Hark! the wild maniac fings, to chide the gale

That wafts fo flow her lover's diftant fail ;

She, fad fpectatrefs, on the wint'ry shore

Watch'd the rude furge his fhroudlefs corfe that bore,

Knew the pale form, and, fhrieking in amaze,

281

Clafp'd her cold hands, and fix'd her maddening gaze: Poor widow'd wretch! 'twas there fhe wept in vain,

Till memory fled her agonizing brain ;—

But Mercy gave, to charm the sense of woe,

Ideal peace, that Truth could ne'er beftow ;

Warm on her heart the joys of Fancy beam,

And aimless Hope delights her darkest dream.

Oft when yon moon has climb'd the midnight sky,

And the lone fea-bird wakes its wildeft cry,

285

200

Pil'd on the steep, her blazing faggots burn

To hail the bark that never can return;

And still fhe waits, but scarce forbears to weep

That conftant love can linger on the deep.

And, mark the wretch, whofe wand'rings never knew The world's regard, that foothes, though half untrue, 296

Whofe erring heart the lash of forrow bore,

But found not pity when it err'd no more.

Yon friendless man, at whofe dejected eye

Th' unfeeling proud one looks-and paffes by ;
Condemn'd on Penury's barren path to roam,
Scorn'd by the world, and left without a home-
Ev'n he, at evening, should he chance to ftray
Down by the hamlet's hawthorn-fcented way,

300

Chithat for

me some home like this would smile,

m

Some hamlet shade, to yield my sickly form,

Health in the breeze, & shelter in the storm.

Published as the Act directs by Longman & Rees, London, 1 July, 1800,

Where, round the cot's romantic glade, are seen
The bloffom'd bean-field, and the floping green,
Leans o'er its humble gate, and thinks the while—
Oh! that for me fome home like this would smile,
Some hamlet fhade, to yield my fickly form,

305

Health in the breeze, and fhelter in the storm;

310

There should my hand no ftinted boon affign

To wretched hearts with forrows fuch as mine ;

That

generous wish can soothe unpitied care,

And Hope half mingles with the poor man's pray'r.

Hope! when I mourn, with sympathifing mind, 315

The wrongs of fate, the woes of human kind,

Thy blifsful omens bid my spirit fee

The boundless fields of rapture yet to be ;