Those matted woods where birds forget to sing, 350 But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling;

Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance crown'd,

Where the dark scorpion gathers death around; Where at each step the stranger fears to wake The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake; 355 Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey, And savage men more murderous still than they; While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies,

Mingling the ravag'd landscape with the skies. Far different these from every former scene, 360 The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green, The breezy covert of the warbling grove, That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love. Good Heaven! what sorrows gloom'd that parting day,

That call'd them from their native walks away; 365 When the poor exiles, every pleasure past,

Hung round the bowers, and fondly look'd their last,

And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain For seats like these beyond the western main; And shuddering still to face the distant deep, 370 Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep. The good old sire the first prepar'd to go

To new-found worlds, and wept for other's woe; But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave. 375 His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, The fond companion of his helpless years, Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, And left a lover's for a father's arms.

With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, 380 And blest the cot where every pleasure rose,

And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a

tear,

385

And clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubly dear;
Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief
In all the silent manliness of grief.

O Luxury! thou curst by Heaven's decree,
How ill exchange'd are things like these for thee!
How do thy potions, with insidious joy,
Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy!
Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown,
390 Boast of a florid vigour not their own:

395

At every draught more large and large they grow,
A bloated mass of rank, unwieldy woe;
Till sapp'd their strength, and every part un-
sound,

Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round.
Even now the devastation is begun,
And half the business of destruction done;
Even now, methinks, as pondering here I stand,
I see the rural Virtues leave the land.

Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail 400 That idly waiting flaps with every gale,

Downward they move, a melancholy band,
Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand.
Contented Toil, and hospitable Care,

And kind connubial Tenderness are there;
405 And Piety with wishes placed above,
And steady Loyalty, and faithful Love.
And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid,
Still first to fly where sensual joys invade;
Unfit in these degenerate times of shame
410 To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame;
Dear, charming nymph, neglected and decried,
My shame in crowds, my solitary pride,
Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe,
Thou found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so;
415 Thou guide by which the noble arts excel,
Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well!
Farewell! and O where'er thy voice be tried,

On Torno's cliffs or Pambamarca's side, Whether where equinoctial fervours glow, 420 Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, Redress the rigours of the inclement clime; Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain; Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain; 425 Teach him, that states of native strength possest, Though very poor, may still be very blest; That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, As ocean sweeps the labour'd mole away; While self-dependent power can time defy, 430 As rocks resist the billows and the sky.

Black his locks as the winter night
White his skin as the summer snow,
10 Red his face as the morning light,
Cold he lies in the grave below.

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

15 Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note, Quick in dance as thought can be, Deft his tabor, cudgel stout,

20

25

30

35

40

O he lies by the willow-tree!

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

Hark! the raven flaps his wing

In the briar'd dell below;

Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing
To the nightmares as they go.
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

See! the white moon shines on high;
Whiter is my true love's shroud;
Whiter than the morning sky,
Whiter than the evening cloud.
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

Here upon my true love's grave
Shall the barren flowers be laid:

Not one holy Saint to save

All the coldness of a maid!

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

With my hands I'll gird the briars
Round his holy corse to grow.

45 Elfin Faëry, light your fires;
Here my body still shall bow.
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree,

50 Come, with acorn-cup and thorn,
Drain my hearte's blood away;
Life and all its good I scorn,
Dance by night or feast by day.
My love is dead,

55

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

5

THE BALADE OF CHARITIE

(From Poems collected 1777)

In Virgine the sultry Sun 'gan sheene
And hot upon the meads did cast his ray:
The apple ruddied from its paly green,

And the soft pear did bend the leafy spray;
The pied chelàndry sang the livelong day:
'Twas now the pride, the manhood of the year,
And eke the ground was dight in its most deft

aumere.

The sun was gleaming in the mid of day,
Dead still the air and eke the welkin blue,
10 When from the sea arist in drear array
A heap of clouds of sable sullen hue,

The which full fast unto the woodland drew, Hiding at once the sunnè's festive face;

And the black tempest swelled and gathered up

apace.

15 Beneath an holm, fast by a pathway side Which did unto Saint Godwyn's convent lead, A hapless pilgrim moaning did abide,

Poor in his view, ungentle in his weed,
Long breast-full of the miseries of need.

20 Where from the hailstorm could the beggar fly? He had no housen there, nor any convent nigh.