O’er the tall cliff that bounds the billowy main

ENLIGHTEN’D Patron of the sacred Lyre?Whose ever-varying, ever-witching songRevibrates on the heartWith magic thrilling touch,Till ev’ry nerve with quiv’ring throb divine,In madd’ning tumults, owns thy wondrous pow’r;For well thy dulcet notesCan wind the mazy song,In labyrinth of wild fantastic form;Or with empassion’d pathos woo the soulWith sounds more sweetly mild,Than SAPPHO’s plaint forlorn,When bending o’er…

Why does each fainting faculty decay,And my chill’d breast in throbbing tumults rise?Mute, on the ground my Lyre neglected lies,The Muse forgot, and lost the melting lay;My down-cast looks, my faultering lips betray,That stung by hopeless passion,–Sappho dies!Now, on a bank of Cypress let me rest;Come, tuneful maids, ye pupils of my care,Come, with your…

‘Of dreary Sorrow is begun!‘And still I loath the temper’d ray,‘And still I hate the sickly Sun!‘Far from my Native Indian shore,‘I hear our wretched race deplore;‘I mark the smile of taunting Scorn,‘And curse the hour, when I was born!‘I weep, but no one gently tries‘To stop my tear, or check my sighs;‘For, while my…

In the dark forest’s silent gloom;Who smiles within the Hermit’s cell,And sighs upon the rustic’s tomb;Who, pitying, sees the busy throng,The slaves of fashion’s giddy sway;Who in a wild and artless song,Warbles the feath’ry hours away.Oft have I flown thy steps to trace,In the low valley’s still retreat,Oft have I view’d thy blooming face,In the…

Padded collars, thick cravats,And cheeks as red as roses.Faces painted pink and brown ;Waistcoats strip’d and gaudy ;Sleeves thrice doubled thick with down,And straps to brace the body.Short great-coats that reach the knees,Boots like French postillion ;Worn the G—– race to please,But laugh’d at by the million.Square-toed shoes, with silken strings,Pantaloons not fitting ;Finger deck’d…

O’ershadow’d by broad Alders. At its doorA rude seat, with an ozier canopyInvites the weary traveller to rest.‘Tis a poor humble dwelling; yet within,The sweets of joy domestic, oft have madeThe long hour not unchearly, while the MoorWas covered with deep snow, and the bleak blastSwept with impetuous wing the mountain’s brow!On ev’ry tree of…