MUSE.
Bard, whose eye the tear hath shed,
And whose heart hath sorrow tasted,
O'er whose soul hath anger sped,
Fierce as lightning ever blasted.
Anger, raging wild and high,
For a people basely bowed
To degrading slavery,
Such as Turk hath not avowed.
Turn thy passion's tide away,
Why should fruitless tears be given,
Let the ruin have its day,
Burstling like the storm of heaven.
There are times when hearts may burn,
Sorrow too will have its season,
Mortals cannot always mourn,
Wrath should ever be in reason;
Come then to the fields away,
Buds and flowers are growing yonder,
O, awake thy rural lay,
Wild and fanciful to wander.
Palace proud, or lordly hall,
Peace doth seldom make her dwelling,
Far she leaves the midnight ball,
And the banquet's gay revelling:
Come unto yon cottage nigh,
See how rural and enchanting,
Lived feats of witchery,
Scenery would not be wanting.

BARD.
Now is fled the frozen spell;
Muse, I rise at thy command,
Brighter scene to picture well,
Than was known in fairy land,
Woven thickets, woodlands grand,
Where the ouzle softly sings,
Whilst the cooling zephyr bland,
Sigheth through her downy wings
And the summer poesy springs.

Gorsey Lea Cottage,

Now the lonely cot doth rise
To salute my wondering eyes;
With its clasping ivy green,
And windows peeping out between
Thatched roof, which speaks a guest
Only wishing to be blest
As the good deserve to be,
In time, and in eternity.

Growing strong and towering high,
Forests stretch towards the sky
Where the dove her nest hath found,
Where is heard the throstle's sound,
And the pheasant cock doth crow,
With his crest of golden glow,
Flashing wide a stream of light,
From his pinion burning bright,

Low the darksome waters lie,
Which the mossy rills supply,
And the bowers are waving gay,
Deck'd with leaves by blooming May;
Witching goddess, looking sly,
With her love entangling eye,
Painting every flower anew,
Dipping garlands gay in dew,
Giving, as she steps along,
Laughter, love, and rural song.

Braided is the fragrant rose,
There the pink odorous grows,
And the violet, lovely show,
Blushing in its radiant glow,
Whilst is seen the silver broom,
Flowery heather, too, hath room,
And the tiger-lilies pride,
Rhododendron bends beside,
And the virgin-bower hath stray'd
O'er the rural form'd arcade,
Cooling seat, where breezes sing,
To the harp's melodious string;
Sounds combining, which might be,
Murmur of heavenly minstrelsy.

There the juniper is seen,
Clad in foliage ever green;
And the laurel, and the bay,
Ancient meed of poetry.
And the pebbles, white as snow,
Placed in a tasteful row,
Where the various mosses creep,
Where the mountain plants do peep,
Ranged all in order due,
Give a strangely pleasing view,

Fancy there hath formed her seat,
Genius renders it complete,
But, 'tis goodness which hath given.
An air serene as that of heaven.
Widows there forget to sigh,
There is hush'd the orphan's cry;
Cloth'd the naked wretch, and fed
Him who hungereth for bread;
This the grateful poor express
With a tear of thankfulness.
O my God, whate'er betide
England in her darkest hour;
Famine wan, or ravage wide,
Bless the lady of this bower,
Guard her in the trial hour.