiness, I dwell Belov'd alike in court or cell; Where Glory lifts her ardent eye, With hasty, kindred zeal I fly, In sun-beams place the hero's form, And bid his arm command the storm; On swelling clouds an altar raise, And fan the tow'ring flame of praise.

"Oft, from the lorn enthusiast's lyre, My fingers strike etherial fire, And give to sounds of piercing woe, Extatic rapture's fervent glow. Oft sooth the maniac's throbbing vein, And grace her simple, wilder'd strain; The tribe of Pain in fetters keep, Lull wounded Memory to sleep, And, in the mind of gloomy Care, Bid Thought an angel's semblance wear.

"Dear to each blest aerial pow'r, E'en Wisdom calls me to her bow'r; My songs her leisure hours beguile, And teach her holy lip to smile. And, when the Muse, with thoughtful care, Has woven chaplets for her hair, I let her, with her myrtles, twine, Full many a fragrant rose of mine.

"Then why, since all the wise and gay, To me a grateful homage pay, Since I to all my hand extend, And, liberal, every heart befriend, Does Nancy from the croud retire, And rend my blossoms from her lyre? Though every string the loss bewail, And tones of mellow sweetness fail, Which us'd to charm the pensive ear, When list'ning Friendship bent to hear.

"Tell her I wish not to intrude Upon her sacred solitude, Nor cast my undulating chain, Around her glowing heart again; No! every claim I now resign, Yet let some small regard be mine; Let one, who nurs'd her infant years, And wip'd away some bitter tears, Still animate the scenes around, And make her tread on fairy ground; Give playful sweetness to each lay, And decorate the passing day.

"Tell her, if now she scorns my strain, She may invoke my name in vain; In vain my proffered aid implore, Contemn'd, I hardly pardon more."

She said, and springing from the earth, Attending found her suitor Mirth, Who caught her hand, with lively air, And plac'd her in his silver chair, Which through the yielding ether flew, And quickly bore them from my view.

ON THE EVE OF DEPARTURE FROM O----

Loud beats the rain! The hollow groan
Of rushing winds I hear,
That with a deep and sullen moan,
Pass slowly by the ear.

Soon will my dying fire refuse
To yield a cheerful ray,
Yet, shivering still I sit and muse
The latest spark away.

Ah, what a night! the chilly air
Bids comfort hence depart,
While sad repining's clammy wings
Cling icy, to my heart.

To-morrow's dawn may fair arise,
And lovely to the view;
The sun with radiance gild the skies,
Yet then--I say adieu!

Oh, stay, dear Night, with cautious care,
And lingering footsteps move,
Though day may be more soft and fair,
Not her, but thee, I love.

Stay, wild in brow, severe in mien,
Stay! and ward off the foe;
Who, unrelenting smiles serene,
Yet tells me I must go.

Forsake these hospitable halls,
Where Truth and Friendship dwell,
To these high towers and ancient walls,
Pronounce a long farewell.

Alas! will Time's rapacious hand,
These golden days restore?
Or will he suffer me to taste
These golden days no more?

Will he permit that here again,
I turn my willing feet?
That my glad eyes may here again,
The look of kindness meet?

That here I ever may behold,
Felicity to dwell,
And often have the painful task
Of sighing out farewell?

Ah, be it so! my fears I lose,
By hope's sweet visions fed;
And as I fly to seek repose,
She flutters round my bed.

NOV. 17, 1796.

TO M.I.

Thou, Margaret, lov'st the secret shade,
The murmuring brook, or tow'ring tree;
The village cot within the glade,
And lonely walk have charms for thee.

To thee more dear the jasmine bow'r,
That shelt'ring, undisturb'd retreat,
Than the high canopy of pow'r,
Or Luxury's embroider'd seat.

More sweet the early morning breeze,
Whose odours fill the rural vale,
The waving bosom of the seas,
When ruffled by the rising gale.

Than all which pride or pomp bestow,
To grace the lofty Indian maid,
Who prizes more the diamond's glow,
Than all in humbler vest array'd.

Sweet is the rural festive song,
Which sounds so wildly o'er the plain,
When thoughtless mirth the notes prolong,
And heart-felt pleasure pours the strain.

Sweet is the dance where light and gay,
The village maiden trips along;
Her simple robe in careless play,
As her fleet step winds round the throng.

Sweet is the labourer's blazing fire,
When evening shades invite to rest;
Though weary, home does joy inspire,
And social love dilates his breast.

His rural lass with glee prepares,
The dainties fondness made her hoard;
Her husband now the banquet shares,
And children croud around the board.

Ah! who could wish to view the air
Of listless ease and languid wealth?
Who with such pleasures could compare
The joys of innocence and health?

