1806. } 
That moment, when Falfehood withdrew 
from my fight, 
And my foul plunyg’d aghaft ’mid the dark- 
nefs of night. 
The ftorm has blown o’er !—but its traces 
are left ; 
Like a wave-fhatter’d veffel my bofom is reft. 
As the roe from the hunter, I fly from man- 
kind, 
Or the fhrunk eae of autumn when chac’d by 
the wind, 
For the world is my foe, its cold glance of: 
difdain ; 
Would fcowl on my grief, and would feof at 
my pain ; 
Fair maidens would turn from this eye of de- 
{pair, 
As tho’ the foul Fiend of Infe&ion ues 
there. 
Yet once there were cyes that would {mile 
upon mine, 
But the Angel of Death has forbade them to 
fhine ; 
There were lipsthat could chace from my bo- 
fom her woe, 
And the pureft of kiffes were wont to beftow ; 
There were arms to whofe fhelter I fled when 
opprett, 
That were always my home, and my haven 
of reft s 
But quickly from Joy’s narrow door I was 
threft ;— 
The: beft and the lovelieft now moulders in 
duft. 
Yet bleft—to efcape the dark whirlwind’s 
rude {well 
Would have rent thy proud foul when my in 
nocence fell ;— 
Yes ;—bleft to the earth’s darkling womb to 
return, 
E’er thy cheek had been taught by my follies 
to burn ; 
Ever the whifpers ef Rumour had poifcn’d » 
thine ear 
With the tale of my ruin,—the fource of my 
tear 5 
E’er the glare of conviction had taught thee 
to prove 
That the foe of thy peace was the child of 
thy love, 
Oh, fcenes of my childhood! I view thee 
once more ; 
My fancy retires from this wave-beaten fhore ; 
My fancy retraces that lovely abode, 
Where the fteps of my youth and my inno- 
cence trod 3 
Oh, fcenes of my childhood! I fly to your 
armsSy 
And gaze with a lover’s fond eye on thy 
charms ; 
For ftill your wild graces fhall comfort be- 
ttow, 
4nd fhatch for an iaftant my fpirit from woe. 
Original Poetry. 
227 
Ye valliesof beauty ! ye fummits of green ! 
To your lovely Eden no fpoiler has been ; 
And Summer fhall ever your graces renew, 
Your woods of rich verdure, your fkies of 
fair blue. 
My Sumner has vanifh’d, no more to return, 
In fadnefs and winter I ever fhall mourn 3; 
For nought can the luftre of Virtue reftore, 
When cropt are her bloffoms, they flourith no 
more. 
Tis true, I might fhorten this night of de- 
‘pair 3 § 
With « the wings of a dove” I might fy 
from my care. 
Itis but to clofe the dark curtain of life, 
To drown in oblivion its turmoil and ftrife 5 
Since no tear of pity forme would be thed ; 
Forgotten by all, I fhould fleep with the 
dead 5 
No forrowing parent would hang o’er my 
grave, 
Where the tall bearded thiftle thould mourn- 
fully wave. 
Yet, No! I will bow to the rigours of fate, 
For peace yet awaits me,—nor diftant the 
date, 
Repentance is mine, and ents from on 
high, 
Faith beckons my fluttering foul tothe ky: 
She tells me to call on the God cf my youth, 
She bids me to truft to his mercy and truth, 
And whifpers, ‘* Thefe words are recorded in 
Heav’n,— 
6€ Poor wand’rer look up, for thy fins are fore 
giv’a.” 
Exeter, Feb. 9, 18-6. 
i 
THE POPLAR. 
Ne watch-dog difturb’d the calm feafon of 
reft, 
And the day: beams were faintly the moune 
tain adorning 3; 
The night-dew ftill hung on the eglantine’s 
breatft, 
And the fh: iN cock firft biBkéE the {weet 
filence of morning, 
To the haunts of his childhood, the fcenes 
of his fport, 
A Wanderer came in the ftillnefs of fore 
row ; 
The magic of life’s early vifion to court, - 
And the fweeteft of hours from remem- 
brance to borrow. 
But the field of his culture was dreary and 
wild, 
And drear were the bow’rs where the rofe 
once was blowing 35 
The dark weed had grown where the garden 
had fmil’d, 
And a wildernefs fpread where late beauty 
was glowing, — 
Wet, 
‘ 
