And now once more a tale of woe, A woful tale of love I sing; For thee, my Genevieve! it sighs, And trembles on the string. When last I sang the cruel scorn That craz'd this bold and lovely knight, And how he roam'd the mountain-woods, Nor rested day or night; I promised thee a sister tale Of man's perfidious cruelty; Come, then, and hear what cruel wrong Befell the Dark Ladie. [Footnote 1: Here followed the stanzas, afterwards published separately under the title "Love." (Poet. Works, vol. i. p. 145. Pickering, 1834.) and after them came the other three stanzas printed above; the whole forming the introduction to the intended Dark Ladie, of which all that exists is to be found ibid. p. 150. Ed.] EPILOGUE TO THE RASH CONJUROR. AN UNCOMPOSED POEM. We ask and urge--(here ends the story!) All Christian Papishes to pray That this unhappy Conjuror may, Instead of Hell, be but in Purgatory,-- For then there's hope;--Long live the Pope! 1805. PSYCHE The butterfly the ancient Grecians made The soul's fair emblem, and its only name-- But of the soul, escap'd the slavish trade Of mortal life!--For in this earthly frame Ours is the reptile's lot, much toil, much blame, Manifold motions making little speed, And to deform and kill the things whereon we feed. 1808. COMPLAINT How seldom, Friend! a good great man inherits Honour or wealth, with all his worth and pains! It sounds like stories from the land of spirits, If any man obtain that which he merits, Or any merit that which he obtains. REPROOF. For shame, dear Friend! renounce this canting strain! What would'st thou have a good great man obtain? Place--titles--salary--a gilded chain-- Or throne of corses which his sword hath slain?-- Greatness and goodness are not means, but ends! Hath he not always treasures, always friends, The good great man?--three treasures, love and light, And calm thoughts, regular as infants' breath;-- And three firm friends, more sure than day and night-- Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death. 1809. AN ODE TO THE RAIN Composed Before Day-Light on the Morning Appointed for the Departure of a Very Worthy, But Not Very Pleasant Visitor, Whom It Was Feared The Rain Might Detain. I know it is dark; and though I have lain Awake, as I guess, an hour or twain, I have not once open'd the lids of my eyes, But I lie in the dark, as a blind man lies. O Rain! that I lie listening to, You're but a doleful sound at best: I owe you little thanks, 'tis true, For breaking thus my needful rest! Yet if, as soon as it is light, O Rain! you will but take your flight, I'll neither rail, nor malice keep, Though sick and sore for want of sleep.