AUGUST 20, 1796.

CANTATA. DEL METASTASIO.

"D'atre nubi è il sol ravvolto,
Luce infausta il Ciel colora.
Pur chi sa? Quest' alma ancora
La speranza non perdè.

Non funesta ogni tempesta
Co' naufragj all' onde il seno;
Ogni tuono, ogni baleno
Sempre un fulmine non è."

TRANSLATION.

Dark, mournful clouds hang o'er the sun,
Lights gleam portentous in the air,
And yet who knows? This troubled heart
Still gives not up to blank despair.

Not big with shipwrecks every storm,
That sweeps the bosom of the main,
Nor does the threatening, turbid sky,
Always the thunder-bolt contain.

LA FORTUNA. DELLO STESSO.

A chi serena io miro,
Chiaro è di notte il cielo:
Torna per lui nel gelo
La terra a germogliar.

Ma se a taluno io giro
Torbido il guardo, e fosco,
Fronde gli niega il bosco,
Onde non trova in mar.

TRANSLATION.

To him whom kindly I behold,
The midnight sky is clear,
And 'mid the wintry frost and cold,
The blushing flowers appear.

But to the wretch who meets my eye,
When kindled by disdain,
The very grove will leaves deny,
And waveless be the main.

CANTATA DELLO STESSO.

Finchè un zeffiro soave
Tien del mar l'ira placata,
Ogni nave
È fortunata,
È felice ogni nocchier;

È ben prova di coraggio
Incontrar l'onde funeste,
Navigar fra le tempeste,
E non perdere il sentier.

TRANSLATION.

Whilst zephyr sooths the angry waves
Of Ocean into rest,
Each vessel is in safety borne,
And every pilot blest.

But he indeed demands our praise,
Who stems the tempest's force,
And midst the ire of hostile waves,
Pursues his destin'd course.

SONETTO.

DI GIOVANNI DELLA CASA.

Oh sonno, oh della cheta, umida, ombrosa
Notte placido figlio; oh de' mortali
Egri conforto, oblio dolce de' mali,
Sì gravi, ond' è la vita aspra, e nojosa:
Soccorri al core omai, che langue, e posa
Non have; e queste membra stanche, e frali
Solleva: a me ten vola, oh sonno, e l'ali
Tue brune sovra me distendi, e posa.
Ov' è il silenzio, che'l dì fugge, e'l lume?
E i lievi sogni, che con non secure
Vestigia di seguirti han per costume?
Lasso, che'nvan te chiamo, e queste oscure,
E gelide ombre invan lusingo; oh piume
D'asprezza colme; oh notti acerbe, e dure!

SONNET, TO SLEEP.

TRANSLATION.

Son of the silent, dark, and humid Night,
Consoler of the wretched, by whose sway
The gloomy train of ills are put to flight,
That blacken Life's uncertain, tedious day,

O! succour now this restless, pining heart!
Give to these feeble, weary limbs repose!
Fly to me, Sleep! and let thy sombre wings
Over my couch their dusky plumes disclose!

O! where is Silence, who avoids the light?
Where the wild dreams that flutter in thy train?
Alas! in vain I call thee, cruel Night!
And flatter these insensate shades in vain.

And oh! without thy cheering dews are shed, How full of hardships is the downy bed!

EDITHA.

Breathing the violet-scented gale,
Near to a river's limpid source,
Which, through a wide-extended vale,
Wound slowly on its sleeping course,

Attended by a youthful pair,
With rubied lip and roving eye,
Oft would fair Editha repair,
And let her children wander nigh.

There pleas'd behold their footsteps turn,
To each new object in their way,
Their ringlets glittering in the sun,
Their faces careless, blythe, and gay.

Once, when they drest their flaxen hair,
With flow'rets wild of various hue,
And with a proud, exulting air,
To their delighted parent drew:

"Ah! thus may every day arise!
And pleasure thus your hearts, pervade!"
The widow'd mother fondly cries,
"Before the youthful blossoms fade.

"My sighs are all dispers'd in air,
Resign'd to fate, I weep no more,
Your welfare now is all my care,
Yet am I constant as before.

"The world, because a vermil bloom,
Tinges my yet unfading cheek,
Says I forget my William's tomb,
A new and earthly love to seek.

"Because I join the social train,
With lip that wears a kindred smile;
And a gay sonnet's lively strain,
Does oft the lonely hour beguile:

"Because no longer now I mourn,
With sweeping robes of sable hue;
No more I clasp the marble urn,
Or vainly bid the world adieu.

