18).
[74] Waterspouts are more frequent near the capes of Latikea, Grecgo, and Carmel, than in any other parts of the Mediterranean Sea .-- _Shaw's Travels._ [75] The coast of Egypt is not discovered till its trees are seen.
WATER-PARTY ON BEAULIEU RIVER, IN THE NEW FOREST.
I thought 'twas a toy of the fancy, a dream That leads with illusion the senses astray, And I sighed with delight as we stole down the stream, While the sun, as he smiled on our sail, seemed to say, Rejoice in my light, ere it fade fast away! We left the loud rocking of ocean behind, And stealing along the clear current serene, The Phaedria[76] spread her white sails to the wind, And they who divided had many a day been, Gazed with added delight on the charms of the scene.
Each bosom one spirit of peace seemed to feel; We heard not the tossing, the stir, and the roar Of the ocean without; we heard only the keel, The keel that went whispering along the green shore, And the stroke, as it dipped, of the feathering oar.
Beneath the dark woods now, as winding we go, What sounds of rich harmony burst on the ear! Hark, cheer'ly the loud-swelling clarionets blow; Now the tones gently die, now more mellow we hear The horns through the high forest echoing clear! They cease; and no longer the echoes prolong The swell of the concert; in silence we float-- In silence! Oh, listen! 'tis woman's[77] sweet song-- The bends of the river reply to each note, And the oar is held dripping and still from the boat.
Mark the sun that descends o'er the curve of the flood! Seize, Wilmot,[78] the pencil, and instant convey To the tablet the water, the banks, and the wood, That their colours may live without change or decay, When these beautiful tints die in darkness away.
So when we are parted, and tossed on the deep, And no longer the light on our prospect shall gleam, The semblance of one lovely scene we may keep, And remember the day, and the hour, like a dream, When we sighed with delight as we stole down the stream! [76] Cutter belonging to Nathaniel Ogle, Esq.
[77] Mrs Sheridan.
[78] Mrs Wilmot, well known for her great talents in drawing, _et cet._ MONODY ON THE DEATH OF DR WARTON.
Oh! I should ill thy generous cares requite Thou who didst first inspire my timid Muse, Could I one tuneful tear to thee refuse, Now that thine aged eyes are closed in night, Kind Warton! Thou hast stroked my stripling head, And sometimes, mingling soft reproof with praise, My path hast best directed through the maze Of thorny life: by thee my steps were led To that romantic valley, high o'erhung With sable woods, where many a minstrel rung 10 His bold harp to the sweeping waterfall; Whilst Fancy loved around each form to call That fill the poet's dream: to this retreat Of Fancy, (won by whose enticing lay I have forgot how sunk the summer's day), Thou first did guide my not unwilling feet; Meantime inspiring the gay breast of youth With love of taste, of science, and of truth.
The first inciting sounds of human praise, A parent's love excepted, came from thee; 20 And but for thee, perhaps, my boyish days Had all passed idly, and whate'er in me Now live of hope, been buried.
I was one, Long bound by cold dejection's numbing chain, As in a torpid trance, that deemed it vain To struggle; nor my eyelids to the sun Uplifted: but I heard thy cheering voice; I shook my deadly slumber off; I gazed Delighted 'round; awaked, inspired, amazed, 30 I marked another world, and in my choice Lovelier, and decked with light! On fairy ground Methought I buoyant trod, and heard the sound As of enchanting melodies, that stole, Stole gently, and entranced my captive soul.
Then all was life and hope! 'Twas thy first ray, Sweet Fancy, on the heart; as when the day Of Spring, along the melancholy tract Of wintry Lapland, dawns; the cataract, From ice dissolving on the silent side 40 Of some white precipice, with paly gleam Descends, while the cold hills a slanting beam Faint tinges: till, ascending in his pride, The great Sun from the red horizon looks, And wakes the tuneless birds, the stagnant brooks, And sleeping lakes! So on my mind's cold night The ray of Fancy shone, and gave delight And hope past utterance.
Thy cheering voice, O Warton! bade my silent heart rejoice, 50 And wake to love of nature; every breeze, On Itchin's brink was melody; the trees Waved in fresh beauty; and the wind and rain, That shook the battlements of Wykeham's fane, Not less delighted, when, with random pace, I trod the cloistered aisles; and witness thou, Catherine,[79] upon whose foss-encircled brow We met the morning, how I loved to trace The prospect spread around; the rills below, That shone irriguous in the gleaming plain; 60 The river's bend, where the dark barge went slow, And the pale light on yonder time-worn fane![80] So passed my days with new delight; mean time To Learning's tender eye thou didst unfold The classic page, and what high bards of old, With solemn notes, and minstrelsy sublime, Have chanted, we together heard; and thou, Warton! wouldst bid me listen, till a tear Sprang to mine eye: now the bold song we hear Of Greece's sightless master-bard:[81] the breast 70 Beats high; with stern Pelides to the plain We rush; or o'er the corpse of Hector slain Hang pitying;--and lo! where pale, oppressed With age and grief, sad Priam comes;[82] with beard All white he bows, kissing the hands besmeared With his last hope's best blood! The oaten reed[83] Now from the mountain sounds; the sylvan Muse, Reclined by the clear stream of Arethuse, Wakes the Sicilian pipe; the sunny mead 80 Swarms with the bees, whose drowsy lullaby Soothes the reclining ox with half-closed eye; While in soft cadence to the madrigal, From rock to rock the whispering waters fall! But who is he,[84] that, by yon gloomy cave, Bids heaven and earth bear witness to his woe! And hark! how hollowly the ocean-wave Echoes his plaint, and murmurs deep below! Haste, let the tall ship stem the tossing tide, That he may leave his cave, and hear no more 90 The Lemnian surges unrejoicing roar; And be great Fate through the dark world thy guide, Sad Philoctetes![85] So Instruction bland, With young-eyed Sympathy, went hand in hand O'er classic fields; and let my heart confess Its holier joy, when I essayed to climb The lonely heights where Shakspeare sat sublime, Lord of the mighty spell: around him press Spirits and fairy-forms.

