I need not mention Lochaber, the Braes of Bellendine, Tweedside, _et cet._ ON LEAVING A VILLAGE IN SCOTLAND.
Clysdale! as thy romantic vales I leave, And bid farewell to each retiring hill, Where musing memory seems to linger still, Tracing the broad bright landscape; much I grieve That, mingled with the toiling crowd, no more I may return your varied views to mark, Of rocks amid the sunshine towering dark, Of rivers winding wild,[10] or mountains hoar, Or castle gleaming on the distant steep!-- Yet many a look back on thy hills I cast, And many a softened image of the past Sadly combine, and bid remembrance keep, To soothe me with fair scenes, and fancies rude, When I pursue my path in solitude.
[10] There is a wildness almost fantastic in the view of the river from Stirling Castle, the course of which is seen for many miles, making a thousand turnings.
EVENING.
Evening! as slow thy placid shades descend, Veiling with gentlest hush the landscape still, The lonely, battlement, the farthest hill And wood, I think of those who have no friend; Who now, perhaps, by melancholy led, From the broad blaze of day, where pleasure flaunts, Retiring, wander to the ring-dove's haunts Unseen; and watch the tints that o'er thy bed Hang lovely; oft to musing Fancy's eye Presenting fairy vales, where the tired mind Might rest beyond the murmurs of mankind, Nor hear the hourly moans of misery! Alas for man! that Hope's fair views the while Should smile like you, and perish as they smile! TO THE RIVER ITCHIN.[11] Itchin! when I behold thy banks again, Thy crumbling margin, and thy silver breast, On which the self-same tints still seem to rest, Why feels my heart a shivering sense of pain! Is it, that many a summer's day has past Since, in life's morn, I carolled on thy side! Is it, that oft since then my heart has sighed, As Youth, and Hope's delusive gleams, flew fast! Is it, that those who gathered on thy shore, Companions of my youth, now meet no more! Whate'er the cause, upon thy banks I bend, Sorrowing; yet feel such solace at my heart, As at the meeting of some long-lost friend, From whom, in happier hours, we wept to part.
[11] The Itchin is a river running from Winchester to Southampton, the banks of which have been the scene of many _a holiday sport_.

The lines were composed on an evening in a journey from Oxford to Southampton, the first time I had seen the Itchin since I left school.
ON RESIGNING A SCHOLARSHIP OF TRINITY COLLEGE, OXFORD, AND RETIRING TO A COUNTRY CURACY.
Farewell! a long farewell! O Poverty, Affection's fondest dream how hast thou reft! But though, on thy stern brow no trace is left Of youthful joys, that on the cold heart die, With thee a sad companionship I seek, Content, if poor;--for patient wretchedness, Tearful, but uncomplaining of distress, Who turns to the rude storm her faded cheek; And Piety, who never told her wrong; And calm Content, whose griefs no more rebel; And Genius, warbling sweet, his saddest song, When evening listens to some village knell,-- Long banished from the world's insulting throng;-- With thee, and thy unfriended children dwell.
DOVER CLIFFS.
On these white cliffs, that calm above the flood Uprear their shadowing heads, and at their feet Hear not the surge that has for ages beat, How many a lonely wanderer has stood! And, whilst the lifted murmur met his ear, And o'er the distant billows the still eve Sailed slow, has thought of all his heart must leave To-morrow; of the friends he loved most dear; Of social scenes, from which he wept to part! Oh! if, like me, he knew how fruitless all The thoughts that would full fain the past recall, Soon would he quell the risings of his heart, And brave the wild winds and unhearing tide-- The World his country, and his GOD his guide.
ON LANDING AT OSTEND.
The orient beam illumes the parting oar;-- From yonder azure track, emerging white, The earliest sail slow gains upon the sight, And the blue wave comes rippling to the shore.
Meantime far off the rear of darkness flies: Yet 'mid the beauties of the morn, unmoved, Like one for ever torn from all he loved, Back o'er the deep I turn my longing eyes, And chide the wayward passions that rebel: Yet boots it not to think, or to complain, Musing sad ditties to the reckless main.
