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Yet still , perhaps , in some sequestered walk Thine ear shall catch the tales of other times ; Still in faint sounds the learned echoes talk , Where unprofaued as yet by vulgar chimes . Do not the deeply wounded trees still bear The dear memorial of some infant flame ?
And murmuring sounds yet rill the hallowed air , Once vocal to the youthful poet ' s fame ? For where her sacred step impressed the Muse , She left a long perfume through all
the bowers ; Still mayst thou gather thence Castalian dews In honeyed sweetness clinging to the ilowers . Shrouded in stolen glance , here timorous Love The grave rebuke of careful Wisdom
drew , With wholesome frown austere , who vainly strove To shield the sliding heart from Beauty ' s view . Go fling this garland in fair Mersey ' s
stream , From the true lovers that have trod his banks ; Say , Thames to Avon still repeats his theme 3 . Say , Hymen ' s captives send their votive thanks . Visit each shade and trace each
weeping rill To holy Friendship or to Fancy known , And climb with zealous step the rircrowned hill , Where purple foxgloves fringe the rugged stone : And if thou seest , on some neglected spray , Ihe lyre which soothed my careless hours so much \ The shattered relic to my hands convoy , — The murmuring strings shall answer to thy touch . Were it , like thine , my lot once more to tread Plains now but seen in distant
perspective , With that soft hue , that dubious gloom o ' erspread liiat tender tint which only time can give ;
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Review . —Mrs : BarbaulcTs JVorhs . 559
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How would it open every secret cell Where cherished thought and fond remembrance sleep ! How many a tale each conscious step would tell ! How many a parted frieud these eyea would weep ! But , O the chief ! if in thy feeling breast The tender charities of life reside , If there domestic love have built her nest , And thy fond heart a parent ' s cares divide ;
Go seek the turf where worth , where wisdom lies , Wisdom and worth , ah , never to return There kneeling , weep my tears and breathe my sighs , A daughter ' s sorrows o ' er her father ' s urn I "
Some of the lighter pieces now first presented to the public are exquisitely finished . We select the following , I . 212—214 , which , though less playful and less rich in imagination than some others , comes recommenced to us by its moral :
" Peace and Shepherd . ce Low in a deep sequestered vale , Whence Alpine heights ascend , A beauteous uymph , in pilgrim garb , Is seen her steps to bend .
Her olive garland drops with gore ; Her scattered tresses torn , Her bleeding breast , her bruised feet , Bespeak a maid forlorn . * From bower and hall and palace driven , To these lone wilds I flee ; Mv name is Peace , I love the cot : O Shepherd , shelter me !'
* O beauteous pilgrim , why dost thou From bower and palace ilee ? So soft thy voice , so sweet thy look , Sure all would shelter thee . ' c Like Noah ' s dove , no rest I find ; The din of battle roars Where once my sreps 1 loved to print Along the myrtle shores : For ever in my frighted ears The savage war-whoop . sounds ; And , like a panting hare , 1 tly liel ' oie the opening hounds . ' ' Pilgrim , those spiry groves among , Tiie mansions thou mayst see , Where cloister'd saints chautit holy hymns , Sure such would shelter thee 1 '
• Those roofs with trophied banners stream , There martial hymns resound ; And , Shepherd , oft from crosiered hands , This breast has felt a wound .
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Citation
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Monthly Repository (1806-1838) and Unitarian Chronicle (1832-1833), Sept. 2, 1825, page 559, in the Nineteenth-Century Serials Edition (2008; 2018) ncse.ac.uk/periodicals/mruc/issues/vm2-ncseproduct2540/page/43/
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