TO MY MOTHER .

I.

Softly the ships do sail,
 Dipping in the billow,
Now that the weary gale
 Findeth there its pillow.

II.

The sea doth lift its plain,
 Tremulous and shining;
Like threads upon the main
 Glossy wakes are twining.

III.

In twilight rings the calm
 Binds the current's motion,
While evening's inland balm
 Quivers on the ocean.

IV.

Such calms, such heavenly air
 Soothe my spirit often.
When thy kind eyes are there

O Born to pity woes, yet, form'd to give ,
Shut from whose presence , 'twere a pain , to live !
Who make all converse tedious, but your own ;
And, that with-held, leave the forsaken none.
Urg'd by what motives, would you wish to shun
The sight , and voice , of him, whose soul you won?
On what false fears does this cold flight depend?
What fancy'd foe does prudence apprehend?

W HEN bodies only are to bodies dear,
The danger there consists in being near ;
And, when the fair , the soft contagion spy,

God of my fathers! stretch thy oft-try'd hand,
And yet, once more, redeem thy chosen land:
Once more, by wonders , make thy glories known,
And, 'midst thy anger , be thy mercy shown!
O! I have heard thy dreadful actions told,
And my soul burns thy terrors to unfold.

A T Israel's call, the' almighty's thunder hurl'd,
From Paran 's summit, shook th'astonish'd world;
The flaming heav'ns blaze, dreadful, through the sky ,
And earth's dark regions gleam, beneath his eye .
High, in his undetermin'd hands, he bore

The Shepherd Theseus long'd to die
Gazing on the gracious eye
Of her whom he adored and lov'd,
When she whom no less passion mov'd,
Thus said, " O die not yet I pray,
I'll die with thee, if thou wilt stay. "
The Shepherd then awhile delays,
No heart he had to end his days;
And while thus languishing he lies
Sucking sweet nectar from her eyes.
The loving Shepherdess who found
The harvest of her love at hand
With trembling eyes, straight fell a crying
Die, die sweet heart, for I am dying.
The Shepherd then did straight reply

IN THE PASS OF LLANBERIS .

Holding by this rude crag I stay to listen,
Where the white noonday moon looks o'er the steep,
And sheets of mountain water hang and glisten,
Catching the sun far up in their long leap.
Snowdon's whole range is rocking in the wind,
Ridges and splintered caves and lifeless vales,
Calling forth mighty sounds, while they unbind
The echoing chords of this vast harp of Wales.
Forget not Whom the winds forth-shadow! Hark,
How the huge hills take up in hollows dark

Fain would I sing, if songs my thoughts could ease,
Or calm the tempest of my troubled brain,
Fain would I force my silent Muse to please
The gallant humour of thy wanton vein.
But O, a miser mancipate to pain,
Sold slave to sorrow, wedded to mischief,
By mirth of songs, perhaps more grief might gain;
In vain of them I should expect relief;
Then sacred Craig, if thou would'st ease my grief,
Invite me not to wantonize with thee,
But tune thy notes unto my mourning key,
And when I weep, weep thou to echo me.

'Tis I — tho' shame-fac'd , — MODEST The , now, tries ye,
Don't let th' unlook'd-for change — too much surprize ye.
Your loose deserter, now brought up for sentence,
Uncocks his contrite phiz — and glouts repentance.
Sinners should all feel shame . So far, plain fact is:
Yet, some blush aukwardly — for want of practice,
Ah! what can move hard hearts — if yours he misses,
Whose penitential tweer stands crimp'd , as this is.
Not A BEL'S three-tir'd squint more queerly show'd him,
When the crack'd urinal had half-o'er flow'd him.

Sing swift hoof'd Æthon to thy matchless self,
And be not silent in this pleasant spring;
I am thy echo, and thy airy elf,
The latter strains of thy sweet tunes I'll sing.
Ah, shall thy Muse no further fruits forth bring,
But " Basia " bare? and wilt thou write no more
To higher notes? I pray thee tune thy string!
Be still admired as thou hast been of yore.
Write Æthon, write, let not thy vein decay,
Least we become Cymmerians dark, or worse;
If Æthon fail, the sun his course must stay,
For Phaebus' chariot takes the chiefest horse —

Why thought fond Greece to build a solid fame
On flying shades of fables passing vain?
Why did her self-deceiving fancy dream
That none but she the Muses did maintain?
She said those sacred sisters did remain
Confined within a craig that there did lie;
That great Apollo's self did not disdain,
For that rough palace, to renounce the sky;
That there a well, still drawn, but never dry,
Made laymen poets ere they left the place.
But all were tales which fame doth now belie,
And builds up Albion's glore to their disgrace.

Why should ye thus, to prove but vainly kind ,
Add a weak body to a sickly mind ?
Could but your pious grief recal her breath,
Or tears of duty win her back from death ;
We would not blame the passion you express,
But share it with you, if 'twould make it less !

 B UT oh! when certain death's uncertain hour
Exerts his known, his unresisted pow'r;
When we are summon'd from our cares , below,
To joys , which living merit must not know;
When souls, like you dear mother's , quit their clay,
And change earth's darkness for eternal day :