"Ah! ill my secret soul they know,
Where my lost hero still remains,
Where memory makes my bosom glow,
And binds me still in closer chains.

"Whoe'er hath seen my William's form,
Heighten'd with every martial grace,
The ever-varying, unknown charm,
Which beam'd in his expressive face;

"Or heard his fine ideas try,
In Fancy's fairy garb to teach,
While the sweet language of his eye,
Excell'd the eloquence of speech,

"Could ne'er suppose my faith would fail,
Or aught again this heart enslave;
That absence would o'er love prevail,
Or hope be bounded by the grave.

"Could all but I his merit know?
His wit and talents see?
And is his name by all below
Remember'd, but by me?

"No, ne'er will I the memory lose,
Though from my sight thy form is flown,
Of tenderness for other's woes,
And noble firmness in thy own.

"No slavish fear thy soul deprest,
Of Death, or his attendant train;
For in thy pure and spotless breast,
The fear of heav'n did only reign.

"Thus, when the still-unsated waves
Spread o'er thy head their whelming arms,
When horrid darkness reign'd around,
And lightnings flash'd their dire alarms,

[13]"When, wing'd with death, each moment flew,
And blood the foaming ocean stain'd,
Thy courage cool, consistent, true,
Its native energy maintain'd.

"And when the fatal moment came,
The bullet enter'd in thy side,
Only thy spirit's beauteous frame,
Its prisoner flying, droop'd and died.

"This is it that consoles my mind,
Which to my love aspiring flies,
And makes me hope, in future days,
To hail my William in the skies.

"Should tears from my pale eyelids steal,
I teach my children's how to flow,
And make their little bosoms feel,
Before their time, the touch, of woe.

"I will not weep! the world shall see
That I a nobler tribute pay;
More grateful both to heaven and thee,
By guiding them in virtue's way."

Embracing then her fondest cares,
She cast her raptur'd eyes above,
And breath'd to heav'n emphatic pray'rs,
Of mingled reverence and love.

APRIL 15, 1795.

* * * * *

[Footnote 13: I know not if I have expressed myself with much clearness here, but I meant to describe a sea-fight as concisely as possible.]

TO M.I.

Light breezes dance along the air,
The sky in smiles is drest,
And heav'ns pure vault, serene and fair,
Pourtrays the cheerful breast.

Each object on this moving ball
Assumes a lovely hue;
So fair good-humour brightens all
That comes within her view.

Her presence glads the youthful train,
Reanimates the gay,
And, round her, by the couch of pain,
The light-wing'd graces play.

Her winning mein and prompt reply,
Can sullen pride appease;
And the sweet arching of her eye
E'en apathy must please.

To you, with whom the damsel dwells
A voluntary guest,
To you, Maria, memory tells,
This tribute is addrest.

The feeble strains that I bequeath,
With melody o'erpay;
And let thy lov'd piano breathe
A sweet responsive lay.

Although the mellow sounds will rise,
So distant from my ear,
The charmer Fancy, when she tries,
Can make them present here.

Can paint thee, as with raptur'd bend,
You hail the powers of song;
When the light fingers quick descend,
And fly the notes along:

Feel the soft chord of sadness meet,
An echo in the soul,
And waking joy the strains repeat,
When Mirth's-quick measures roll.

This "mistress of the powerful spell,"
Can every joy impart;
And ah! you doubtless know too well
How she can wring the heart.

She rules me with despotic reign,
As now I say <I>adieu_;
And makes me feel a sort of pain,
As if I spoke to you.

FEB. 14, 1797.

WRITTEN IN ZIMMERMANN'S SOLITUDE.

Hail, melancholy sage! whose thoughtful eye, Shrunk from the mere _spectator's_ careless gaze, And, in retirement sought the social smile, The heart-endearing aspect, and the voice Of soothing tenderness, which Friendship breathes, And which sounds far more grateful to the ear, Than the soft notes of distant flute at eve, Stealing across the waters: Zimmermann! Thou draw'st not Solitude as others do, With folded arms, with pensive, nun-like air, And tearful eye, averted from mankind. No! warm, benign, and cheerful, she appears The friend of Health, of Piety, and Peace; The kind Samaritan that heals our woes, The nurse of Science, and, of future fame The gentle harbinger: her meek abode Is that dear home, which still the virtuous heart, E'en in the witching maze of Pleasure's dance, In wild Ambition's dream, regards with love, And hopes, with fond security, to pass The evening of a long-protracted day, Serenely joyful, there.

IN MEMORY OF MR. AGOSTINO ISOLA,

OF CAMBRIDGE,

Who died on the 5th of June, 1797.

