And vital feelings of delight

Shall rear her form to stately height,
Her virgin bosom swell;

Such thoughts to Lucy I will give
While she and I together live

Here in this happy Dell."

Thus Nature spoke.-The work was doneHow soon my Lucy's race was run!

She died, and left to me

This heath, this calm, and quiet scene;
The memory of what has been,
And never more will be.

SONNET

COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPT. 3, 1803.

EARTH has not any thing to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth like a garment wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;

All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour valley, rock or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep.
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!

LAMB.

HESTER.-A REMEMBRANCE.

WHEN maidens such as Hester die,
Their place ye may not well supply,
Though ye among a thousand try,
With vain endeavour.

A month or more hath she been dead,
Yet cannot I by force be led
To think upon the wormy bed
And her together.

A springy motion in her gait,
A rising step, did indicate

Of pride and joy no common rate,
That flush'd her spirit-

I know not by what name beside
I shall it call:-if 'twas not pride,
It was a joy to that allied
She did inherit.

Her parents held the Quaker rule,
Which doth the human feeling cool;

But she was train'd in Nature's school,
Nature had blest her.

A waking eye, a prying mind,

A heart that stirs, is hard to bind,

A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind, Ye could not Hester.

My sprightly neighbour, gone before
To that unknown and silent shore,
Shall we not meet, as heretofore,
Some summer morning,

When from thy cheerful eyes a ray
Hath struck a bliss upon the day,
A bliss that would not go away,
A sweet forewarning?

VERSES FOR AN ALBUM.

FRESH clad from heaven in robes of white, A young probationer of light,

Thou wert, my soul, an Album bright,

A spotless leaf; but thought, and care,
And friends, and foes, in foul or fair,
Have written "strange defeature" there.

And Time, with heaviest hand of all,
Like that fierce writing on the wall,
Hath stamp'd sad dates he can't recall.

And Error, gilding worse designs,

Like speckled snake that strays and shinesBetrays his path by crooked lines.

My scalded eyes no longer brook

Upon this ink-blurr'd thing to look.

Go-shut the leaves-and clasp the book!

KIRKE WHITE.

THE HERB ROSEMARY.

SWEET Scented flower! who art wont to bloom

On January's front severe,

And o'er the wintry desert drear
To waft thy waste perfume!

Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now,
And I will bind thee round my brow;
And as I twine the mournful wreath,
I'll weave a melancholy song,

And sweet the strain shall be, and long,
The melody of death.

Come, funeral flower! who lov'st to dwell
With the pale corse in lonely tomb,
And throw across the desert gloom
A sweet decaying smell.

Come, press my lips, and lie with me
Beneath the lowly alder-tree;

And we will sleep a pleasant sleep,
And not a care shall dare intrude,
To break the marble solitude,

So peaceful, and so deep.

And hark! the wind-god, as he flies,
Moans hollow in the forest-trees,
And sailing on the gusty breeze,
Mysterious music dies.

Sweet flower! that requiem wild is mine,
It warns me to the lonely shrine,

The cold turf altar of the dead;

My grave shall be in yon lone spot,
Where as I lie, by all forgot,

A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed.

ODE TO DISAPPOINTMENT.

COME, Disappointment, come!

Not in thy terrors clad;
Come in thy meekest, saddest guise;
Thy chastening rod but terrifies

The restless and the bad.

But I recline

Beneath thy shrine,

And round my brow resign'd thy peaceful cypress twine.

Though Fancy flies away

Before thy hollow tread,

Yet Meditation, in her cell,

Hears with faint eye the ling'ring knell,

That tells her hopes are dead;

And though the tear

By chance appear,

Yet she can smile, and say, My all was not laid here!

What is this passing scene?

A peevish April day!

A little sun, a little rain,

And then night sweeps along the plain,

And all things fade away.

Man (soon discuss'd)

Yields up his trust,

And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust.