O say what soft propitious hour When autumn, friendly to the Muse, When eve, her dewy star beneath, If such an hour was e'er thy choice, Matthew Gregory Lewis. THE MANIAC. STAY, jailor, stay, and hear my woe! She is not mad who kneels to thee: For what I'm now, too well I know, And what I was, and what should be. I'll rave no more in proud despair; My language shall be mild, though sad: But yet I firmly, truly swear, I am not mad, I am not mad. My tyrant husband forged the tale, Oh! haste my father's heart to cheer: He smiles in scorn, and turns the key; 'Tis sure some dream, some vision vain; Which never more my heart must glad, Hast thou, my child, forgot, ere this, Nor round her neck how fast you clung; Nor how that suit your sire forbade; Nor how I'll drive such thoughts away; They'll make me mad, they'll make me mad. His rosy lips, how sweet they smiled! His mild blue eyes, how bright they shone' None ever bore a lovelier child: And art thou now forever gone? My pretty, pretty, pretty lad? Oh, hark! what mean those yells and cries? His chain some furious madman breaks; He comes, I see his glaring eyes; Now, now, my dungeon-grate he shakes. Help! help!-He's gone!-Oh! fearful woe, Such screams to hear, such sights to see! My brain, my brain,-I know, I know I am not mad, but soon shall be. Yes, soon; for lo! you-while I speak- Deep in my heart, so crushed and sad; Henry Kirke White. THE STAR OF WH BETHLEHEM. HEN marshalled on the nightly plain, One star alone, of all the train, Can fix the sinner's wandering eye. Hark! hark! to God the chorus breaks, Once on the raging seas I rode, The storm was loud-the night was dark; The ocean yawned-and rudely blowed The wind that tossed my foundering bark. Deep horror then my vitals froze, It was the Star of Bethlehem. It was my guide, my light, my all, It bade my dark forebodings cease; And through the storm and dangers' thrall, It led me to the port of peace. Now safely moored—my perils o'er, I'll sing, first in night's diadem, For ever and for evermore, The Star-the Star of Bethlehem! MIL ΤΟ AN EARLY PRIMROSE. ILD offspring of a dark and sullen sire! And cradled in the winds. Thee, when young Spring first questioned Winter's sway, And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight, Thee on this bank he threw To mark his victory. In this low vale, the promise of the year, Thy tender elegance. So Virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms Of life she rears her head, Obscure and unobserved; While every bleaching breeze that on her blows, Chastens her spotless purity of breast, And hardens her to bear Serene the ills of life. |