Written at the Request of a Lady, who furnished several of the Lines, and many of the Thoughts.
AH! who is she that sits and weeps,
And gazes on the narrow mound ?
-In that fresh grave her True-Love sleeps,.
Her heart lies with him in the ground :
She heeds not, while her babe, at play,
Plucks the frail flowers, that gaily bloom,
And casts them, as they fade away,
In garlands on its Father's tomb:
-Unconscious where its Father lies,
Sweets to the sweet!" the prattler cries:'
Ah! then she starts, looks up, her eyes o'erflow
With all a Mother's love, and all a Widow's wo
Again she turns away her head,
Nor marks her Infant's sportive air,
Its cherub-cheeks all rosy red,
Its sweet blue eyes, and yellow hair:
Silent she turns away her head,
Nor dare behold that happy face,
Where smile the features of the dead,
In lineaments of fairy grace:
In which at once, with transport wild,
She sees her husband and her child;
Ah! then her bosom burns, her eyes o'erflow
With all a Mother's love, and all a Widow's woe.
And still I find her sitting here,
Though dark October frowns on all;
And from the limetrees rustling near
The scatter'd leaves around her fall:
O then it charms her inmost soul,
It suits the sadness of her mind,
To watch the clouds of autumn roll,
And listen to the evening wind;
In every shadow, every blast,
The spirits of enjoyments past,
She sees, she hears;-ah! then her eyes o'erflow
Not with a Mother's love, but with a Widow's woe.
The peasant dreads the driving storm,
Yet pauses as he hastens by,
Views the pale ruin of her form,
The desolation of her eye,
Beholds her babe for shelter creep
Behind the grave-stone's dreary shade,
Where all its Father's wishes sleep,
And all its Mother's hopes are laid;
Remembering then his own heart's joy,
A rosy wife, a blooming boy!
"O God," he sighs, "when I am thus laid low,
"Must my poor Partner feel a widow'd Mother's
woe!"
He gently stretches out his arm,
And calls the babe in accents mild;
The Mother shrieks with strange alarm,
And snatches up her weeping child :
She thought that voice of tender tone,
Those accents soft, endearing, kind,
Came from beneath the hollow stone!
-He marks the wandering of her mind,
And musing on his happier lot,
Seeks the warm comforts of his cot;
He meets his wife ;-ah! then his eyes o'erflow; She feels a Mother's love,-nor dreads a Widow's woe!
The storm retires;-and hark! the bird,
The lonely bird of Autumn's reign,
From yonder waving elm is heard;-
O what a wild and simple strain!
See the delighted Mourner start,
While Robin-Redbreast's evening song
Pours all its sweetness thro' her heart,
And soothes her as it trills along :
Then gleams her eye; her fancy hears
The warbled music of the spheres ;
She clasps her babe; she feels her bosom glow,
And in the Mother's love forgets the Widow's woe.
Go to thine home, forsaken Fair!
Go to thy solitary home:
Thou lovely Pilgrim! in despair,
To thy Saint's shrine no longer roam;
He rests not here; thy souL'S DELIGHT
Attends where'er thy footsteps tread;
He watches in the depth of night,
A guardian Angel, round thy bed,
And still a Father, fondly kind,
Loves the dear pledge he left behind;
Behold that Pledge?—then cease thy tears to flow, And in the Mother's love forget the Widow's woe.
SHEFFIELD, October, 1805.
Who had complained of the Author's Silence on that Occasion.`
FROM thought-seducing rapture fled,
Once more I woo these classic bowers;
Once more as wont yon cloister's pale
Invites my solitary tread,
But, ah! to cheat the lingering hours,
Can wit or wisdom now avail?
Then from that dear complaining tongue
No more Eliza let me hear
What scenes before this rigid eye
Have pass'd, unheeded or unsung,
Quit every Muse the breast severe
That could the tuneful boon deny!
What though I saw with steady view
Bath spread of nymphs her proud array;
And fac'd with anguish well conceal'd
The shafts that frequent round me flew,
Think not that from the fatal field
I bore a heart entire away!
Nor yet, believe me, thus retir'd,
Hill, grove, or lawn my plaint resound ;
A secret pleasure soothes my pain,
And with heroic ardour fir'd
I cherish each illustrious wound
In memory of that bright campaign.
BY THE REV. J. WHITEHOUSE.
Ir e'er against that pure, ingenuous breast
Envy, or jealous Pride should lift the dart,
Or Slander vile, or Treachery thee molest,
Ne'er shall their ruthless arrows reach thy HEART.
For o'er thy bosom, its securest guard,
Meek Innocence shall wave her snowy shield, And gentle Truth and Honour take the field, With champion-arm to quell the foe prepar'd; These sainted forms by bright Religion led
Shall round thy steps their daily station keep, With seraph vigils watch around thy sleep, And circle, like a starry zone, thy head!
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