Light breezes dance along the air,

The sky in smiles is drest,

And heav'ns pure vault, serene and fair,

Pourtrays the cheerful breast.

Each object on this moving ball

Assumes a lovely hue;

So fair good-humour brightens all

That comes within her view.

Her presence glads the youthful train,

Reanimates the gay,

And, round her, by the couch of pain,

The light-wing'd graces play.

Her winning mein and prompt reply,

Can sullen pride appease;

And the sweet arching of her eye

E'en apathy must please.

To you, with whom the damsel dwells

A voluntary guest,

To you, Maria, memory tells,

This tribute is addrest.

The feeble strains that I bequeath,

With melody o'erpay;

And let thy lov'd piano breathe

A sweet responsive lay.

Although the mellow sounds will rise,

So distant from my ear,

The charmer Fancy, when she tries,

Can make them present here.

Can paint thee, as with raptur'd bend,

You hail the powers of song;

When the light fingers quick descend,

And fly the notes along:

Feel the soft chord of sadness meet,

An echo in the soul,

And waking joy the strains repeat,

When Mirth's-quick measures roll.

This "mistress of the powerful spell,"

Can every joy impart;

And ah! you doubtless know too well

How she can wring the heart.

She rules me with despotic reign,

As now I say adieu;

And makes me feel a sort of pain,

As if I spoke to you.

FEB. 14, 1797.

Hail, melancholy sage! whose thoughtful eye,
Shrunk from the mere spectator's careless gaze,
And, in retirement sought the social smile,
The heart-endearing aspect, and the voice
Of soothing tenderness, which Friendship breathes,
And which sounds far more grateful to the ear,
Than the soft notes of distant flute at eve,
Stealing across the waters: Zimmermann!
Thou draw'st not Solitude as others do,
With folded arms, with pensive, nun-like air,
And tearful eye, averted from mankind.
No! warm, benign, and cheerful, she appears
The friend of Health, of Piety, and Peace;
The kind Samaritan that heals our woes,
The nurse of Science, and, of future fame
The gentle harbinger: her meek abode
Is that dear home, which still the virtuous heart,
E'en in the witching maze of Pleasure's dance,
In wild Ambition's dream, regards with love,
And hopes, with fond security, to pass
The evening of a long-protracted day,
Serenely joyful, there.

Awake, O Gratitude! nor let the tears
Of selfish Sorrow smother up thy voice,
When it should speak of a departed friend.
A tender friend, the first I ever lost!
For Destiny till now was merciful,
And though I oft have felt a transient pang,
For worth unknown, and wept awhile for those,
Whom long acquaintance only made me love,
No keen regret laid pining at my heart,
Nor Memory in the solitary hour,
Would sting with grief, as when she speaks
Thy virtue, knowledge, wisdom, gentleness,
Thy venerable age, and says that I
Had once the happiness to call thee friend.

Yes! I once bore that title, and my heart
Thought nobler of itself, that one so good,
So honor'd, so rever'd, should give it me.
O Isola! when that glad season comes,
Which brought redemption to a ruin'd world,
And, like thee, hides beneath the snow of age,
A gay, benevolent, and feeling heart,
I hop'd again to hear thy tongue repeat,
With youthful warmth and zealous energy,
Those passages, where Poetry assumes
An air divine, and wakes th' attentive soul
To holy rapture! Then you promis'd me
The luxury to weep o'er Dante's muse,
And fair Italia's loftier poets hail.

I have often heard

That years would blunt the feelings of the soul,

And apathy ice the once-glowing heart.

Injurious prejudice! Dear, guileless friend!

Thou read'st mankind, but saw not, or forgot

Their faults and vices; for thy breast was still

The residence of sweet Simplicity,

Daughter of letter'd Wisdom, and the friend

Of Love and Pity. Happy soul, farewell!

Long shall we mourn thee! longer will it be,

"Ere we shall look upon thy like again!"

"Heven hath his soule.

He fruits of Pietie,

This Towne his want.

Our hearts his Memorie."

Ye holy women, say! will ye accept
The passing tribute of a humble friend?
Stranger indeed to you and to your faith,
But O! I hope not stranger to the zeal,
Which warm'd your bosoms in Religion's cause.
When impious men commanded you to break
The vow which bound your souls, and which in youth
Warm Piety's emphatic lips had made.
Say! will ye suffer me on that rude tomb,
Where she reposes (whose benignant smile,
Whose animated, life-inspiring eye,
And faded form, majestic, still appears
In Thought's delusive hour) to shed a tear?
On her, whose sainted look, though seen but once,
I never can forget, till Time shall wrap
The veil of Death around me, and make dumb
The voice of Memory. Ah! "how low she lies!"
No marble monument to speak her praise,
And tell the world that here a DILLON rests.
One, who in beauty's prime forsook the world,
And, self-bereav'd of all it holds most dear,
Retir'd, to pass the pilgrimage of life,
In solemn prayer and peaceful solitude.
Ah, vain desire! Ambition's scowling eye
Must see the cloister, as the palace, low,
And meek-ey'd Quiet quit her last abode,
Ere he can pause to look upon the wreck,
And rue the wild impatience of his hand.

Hail! blessed spirit! This rude cypher'd stone.
On which a sister's pensive eye shall muse
In sorrow, and another relative
In sweet, though mournful, recollection, bend,
Shall call a tear into the stranger's eye
Whene'er he hears the tale, yet make him proud
That Britain's hospitable land should yield
All that you could accept, an humble grave.

A lov'd companion, chosen friend,

Does at this hour depart,

Whom the dear name of father binds

Still closer to my heart.

