To ----, with Arthur and Albina Arthur and Albina The Fraternal Duel Lines in a Letter to A.R.C. The Lonely Walk The Outlaw Invitation Whitsun-Monday Philemon On a Fan To Simplicity The Terrors of Guilt Cen'lin, Prince of Mercia Rhapsody Human Pleasure or Pain The Complaint of Fancy On the Eve of Departure from O---- To M.I. Translation from Metastasio ---------- from Della Casa Editha To M.I. Written in Zimmerman's Solitude To the Memory of Mr. Agostino Isola To the Nuns of Bodney Written in London Fragment Fragment Written April 18, 1796. To ---- WITH ARTHUR and ALBINA. 1794. Ah! if your eye should e'er these lines survey, Dismiss from thence its penetrating ray: Let Criticism then her distance keep, And dreaded Justice then be lull'd to sleep; For, let whatever sentence be their due, I feel I cannot censure bear from you. * * * * * _A British Maid awaits the arrival of her lover from the battle, on a hill, where, at its commencement, she had retired to make vows to heaven for his success.--Evening_. * * * * * ARTHUR and ALBINA. Ah me! the yellow western sky turns pale, And leaves the cheerless sons of earth to mourn; And yet I hear not in the silent vale, A sound to tell me Arthur does return. Ah, haste ye hours! quick plume the loit'ring wing! Bring back my hero, crown'd with glorious spoils! Let bards on lofty harps his triumphs sing, And loud applause repay successful toils! Reward the flame, ye great celestial pow'rs, The noble flame that in his bosom glows! Inspire him, Druids, from your holy bow'rs, With strength to conquer iron-breasted foes![1] With heighten'd vigour brace his nervous arm, And let his lance with ten-fold fury fly, Make him terrific by some potent charm, And add new lightening to his piercing eye! Then may my lover gain unrivall'd fame, The Roman banners may less proudly flow, Then he may humble their detested name, And their high plumes wave o'er' a British brow! Then may his chariot,[2] wheeling o'er the plain, Hurl death and desolation all around, While his intrepid front appals their train, And make our proud invaders bite the ground! But yet I hear no lively foot advance; No sound of triumph greets my list'ning ear!' And I may carve this eagle-darting lance For one, whose voice I never more shall hear! Perhaps my vows have never reach'd the skies, Nor heav'n, propitious, smil'd upon my pray'r; And ah! to morrow's crimson dawn may rise To plunge me in the horrors of despair! Yet well he knows the dreadful spear to wield-- Alas! their fearful limbs are fenc'd with care: And, what can valour, when th'extended shield[3] May leave, so oft, his gen'rous bosom bare?