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JOHN WOLCOT (PETER PINDAR).

TO MY CANDLE.

THOU lone companion of the spectred night!

I wake amid thy friendly watchful light.

To steal a precious hour from lifeless sleep.

Hark, the wild uproar of the winds! and hark! [the dark, Hell's genius roams the regions of And swells the thundering horrors of the deep!

From cloud to cloud the pale moon hurrying flies,

Now blackened, and now flashing through the skies; [beam. But all is silence here, beneath thy I own I labor for the voice of praiseFor who would sink in dull oblivion's stream?

Who would not live in songs of distant days?

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TO MARY.

CHARLES WOLFE.

IF I had thought thou couldst have died,

I might not weep for thee; But I forgot, when by thy side,

That thou couldst mortal be: It never through my mind had passed The time would e'er be o'er, And I on thee should look my last, And thou shouldst smile no more!

And still upon that face I look,

And think 'twill smile again; And still the thought I will not brook, That I must look in vain! But when I speak, thou dost not say What thou ne'er left'st unsaid;

And now I feel, as well I may,
Sweet Mary! thou art dead!

If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art,
All cold and all serene

I still might press thy silent heart, And where thy smiles have been! While e'en thy chill, bleak corpse I have,

Thou seemest still mine own;
But there I lay thee in thy grave -
And I am now alone!

I do not think, where'er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me;
And I, perhaps, may soothe this
heart,

In thinking too of thee:

Yet there was round thee such a dawn
Of light ne'er seen before,
As fancy never could have drawn,
And never can restore!

BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on

In the grave where a Briton has laid him!

But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock struck the hour for retiring;

NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral And we heard the distant and ran

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Like the sun, thy presence glowing, Clothes the meanest things in light; And when thou, like him, art going, Loveliest objects fade in night.

All things looked so bright about thee,

That they nothing seem without thee;

By that pure and lucid mind
Earthly things were too, refined.

Go, thou vision, wildly gleaming,

Softly on my soul that fell; Go, for me no longer beaming. Hope and Beauty! fare ye well! Go, and all that once delighted Take, and leave me all benightedGlory's burning, generous swell, Fancy, and the poet's shell.

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[From Lines Composed a Few Miles Above | In hours of weariness, sensations

Tintern Abbey.]

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sweet,

Felt in the blood, and felt along the

heart;

And passing even into my purer mind,

With tranquil restoration: feelings

too

Of unremembered pleasure; such, perhaps,

As may have had no trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's life.

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