On thee, as lone I trace the Trent's green brink, When the dim twilight slumbers on the glade; On thee my thoughts shall dwell, nor Fancy shrink To hold mysterious converse with thy shade. Of thee, as early, I, with vagrant feet, Hail the gray-sandal'd morn in Colwick's vale, Of thee my sylvan reed shall warble sweet, And wild-wood echoes shall repeat the tale. And, oh! ye nymphs of Pæon! who preside O'er running rill and salutary stream. Guard ye in future well the halcyon tide From the rude death-shriek and the dying scream. INSCRIPTION FOR A MONUMENT TO THE MEMORY OF COWPER. Reader! if with no vulgar sympathy Thou view'st the wreck of genius and of worth, Stay thou thy footsteps near this hallow'd spot. Here Cowper rests. Although renown have made His name familiar to thine ear, this stone May tell thee that his virtues were above The common portion:--that the voice, now hush'd In death, was once serenely querulous With pity's tones, and in the ear of woe Spake music. Now, forgetful, at thy feet, His tired head presses on its last long rest, Still tenant of the tomb;--and on the cheek, Once warm with animation's lambent flush, Sits the pale image of unmark'd decay. Yet mourn not. He had chosen the better part; And, these sad garments of Mortality Put off, we trust, that to a happier land He went a light and gladsome passenger. Sigh'st thou for honours, reader? Call to mind That glory's voice is impotent to pierce The silence of the tomb! but virtue blooms Even on the wreck of life, and mounts the skies. So gird thy loins with lowliness, and walk With Cowper on the pilgrimage of Christ. "I'M PLEASED, AND YET I'M SAD." When twilight steals along the ground, And all the bells are ringing round, One, two, three, four, and five, I at my study window sit, And, wrapp'd in many a musing fit, To bliss am all alive. But though impressions calm and sweet Thrill round my heart a holy heat, And I am inly glad; The tear-drop stands in either eye, And yet I cannot tell thee why, I'm pleased, and yet I'm sad. The silvery rack that flies away, Like mortal life or pleasure's ray, Does that disturb my breast? Nay, what have I, a studious man, To do with life's unstable plan, Or pleasure's fading vest? Is it that here I must not stop, But o'er yon blue hill's woody top Must bend my lonely way? No, surely no! for give but me My own fireside, and I shall be At home where'er I stray. Then is it that yon steeple there, With music sweet shall fill the air, When thou no more canst hear? Oh, no! oh, no! for then, forgiven, I shall be with my God in heaven, Released from every fear. Then whence it is I cannot tell, But there is some mysterious spell That holds me when I'm glad; And so the tear-drop fills my eye, When yet in truth I know not why, Or wherefore I am sad. SOLITUDE. It is not that my lot is low, That bids this silent tear to flow; It is not grief that bids me moan; It is that I am all alone.