Written In The Cloisters Of Christ's-Hospital In London.

Now cease the sad complaining strain,
Now hush'd be PITY'S tender sigh,
While Memory wakes her fairy train,
And young delight sits laughing by;
Return, each hour of rosy hue,
In wreathy smiles, and garlands gay,
As when on playful wing ye flew,
When every month was blithe as May;
When young Invention wak'd his mimic powers,
And Genius, wand'ring wild, sigh'd for enchanted bowers.

Then too in antic vestment dress'd,
Pastime would blithsome trip along,
Throwing around the gibe, or jest,
Satire enrhymed, or simple song,
And merry Mischief oft would weave
His wanton tricks for little hearts,
Nor love his tender votary grieve,
Soft were his hands, nor keen his darts:
While Friendship felt th' enthusiast's glow,
Would give her half of bliss, and take her share of woe.

And though around my youthful spring
Many a low'ring storm might rise,
Hope her soul-soothing strain would sing,
And quickly brightened up the skies;
How sweetly pass'd my youth's gay prime!
For not untuneful was my tongue;
And as I tried the classic rhyme,
The critic school-boy prais'd my song.
Nor did mine eye not catch the splendid ray,
That promis'd fair to gild Ambition's distant day.

Ah! pleasing, gloomy, cloister shade,
Still, still this wavering breast inspire!
Here lost in rapturous trance I stray'd,
Here view'd with horror visions dire:
For soon as day dark-veil'd his head,
With hollow cheek, and haggard eye,
Pale ghosts would flit from cold death-bed,
And stalk with step terrific by:
Till the young heart would freeze with wild affright,
And store the dismal tale to cheer a winter's night.

Yet ah! what means the silent tear?
Why e'en mid joy this bosom heave?
Ye long-lost scenes, enchantments dear?
Lo! now I wander o'er your grave.
—Yet fly ye hours of rosy hue,
And bear away the bloom of years!
And quick succeed ye sickly crew,
Of doubts and pains of hopes and fears!
Still will I ponder Fate's unalter'd plan:
Nor, tracing back the Child, forget that I am Man.

To An Enthusiast

Were you, my friend, some nimble-winged thing,
That could with eagle speed extend your flight,
Then might you range the world,
Then pierce each lonely place.

Whether 'twere lazar house, or dungeon drear,
Or hill, or beetling cliff, or time-worn cave,
Where Misery sat and sigh'd
Her troubles, still unseen;

And here, perchance, at eve her hollow eye
On the hard stone at times might dropp the tear—
At once the dame, who mourn'd
Her hapless children's fate;

Then had you, gentle friend, the chemic art
Of some young bee, that roves from flow'r to flow'r;
How fondly might you rove!
What balmy sweets inhale!

Then, blest employment! with what tender skill,
Wondering, might you those honey'd treasures mix;
And form a sovereign balm
To heal the mourner's heart!

Were you, my friend, some dart-emitting God,
Like him, who pierc'd in Grecia mortal hearts;
How might you range the world,
And find each gladsome place!

Whether 'twas village-green, or city gay,
How might you roving find each cheerful scene,
Where youths and maidens smile,
And carol thro' the day!

And when, perchance, with joy-illumin'd eye,
Thoughtless of love, they frolick'd in the dance,
How might you throw your dart,
And flit unseen away!

Then you again might change your tiny form,
Stand forth the God, protector of the fair,
Your head with roses crown'd,
And in your hand a torch!

Then might you light the lovers on their way,
Then sing the song, that should endear their hearts,
'Till they should love, and love,
And still grow old in love!

Ah! could you fondly climb yon orient sun,
Ride on his beam, and travel round the world,
How might you, crown'd with light,
Cheer all the nations round!

Yes! Friend, were you like that refulgent sun,
How might you in your daily course dispense
Light, liberty, and love,
Still travelling to bliss!

Were you — but cease, Enthusiast, cease your speed;
For what avail, O man, fantastic flights?
Why muse ideal deeds,
Heedless of what is true?

You are not bee, nor sun, nor sprite, nor god:
You are a humble, weak, unwinged thing,
The frail inhabitant
Of this poor clod of earth!

And has not this poor earth, that very spot,
Where thou art wont to rove, enough of range?
Ah! where would'st thou move?
Behold your proper sphere!

Cease then, Enthusiast: thy slender bark,
How should it hope to cross the mighty sea?
Keep close to shore — or, ah!
Thy bark shall founder soon.