Works

'Tis night: the busy, ceaseless noise of day
No more is heard; the now-deserted-streets
Lie dark and silent; London's weary swarms
Rest in profound repose. Hark! a loud cry...

In depth of loneliest wood, amid the din
Of midnight storm and thunder, spoke Despair,
While Horror, shuddering, heard that voice alone.
Oh! load of guilt! relentless misery!...

When to the region of the tuneful Nine,
Rapt in poetic vision, I retire,
Listening intent to catch the strain divine
What a dead silence hangs upon the lyre!
...

Sweet little warbler! art thou dead?
And must I hear thy notes no more?
Then will I make thy funeral bed;
Then shall the Muse thy loss deplore.

Beneath the turf in yonder bower,...

Cease, daubers! profane not the theme, I implore ye!
But leave him, O leave him alone with his glory!

* * * * *

Man's owl-eyed reason Popish Priests assert...

'Should you e'er be unwell, send directly for me;
To cure you I'll haste with all possible speed,
Prescribe and find medicine without any fee.'
Oh! Doctor! your offer's most generous indeed;...

Still, still his bell-like voice rings through my head;
Yet not one bright thought cheers my mental view;
O! would that I were deaf, asleep, or dead!
Ye marble statues! how I envy you!
...

Satan, says scripture, like a roaring lion,
Goes about, seeking whom he may devour.
What should a priest, then, chiefly keep his eye on?
To guard his flock against the tempter's power....

The labourers in the vineyard toil
(So numerous are their creeds)
Far less to cultivate the soil,
Than break each others' heads.

* * * * *
...

Bury, for practice bold and skill
Deserves to be of note;
He cures by means that well might kill,
He cuts his patient's throat!

* * * * *
...

(Supposed To Be Written By Miss B***, His Sister.)

At God's command the vital spirit fled,
And thou, my Brother! slumber'st with the dead.
Alas! how art thou changed! I scarcely dare...

This, this is inspiration's hour!
Poetic Genius, rushing on my soul,
Rouses her every sense, her every power,
And with a force too mighty to controul
Inspires the warm, enthusiastic song:...

What fine aerial Shape,
In orient colours dight,
Springs from the world unknown
Upon my wondering sight?

Loosely through various space
The lovely Figure flows,
And leaves the sleeping air...

Again has Time his annual circle run,
And April ushers in my natal day:
Since first my infant eyes beheld the sun,
How many a year has swiftly roll'd away!
Full half my thread of life the Fates have spun;...

Amid the jingle of the rhyming throng
I mark with transport some diviner song;
Sweet to their native heaven the strains aspire,
Commanding silence to the vulgar quire;...