To dreams like these, adieu! the pealing bell Speaks of the hour that stays not--and the day To life's sad turmoil calls my heart away.
1787.
THE BELLS, OSTEND.[12] How sweet the tuneful bells' responsive peal! As when, at opening morn, the fragrant breeze Breathes on the trembling sense of pale disease, So piercing to my heart their force I feel! And hark! with lessening cadence now they fall! And now, along the white and level tide, They fling their melancholy music wide; Bidding me many a tender thought recall Of summer-days, and those delightful years When from an ancient tower, in life's fair prime, The mournful magic of their mingling chime First waked my wondering childhood into tears! But seeming now, when all those days are o'er, The sounds of joy once heard, and heard no more.
1787.
[12] Written on landing at Ostend, and hearing, very early in the morning, the carillons.
THE RHINE.
'Twas morn, and beauteous on the mountain's brow (Hung with the clusters of the bending vine) Shone in the early light, when on the Rhine We bounded, and the white waves round the prow In murmurs parted:--varying as we go, Lo! the woods open, and the rocks retire, As some gray convent-wall or glistening spire 'Mid the bright landscape's track unfolding slow! Here dark, with furrowed aspect, like Despair, Frowns the bleak cliff! There on the woodland's side The shadowy sunshine pours its streaming tide; Whilst Hope, enchanted with the scene so fair, Counts not the hours of a long summer's day, Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds away.
INFLUENCE OF TIME ON GRIEF.
O Time! who know'st a lenient hand to lay Softest on Sorrow's wound, and slowly thence (Lulling to sad repose the weary sense) The faint pang stealest unperceived away; On thee I rest my only hope at last, And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tear That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear, I may look back on every sorrow past, And meet life's peaceful evening with a smile:-- As some lone bird, at day's departing hour, Sings in the sunbeam, of the transient shower Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while:-- Yet ah! how much must that poor heart endure, Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure! THE CONVENT.
If chance some pensive stranger, hither led, His bosom glowing from majestic views, Temple and tower 'mid the bright landscape's hues, Should ask who sleeps beneath this lowly bed?
A maid of sorrow.

To the cloistered scene, Unknown and beautiful a mourner came, Seeking with unseen tears to quench the flame Of hapless love: yet was her look serene As the pale moonlight in the midnight aisle;-- Her voice was gentle and a charm could lend, Like that which spoke of a departed friend; And a meek sadness sat upon her smile!-- Now, far removed from every earthly ill, Her woes are buried, and her heart is still.
THE RIVER CHERWELL.
Cherwell! how pleased along thy willowed edge Erewhile I strayed, or when the morn began To tinge the distant turret's golden fan, Or evening glimmered o'er the sighing sedge! And now reposing on thy banks once more, I bid the lute farewell, and that sad lay Whose music on my melancholy way I wooed: beneath thy willows waving hoar, Seeking a while to rest--till the bright sun Of joy return; as when Heaven's radiant Bow Beams on the night-storm's passing wings below: Whate'er betide, yet something have I won Of solace, that may bear me on serene, Till eve's last hush shall close the silent scene.
ON ENTERING SWITZERLAND.
Languid, and sad, and slow, from day to day I journey on, yet pensive turn to view, Where the rich landscape gleams with softer hue, The streams, and vales, and hills, that steal away.
So fares it with the children of the earth: For when life's goodly prospect opens round, Their spirits burn to tread that fairy ground, Where every vale sounds to the pipe of mirth.
But them, alas! the dream of youth beguiles, And soon a longing look, like me, they cast Back on the mountains of the morning past: Yet Hope still beckons us, and beckoning smiles, And to a brighter world her view extends, When earth's long darkness on her path descends.
DISTANT VIEW OF ENGLAND FROM THE SEA.