Awake, O Gratitude! nor let the tears Of selfish Sorrow smother up thy voice, When it should speak of a departed friend. A tender friend, the first I ever lost! For Destiny till now was merciful, And though I oft have felt a transient pang, For worth unknown, and wept awhile for those, Whom long acquaintance only made me love, No keen regret laid pining at my heart, Nor Memory in the solitary hour, Would sting with grief, as when she speaks Thy virtue, knowledge, wisdom, gentleness, Thy venerable age, and says that I Had once the happiness to call thee friend.

Yes! I once bore that title, and my heart Thought nobler of itself, that one so good, So honor'd, so rever'd, should give it me. O _Isola!_ when that glad season comes, Which brought redemption to a ruin'd world, And, like thee, hides beneath the snow of age, A gay, benevolent, and feeling heart, I hop'd again to hear thy tongue repeat, With youthful warmth and zealous energy, Those passages, where Poetry assumes An air divine, and wakes th' attentive soul To holy rapture! Then you promis'd me The luxury to weep o'er Dante's muse, And fair Italia's loftier poets hail.

I have often heard That years would blunt the feelings of the soul, And apathy ice the once-glowing heart. Injurious prejudice! Dear, guileless friend! Thou read'st mankind, but saw not, or forgot Their faults and vices; for thy breast was still The residence of sweet Simplicity, Daughter of letter'd Wisdom, and the friend Of Love and Pity. Happy soul, farewell! Long shall we mourn thee! longer will it be, "Ere we shall look upon thy like again!"

* * * * *

This humble tribute to the memory of my venerated friend, was written in the first impulse of my sorrow for his loss, and though unworthy of his virtues, is still a small memorial of my respect for a man, on whose tomb might justly be inscribed, as I have seen on an old monument:

"Heven hath his soule.
He fruits of Pietie,
This Towne his want.
Our hearts his Memorie."

TO THE NUNS OF BODNEY.

Ye holy women, say! will ye accept The passing tribute of a humble friend? Stranger indeed to you and to your faith, But O! I hope not stranger to the zeal, Which warm'd your bosoms in Religion's cause. When impious men commanded you to break The vow which bound your souls, and which in youth Warm Piety's emphatic lips had made. Say! will ye suffer me on that rude tomb, Where she reposes (whose benignant smile, Whose animated, life-inspiring eye, And faded form, majestic, still appears In Thought's delusive hour) to shed a tear? On her, whose sainted look, though seen but once, I never can forget, till Time shall wrap The veil of Death around me, and make dumb The voice of Memory. Ah! "how low she lies!" No marble monument to speak her praise, And tell the world that here a DILLON rests. One, who in beauty's prime forsook the world, And, _self-bereav'd_ of all it holds most dear, Retir'd, to pass the pilgrimage of life, In solemn prayer and peaceful solitude. Ah, vain desire! Ambition's scowling eye Must see the cloister, as the palace, low, And meek-ey'd Quiet quit her last abode, Ere he can pause to look upon the wreck, And rue the wild impatience of his hand.

Hail! blessed spirit! This rude cypher'd stone. On which a sister's pensive eye shall muse In sorrow, and another relative In sweet, though mournful, recollection, bend, Shall call a tear into the stranger's eye Whene'er he hears the tale, yet make him proud That Britain's hospitable land should yield All that you could accept, _an humble grave_.

_Written in London, on the 19th of March, 1796._

A lov'd companion, chosen friend,
Does at this hour depart,
Whom the dear name of father binds
Still closer to my heart.

On him may joy-dispensing heav'n
Each calm delight bestow,
And eas'd of peace-destroying care
His life serenely flow!

Did I but know his bosom calm,
And free from anxious fear,
Around me in more cheerful hues
Would every scene appear.

And I will hope that he, who ne'er
Repin'd at heav'n's decree,
But ever patient and resign'd,
Submissive bent the knee:

Who, best of fathers, never sought
For arbitrary sway,
But free within each youthful mind,
Bade Reason lead the way.

Who taught us, 'stead of servile fear,
A warm esteem to prove,
And bade each act of duty spring,
From gratitude and love.

Yes, I must hope that generous mind
With many cares opprest,
Shall in the winter of his days
With sweet repose be blest.

* * * * *

_A friend, a year or two ago, gave me_ Joseph's Reconciliation with his Brethren, _as a subject to write upon; but I was afraid of not treating it in such a manner as a sacred story deserved, and gave up the attempt, when I had written little more than the following lines, to account for their not knowing him, although he well remembered them; and am persuaded to let them appear here_.

* * * * *

FRAGMENT.