On him may joy-dispensing heav'n

Each calm delight bestow,

And eas'd of peace-destroying care

His life serenely flow!

Did I but know his bosom calm,

And free from anxious fear,

Around me in more cheerful hues

Would every scene appear.

And I will hope that he, who ne'er

Repin'd at heav'n's decree,

But ever patient and resign'd,

Submissive bent the knee:

Who, best of fathers, never sought

For arbitrary sway,

But free within each youthful mind,

Bade Reason lead the way.

Who taught us, 'stead of servile fear,

A warm esteem to prove,

And bade each act of duty spring,

From gratitude and love.

Yes, I must hope that generous mind

With many cares opprest,

Shall in the winter of his days

With sweet repose be blest.

They, ere he left them, had attain'd their prime
And were less alter'd by the hand of Time;
But, the slim youth no longer met their view,
Fair, as the fancy e'er a seraph drew.
Who still, upborne by joy, in smiles was found,
With step elate that scarcely press'd the ground.
Before a grief had raz'd his youthful breast,
Or care had robb'd his brilliant eyes of rest.
When lofty visions swam before his sight,
And dreams of empire wrapt his soul at night.
Whose hair luxuriant flow'd in glossy pride,
And, from his snowy forehead, wav'd aside;
Which, vein'd with purest azure, rose serene,
And threw complacence o'er a rapturous mien.
The wandering light that sparkled in his eye,
The rounding lip of liveliest crimson dye,
The speaking form, by each emotion sway'd,
The voice, that softest music had convey'd,
Were now matur'd. No more the child they saw,
But one, with majesty, inspiring awe;
Whose silken locks no more in ringlets flow,
But gold and purple bind his manly brow:
No more the envied robe his limbs invest,
In all the pomp of eastern monarchs drest.
The sun of Egypt had embrown'd his face,
And time had ripen'd every youthful grace.

As when the morn, in vivid colours gay,
And tender beauty, flies to meet the day,
Her lively tints lose their primeval hue,
The white and saffron mingle with the blue,
A glowing blush o'er the whole ether reigns,
But not a cloud its genuine tint retains.

Where yonder mossy ruins lie,
And desolation strikes the eye,
A noble mansion, high and fair,
Once rear'd its turrets in the air.
There infant warriors drew their breath,
And learn'd to scorn the fear of death.
In halls where martial trophies hung,
They listen'd while the minstrels sung,
Of pain and glory, toil and care,
And all the horrid charms of war:
There caught the fond desire of fame,
And panted for a hero's name.
Alas! too oft in youthful bloom,
Renown has crown'd the early tomb,
Has pierc'd the widow's bosom deep,
And taught the mother's eyes to weep.
She, on whose tale the stripling hung,
While pride and sorrow rul'd her tongue.
His father's gallant acts to tell,
How bold he fought, how bravely fell.

Methinks e'en now I hear her speak,
I see the tear upon her cheek;
The musing boy's abstracted brow,
And the high-arching eye below.
The stifled sigh and anxious heave,
The kindling heart which dares not grieve;
The finely-elevated head,
The hand upon the bosom spread,
Proclaim him wrought by potent charms,
And speak his very soul in arms.

Incautious zeal! what hast thou done?
The tale has robb'd thee of thy son.
And while thy pious tears deplore,
The loss of him who lives no more,
Ambition wakes her restless fire,
The boy will emulate his sire,

The beauteous queen of social love,
Descending from the realms above,
Through the wide space of ether flew,
With care this little world to view,
Till, tir'd with wandering, at the last,
Through every different climate past,
She sought not out a splendid dome,
But made this humble cot her home.

The sweetest lyre would strive in vain,
To sing the pleasures of her reign,
Whose powerful influence does impart,
New softness to the feeling heart,
Bids it each narrow thought resign,
And fills it with a warmth benign.

From morning till the close of day,
Here all a grateful homage pay,
For here she plays her harmless wiles,
And scatters her endearing smiles;
Here no proud rivals intervene,
And all, though glowing, is serene.
Here, since she first her visit paid,
Still has the sweet enchantress staid,
And never met a single slight,
Or spread her snowy plumes for flight.

Contented 'neath the humble roof;
No timid heart is kept aloof;
A kind and condescending guest,
She lightens each despairing breast;
Where pain her poignant venom spreads,
The balm of tenderness she sheds,
Which breathes a calm repose around,
And heals at last the burning wound.

When the heart throbs with bitter woe,
Her winning mien disarms the foe,
And the kind glances of her eye,
Force the desponding power to fly.
She gives a zest to every joy,
Forbids tranquillity to cloy,
Softens misfortune, chases fear,
And balm distills in every tear.
'Tis she alone can make us know,
A truly blissful hour below,
Can smooth the furrow'd brow of life,
And hush the thundering voice of strife.

O, may she still exert her power,
Still lead us to the rural bower,
Which vaunting Pride does ne'er disgrace,
Or critic Envy's spiteful face.
Here Raymond ever shall delight,
To sit and watch the closing night;
And open-hearted Gertrude here,
With her sweet infant shall appear.
Here oft her brother shall prepare,
A wreath for Mary's curling hair;
While soft-voic'd Anna, fond of play,
And all the train, alert and gay,
In healthful games shall frolic round,
And revel on the mossy ground.

Here Edmund shall forget his care,
And often fill an elbow chair;
While Sophia, friendly and sincere,
Shall ever find a welcome here.

Yet would my hovering fancy trace,
The features of each happy face;
And sympathy informs my mind,
That they the same emotions find;
That in each scene of harmless glee,
Memory recalls the absent three:
And all, though distance strives to part,
Will hold communion in the heart.