Yes! from mine eyes the tears unbidden start, As thee, my country, and the long-lost sight Of thy own cliffs, that lift their summits white Above the wave, once more my beating heart With eager hope and filial transport hails! Scenes of my youth, reviving gales ye bring, As when erewhile the tuneful morn of spring Joyous awoke amidst your hawthorn vales, And filled with fragrance every village lane: Fled are those hours, and all the joys they gave! Yet still I gaze, and count each rising wave That bears me nearer to my home again; If haply, 'mid those woods and vales so fair, Stranger to Peace, I yet may meet her there.
HOPE.
As one who, long by wasting sickness worn, Weary has watched the lingering night, and heard Unmoved the carol of the matin bird Salute his lonely porch; now first at morn Goes forth, leaving his melancholy bed; He the green slope and level meadow views, Delightful bathed with slow-ascending dews; Or marks the clouds, that o'er the mountain's head In varying forms fantastic wander white; Or turns his ear to every random song, Heard the green river's winding marge along, The whilst each sense is steeped in still delight.
So o'er my breast young Summer's breath I feel, Sweet Hope! thy fragrance pure and healing incense steal! TO A FRIEND.
Go, then, and join the murmuring city's throng! Me thou dost leave to solitude and tears; To busy phantasies, and boding fears, Lest ill betide thee; but 'twill not be long Ere the hard season shall be past; till then Live happy; sometimes the forsaken shade Remembering, and these trees now left to fade; Nor, 'mid the busy scenes and hum of men, Wilt thou my cares forget: in heaviness To me the hours shall roll, weary and slow, Till mournful autumn past, and all the snow Of winter pale, the glad hour I shall bless That shall restore thee from the crowd again, To the green hamlet on the peaceful plain.
1792.
ABSENCE.
There is strange music in the stirring wind, When lowers the autumnal eve, and all alone To the dark wood's cold covert thou art gone, Whose ancient trees on the rough slope reclined Rock, and at times scatter their tresses sere.
If in such shades, beneath their murmuring, Thou late hast passed the happier hours of spring, With sadness thou wilt mark the fading year; Chiefly if one, with whom such sweets at morn Or evening thou hast shared, afar shall stray.
O Spring, return! return, auspicious May! But sad will be thy coming, and forlorn, If she return not with thy cheering ray, Who from these shades is gone, far, far away.
BEREAVEMENT.
Whose was that gentle voice, that, whispering sweet, Promised methought long days of bliss sincere! Soothing it stole on my deluded ear, Most like soft music, that might sometimes cheat Thoughts dark and drooping! 'Twas the voice of Hope.
Of love, and social scenes, it seemed to speak, Of truth, of friendship, of affection meek; That, oh! poor friend, might to life's downward slope Lead us in peace, and bless our latest hours.
Ah me! the prospect saddened as she sung; Loud on my startled ear the death-bell rung; Chill darkness wrapt the pleasurable bowers, Whilst Horror, pointing to yon breathless clay, "No peace be thine," exclaimed, "away, away!" 1793.
OXFORD REVISITED.
I never hear the sound of thy glad bells, Oxford, and chime harmonious, but I say, Sighing to think how time has worn away, Some spirit speaks in the sweet tone that swells, Heard after years of absence, from the vale Where Cherwell winds.

Most true it speaks the tale Of days departed, and its voice recalls Hours of delight and hope in the gay tide Of life, and many friends now scattered wide By many fates.

Peace be within thy walls! I have scarce heart to visit thee; but yet, Denied the joys sought in thy shades,--denied Each better hope, since my poor Harriet died, What I have owed to thee, my heart can ne'er forget! IN MEMORIAM.
How blessed with thee the path could I have trod Of quiet life, above cold want's hard fate, (And little wishing more) nor of the great Envious, or their proud name; but it pleased GOD To take thee to his mercy: thou didst go In youth and beauty to thy cold death-bed; Even whilst on dreams of bliss we fondly fed, Of years to come of comfort! Be it so.
Ere this I have felt sorrow; and even now, Though sometimes the unbidden tear will start, And half unman the miserable heart, The cold dew I shall wipe from my sad brow, And say, since hopes of bliss on earth are vain, Best friend, farewell, till we do meet again! ON THE DEATH OF THE REV.