Thou com❜st to say, that my once-vacant mind
Amid those scenes shall never more rejoice;
Nor on the day of rest the hoary hind

Bend o'er his staff, attentive to my voice!

Hast thou not visited that pleasant place,
Where in this hard world I have happiest been;
And shall I tremble at thy lifted mace,

That hath pierc'd all on which life seem'd to lean?

But HOPE might whisper,-" Many a smiling day "And many a cheerful eve might yet be mine, "Ere age's autumn strew my locks with grey, "And weary to the dust my steps decline."

I argue not, but uncomplaining bow

To Heav'n's high hest; secure, whate'er my lot, Meek spirit of resign'd Content, that thou Wilt smooth my pillow, and forsake me not.

Thou to the turfy hut with pilgrim feet

Wand'rest, from halls of loud tumultuous joy; Or on the naked down, when the winds beat, Dost sing to the forsaken shepherd-boy.

Thou art the sick man's nurse, the poor man's friend, And through each change of life thou hast been mine; In every ill thou canst a comfort blend,

And bid the eye, though sad, in sadness shine.

Thee I have met on Cherwell's willow'd side;
And when our destin'd road far onward lay,
Thee I have found, whatever chance betide,
The kind companion of my devious way.

With thee unweary'd have I lov'd to roam,

By the smooth-flowing Scheldt, or rushing Rhine; And thou hast gladden'd my sequester'd home, And hung my peaceful porch with eglantine.

When cares and crosses my tir'd spirits try'd,
When to the dust my Father I resign'd;
Amidst the quiet shade unseen I sigh'd,

And, blest with thee, forgot a world unkind.

Ev'n now, while toiling through the sleepless night,
A tearful look to distant scenes I cast,

And the glad objects that once charm'd my sight
Remember, like soft views of faërie past;

I see thee come half-smiling to my bed,
With FORTITUDE more awfully severe,

Whose arm sustaining holds my drooping head,
Who dries with her dark locks the tender tear.

O firmer spirit! on some craggy height

Who, when the tempest sails aloft, dost stand, And hear'st the ceaseless billows of the night Rolling upon the solitary strand;

At this sad hour, when no harsh thoughts intrude To mar the melancholy mind's repose,

When I am left to night and solitude,

And languid life seems verging to its close;

O let me thy pervading influence feel!

Be every weak and wayward thought repress'd! And hide thou, as with plates of coldest steel, The faded aspect and the throbbing breast.

Silent the motley pageant may retreat,

And vain mortality's brief scenes remove; Yet let my bosom, whilst with life it beat,

Breathe a last pray'r for all on earth I love.

Slow-creeping pain weighs down my heavy eye,
A chiller faintness steals upon my breast;
"O gentle Muse, with some sweet lullaby,"*
Rock me in long forgetfulness to rest.

* See Dr. Harington's exquisite Air to the words :

"Come, gentle Muse, lull me to sleep,

"With some sweet harmony!"

ON LEAVING

WINCHESTER SCHOOL,

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1782.

THE spring shall visit thee again, Itchin! and yonder aged fane* That casts its shadows on thy breast, (As if, by many winters beat,,

The blooming season it would greet) With many a straggling wild-flow'r shall be drest!

But I, amidst the youthful train

That stray at ev'ning by thy side,

No longer shall a guest remain

To mark the spring's reviving pride.

* St. Croix.