He, ruling wide 100 His visionary world, bids terror fill The shivering breast, or softer pity thrill Ev'n to the inmost heart.

Within me died All thoughts of this low earth, and higher powers Seemed in my soul to stir; till, strained too long, The senses sunk.
Then, Ossian, thy wild song Haply beguiled the unheeded midnight hours, And, like the blast that swept Berrathron's towers, Came pleasant and yet mournful to my soul! 110 See o'er the autumnal heath the gray mists roll! Hark to the dim ghosts' faint and feeble cry, As on the cloudy tempest they pass by! Saw ye huge Loda's spectre-shape advance, Through which the stars look pale! Nor ceased the trance Which bound the erring fancy, till dark night Flew silent by, and at my window-grate The morning bird sang loud: nor less delight The spirit felt, when still and charmed I sate 120 Great Milton's solemn harmonies to hear, That swell from the full chord, and strong and clear, Beyond the tuneless couplets' weak control, Their long-commingling diapason roll, In varied sweetness.
Nor, amidst the choir Of pealing minstrelsy, was thy own lyre, Warton, unheard;--as Fancy poured the song, The measured music flowed along, Till all the heart and all the sense 130 Felt her divinest influence, In throbbing sympathy:--Prepare the car,[86] And whirl us, goddess, to the war, Where crimson banners fire the skies, Where the mingled shouts arise, Where the steed, with fetlock red, Tramples the dying and the dead; And amain, from side to side, Death his pale horse is seen to ride! Or rather, sweet enthusiast, lead 140 Our footsteps to the cowslip mead, Where, as the magic spell is wound, Dying music floats around:-- Or seek we some gray ruin's shade, And pity the cold beggar,[87] laid Beneath the ivy-rustling tower, At the dreary midnight hour, Scarce sheltered from the drifting snow; While her dark locks the bleak winds blow O'er her sleeping infant's cheek! 150 Then let the shrilling trumpet speak, And pierce in louder tones the ear, Till, while it peals, we seem to hear The sounding march, as of the Theban's song;[88] And varied numbers, in their course, With gathering fulness, and collected force, Like the broad cataract, swell and sweep along! Struck by the sounds, what wonder that I laid, As thou, O Warton! didst the theme inspire, My inexperienced hand upon the lyre, 160 And soon with transient touch faint music made, As soon forgotten! So I loved to lie By the wild streams of elfin poesy, Rapt in strange musings; but when life began, I never roamed a visionary man; For, taught by thee, I learned with sober eyes To look on life's severe realities.
I never made (a dream-distempered thing) Poor Fiction's realm my world; but to cold Truth 170 Subdued the vivid shapings of my youth.
Save when the drisly woods were murmuring, Or some hard crosses had my spirit bowed; Then I have left, unseen, the careless crowd, And sought the dark sea roaring, or the steep That braved the storm; or in the forest deep, As all its gray leaves rustled, wooed the tone Of the loved lyre, that, in my springtide gone, Waked me to transport.
Eighteen summers now 180 Have smiled on Itchin's margin, since the time When these delightful visions of our prime Rose on my view in loveliness.

And thou Friend of my muse, in thy death-bed art cold, Who, with the tenderest touches, didst unfold The shrinking leaves of Fancy, else unseen And shelterless: therefore to thee are due Whate'er their summer sweetness; and I strew, Sadly, such flowerets as on hillocks green, Or mountain-slope, or hedge-row, yet my hand 190 May cull, with many a recollection bland, And mingled sorrow, Warton, on thy tomb, To whom, if bloom they boast, they owe their bloom! [79] Catherine Hill.
[80] St Cross Hospital.
[81] Homer.
[82] See the last book.
[83] Theocritus.
[84] [Greek: Megale moira.]--_Soph._ [85] Philoctetes, see Sophocles.

Youthful impressions on first reading it.
[86] See Warton's "Ode to Fancy." [87] Alluding to some pathetic lines in Warton's "Ode to Fancy." [88] See Warton's "Ode on West's Translation of Pindar." EPITAPH ON H.WALMSLEY, ESQ., IN ALVERSTOKE CHURCH, HANTS.
Oh! they shall ne'er forget thee, they who knew Thy soul benevolent, sincere, and true; The poor thy kindness cheered, thy bounty fed, Whom age left shivering in its dreariest shed; Thy friends, who sorrowing saw thee, when disease Seemed first the genial stream of life to freeze, Pale from thy hospitable home depart, Thy hand still open, and yet warm thy heart! But how shall she her love, her loss express, Thy widow, in this uttermost distress, When she with anguish hears her lisping train Upon their buried father call in vain! She wipes the tear despair had forced to flow, She lifts her look beyond this vale of woe, And rests (while humbled in the dust she kneels) On Him who only knows how much she feels.
AGE.
Age, thou the loss of health and friends shalt mourn! But thou art passing to that night-still bourne, Where labour sleeps.