* * * * *

They, ere he left them, had attain'd their prime And were less alter'd by the hand of Time; But, the slim youth no longer met their view, Fair, as the fancy e'er a seraph drew. Who still, upborne by joy, in smiles was found, With step elate that scarcely press'd the ground. Before a grief had raz'd his youthful breast, Or care had robb'd his brilliant eyes of rest. When lofty visions swam before his sight, And dreams of empire wrapt his soul at night. Whose hair luxuriant flow'd in glossy pride, And, from his snowy forehead, wav'd aside; Which, vein'd with purest azure, rose serene, And threw complacence o'er a rapturous mien. The wandering light that sparkled in his eye, The rounding lip of liveliest crimson dye, The speaking form, by each emotion sway'd, The voice, that softest music had convey'd, Were now matur'd. No more the child they saw, But one, with majesty, inspiring awe; Whose silken locks no more in ringlets flow, But gold and purple bind his manly brow: No more the envied robe his limbs invest, In all the pomp of eastern monarchs drest. The sun of Egypt had embrown'd his face, And time had ripen'd every youthful grace.

As when the morn, in vivid colours gay, And tender beauty, flies to meet the day, Her lively tints lose their primeval hue, The white and saffron mingle with the blue, A glowing blush o'er the whole ether reigns, But not a cloud its genuine tint retains.

* * * * *

FRAGMENT.

Where yonder mossy ruins lie, And desolation strikes the eye, A noble mansion, high and fair, Once rear'd its turrets in the air. There infant warriors drew their breath, And learn'd to scorn the fear of death. In halls where martial trophies hung, They listen'd while the minstrels sung, Of pain and glory, toil and care, And all the horrid charms of war: There caught the fond desire of fame, And panted for a hero's name. Alas! too oft in youthful bloom, Renown has crown'd the early tomb, Has pierc'd the widow's bosom deep, And taught the mother's eyes to weep. She, on whose tale the stripling hung, While pride and sorrow rul'd her tongue. His father's gallant acts to tell, How bold he fought, how bravely fell.

Methinks e'en now I hear her speak, I see the tear upon her cheek; The musing boy's abstracted brow, And the high-arching eye below. The stifled sigh and anxious heave, The kindling heart which dares not grieve; The finely-elevated head, The hand upon the bosom spread, Proclaim him wrought by potent charms, And speak his very soul in arms.

Incautious zeal! what hast thou done? The tale has robb'd thee of thy son. And while thy pious tears deplore, The loss of him who lives no more, Ambition wakes her restless fire, The boy will emulate his sire,

* * * * *

_Written April the 18th, 1796_

The beauteous queen of social love, Descending from the realms above, Through the wide space of ether flew, With care this little world to view, Till, tir'd with wandering, at the last, Through every different climate past, She sought not out a splendid dome, But made this humble cot her home.

The sweetest lyre would strive in vain, To sing the pleasures of her reign, Whose powerful influence does impart, New softness to the feeling heart, Bids it each narrow thought resign, And fills it with a warmth benign.

From morning till the close of day, Here all a grateful homage pay, For here she plays her harmless wiles, And scatters her endearing smiles; Here no proud rivals intervene, And all, though glowing, is serene. Here, since she first her visit paid, Still has the sweet enchantress staid, And never met a single slight, Or spread her snowy plumes for flight.

Contented 'neath the humble roof; No timid heart is kept aloof; A kind and condescending guest, She lightens each despairing breast; Where pain her poignant venom spreads, The balm of tenderness she sheds, Which breathes a calm repose around, And heals at last the burning wound.

When the heart throbs with bitter woe, Her winning mien disarms the foe, And the kind glances of her eye, Force the desponding power to fly. She gives a zest to every joy, Forbids tranquillity to cloy, Softens misfortune, chases fear, And balm distills in every tear. 'Tis she alone can make us know, A truly blissful hour below, Can smooth the furrow'd brow of life, And hush the thundering voice of strife.

O, may she still exert her power, Still lead us to the rural bower, Which vaunting Pride does ne'er disgrace, Or critic Envy's spiteful face. Here Raymond ever shall delight, To sit and watch the closing night; And open-hearted Gertrude here, With her sweet infant shall appear. Here oft her brother shall prepare, A wreath for Mary's curling hair; While soft-voic'd Anna, fond of play, And all the train, alert and gay, In healthful games shall frolic round, And revel on the mossy ground.

Here Edmund shall forget his care, And often fill an elbow chair; While Sophia, friendly and sincere, Shall ever find a welcome here.

Yet would my hovering fancy trace, The features of each happy face; And sympathy informs my mind, That they the same emotions find; That in each scene of harmless glee, Memory recalls the absent three: And all, though distance strives to part, Will hold communion in the heart.

FINIS.