POEMS

BY

J. H. WIFFEN.

To a Lady, with a Sprig of Cypress.

On receiving an Autograph Poem by Henry Kirke White, from his

Sister.

To Dr. Joseph Thackeray. .

. 194

197

On planting a slip from Milton's Mulberry Tree, in the Gardens at Woburn Abbey. Presented by Dr. Thackeray, of Cambridge. 201

To my Friends.

The Inquisition of the Year.

To Mary and Hannah, on leaving their Garden.

A Farewell.

To a Lady in Affliction, with a Rose.

Ode.

Lines written in an Album.

The Echo of Antiquity, written in York Minster. "I Need no More."

PAGE

. 220

221

221

Sonnet to M. D. D'Isigny..

To the Rose. From the Spanish of Don Francisco de Rioja.
To the Jessamine. From the Spanish of Gongora.

On a Ring-sent as a memento of his friend I. D. Strutt, who died
abroad.

222

To Ida. "Enough of history and romance.”

Evening Reverie.

. 225

To Ida. "Oh what were all this weary world."

. 228

The Oaken Bough. I.

. 230

The Oaken Bough. II.

. 233

. 237

On a leaf from Milton's Mulberry Tree.

To the Cuckoo in the Vale of Cuawg. (From the Welsh of

To Maenwyn. (From the Welsh of Llywarch Hên). "I Crossed in its Beauty thy Dee's Druid Water." Sonnet to George Hayter, Esq., M.A.S.L., etc., etc.

The Abbot's Oak, in Woburn Park.

To Samuel Fox (with a copy of Tasso).
To my Wife.

Verses on the Alameda at Ampthill Park. .

189

ODE TO MEDITATION.

"Sic ego

secretis possum benè vivere silvis,

Quà nulla humano fit via trita pede.

Tu mihi curarum requies, tu nocte vel atrâ
Lumen, et in solis tu mihi turba locis."

COME, Meditation, Heaven-born Power!
Seek with me the shady bower,

TIBULLUS.

Where classsic Science spreads her eagle wing;
Or at mellow Music's shrine,

Sweep with the tuneful Nine,

Upborne on Fancy's car, the warbling lyre ;
While the fair Dryads join the festive choir,
And on the light toe, form the sportive ring.
But where conceal'd art Thou?

On Appenina's head of snow,
'Mid storms of elemental war,

The mountain-torrent murmuring from afar?
Or in some sylvan glade,

Where the Genius of the shade,
Warbles deep the Doric reed,
By some mossy fountain's side,
As the lonely moorhen sits,
Screaming o'er the sedgy tide;

Or rid'st on the still clouds of starless night,
That roll in sullen gloom, impervious to the sight?

Methinks beneath yon pile I see Thee lie,

Yon Gothic Abbey woos Thy wandering feet;
O'er whose torn height, the screech owl's ivied seat,
The moon resplendent rides athwart the sky.
The sheeted dead, in Fancy's eye,
Stalk along the gloomy aisle ;
And melancholy heaves the sigh,
Bending o'er the sainted pile.