many a weak and worthless head,
  On those who but deserv'd thy frown.

And I have heard, in lonely shade,
  Her sorrows hapless Merit pour;
And thou hast pass'd the drooping maid,
  To give some pamper'd fav'rite more.

But tho' so cold, or strangely wild,
  It seems that worth can sometimes move;
Thou hast on gentle Emma smil'd,
  And thou hast smil'd where all approve:—

For Nature form'd her gen'rous heart
  With ev'ry virtue, pure, refin'd;
And wit and taste, and grace and art,
  United to illume her mind.

So dew-drops fall on some rare flow'r,
  That merits all their fost'ring care,
As tho' they knew that, by their pow'r,
  Grateful 'twould wider scent the air.

A SONG.

THE LOVER

THE LUTE OF HIS DECEASED MISTRESS.

Alas! but like a summer's dream
  All the delight I felt appears,
While mis'ry's weeping moments seem
  A ling'ring age of tears.

Then breathe my sorrows, plaintive lute!
  And pour thy soft consoling tone,
While I, a list'ning mourner mute,
  Will call each tender grief my own.

LINES

WRITTEN IN A COTTAGE BY THE SEA-SIDE

(In which the Author had taken Shelter during a violent Storm),

UPON SEEING AN IDIOTIC YOUTH SEATED IN THE CHIMNEY-CORNER, CARESSING A BROOM.

'Twas on a night of wildest storms,
  When loudly roar'd the raving main,—
When dark clouds shew'd their shapeless forms,
  And hail beat hard the cottage pane,—

Tom Fool sat by the chimney-side,
  With open mouth and staring eyes;
A batter'd broom was all his pride,—
  It was his wife, his child, his prize!

Alike to him if tempests howl,
  Or summer beam its sweetest day;
For still is pleas'd the silly soul,
  And still he laughs the hours away.

Alas! I could not stop the sigh,
  To see him thus so wildly stare,—
To mark, in ruins, Reason lie,
  Callous alike to joy and care.

God bless thee, thoughtless soul! I cried;
  Yet are thy wants but very few:
The world's hard scenes thou ne'er hast tried;
  Its cares and crimes to thee are new.

The hoary hag[A], who cross'd thee so,
  Did not unkindly vex thy brain;
Indeed she could not be thy foe,
  To snatch thee thus from grief and pain.

Deceit shall never wring thy heart,
  And baffled hope awake no sighs;
And true love, harshly forc'd to part,
  Shall never swell with tears thine eyes.

Then long enjoy thy batter'd broom,
  Poor merry fool! and laugh away
'Till Fate shall bid thy reason bloom
  In blissful scenes of brighter day.

[Footnote A: It is generally believed by the peasants of Devonshire that idiotcy is produced by the influence of a witch.]

LINES

To a Laurel-Leaf,

SENT TO THE AUTHOR BY MISS ——.

Tho' unknown is the hand that bestow'd thee on me,
  Sweet leaf! ev'ry fibre I'll warm with a kiss:
With the fame of her beauty thou well dost agree,
  Whose presence shews conquest, whose triumph is bliss!

LINES

OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF LIEUTENANT J——,

Who was killed by a Pistol-Shot,

ACCIDENTALLY DISCHARGED BY HIS FRIEND,

CAPTAIN B——.

With horror dumb, tho' guiltless, stood
  Beside his dying friend,
The hapless wretch who made the blood
  Sad from his side descend!

"Give me thy hand; lov'd friend, adieu!"
  The gen'rous suff'rer cried!
"I do forgive and bless thee too;"
  And, having said it, died!

And Pity, who stood trembling near
  Knew not for which to shed,
So claim'd by both, her saddest tear—
  The living or the dead!

LINES

TO AN ACCOMPLISHED YOUNG LADY,

Whose Timidity frequently agitated her, when pressed to gratify her
Friends by her Musical Talents.

'Tis said (and I believe it too)
  That genuine merit seeks the shade;
Blushing to think what is her due,
  As of her own sweet pow'rs afraid:—

Thus, lovely maid! on fluttering wings,
  Thy pow'rs a thousand fears pursue,
Which, like thy own harmonious strings,
  When press'd enchant, and tremble too!

The pity, which we give, you owe,
  For mutual fears on both attend;
While anxious thus you joy bestow,
  We fear too soon that joy will end!

LINES

TO MISS L—— D——.

When Heav'n, sweet Laura! form'd thy mind,
With genius and with taste refin'd,
  As if the union were too bright,
It spread the veil of diffidence,
That ev'ry ray, at first intense,
  Might shine as soft as lunar light.

To frame a form then Nature strove,
And call'd on Beauty and on Love,
  To lodge the mind they priz'd so well:
Completed was the fair design;
Thus blended dew-drops mildly shine
  Within the lily's spotless bell!

LINES[A]

Written in a beautiful Spot,

THE FAVOURITE RETREAT OF DELIA.

Streams ever limpid, fresh, and clear,
Where Delia's charms renew'd appear,
Ye flow'rs that touch'd her snowy breast,
Ye trees whereon she lov'd to rest,
Ye scenes adorn'd where'er she flies,
If grief shall close these woe-worn eyes,
May some kind form, with hand benign,
My body with this earth enshrine,
That, when the fairest nymph shall deign
To visit this delightful plain,
That, when she views my silent shade,
And marks the change her love has made,
The tear may tremble down her face,
As show'rs the lily's leaves embrace;
Then, like the infant at the breast,
That feels a sorrow unexprest,
That pang shall gentle Delia know,
And silent treasure up her woe.

[Footnote A: I am indebted to Petrarch for some of the imagery contained in these Lines.]

VALENTINE VERSES,

Sent to my young Friend, Miss Emma Trevelyan,

OF WALLINGTON-HOUSE, NORTHUMBERLAND.

Emma! 'tis early time for thee
To hear the sounds of minstrelsy,
That breathe around the rosy shrine
Of honest old Saint Valentine.

Too young art thou for strains of love;
'Tis not thy passion I would move;
Instead of lover's strains, I send
The cordial wishes of a friend.

Nobly has Nature done her duty,
To give thee of thy mother's beauty
So large a share—oh! then be thine
The mental