In gentle sort, on those who practise not
Or love or pity, though of woman born.


(1794. _Text of_ 1818)

O! I could laugh to hear the midnight wind,
That, rushing on its way with careless sweep,
Scatters the ocean waves. And I could weep
Like to a child. For now to my raised mind
On wings of winds comes wild-eyed Phantasy,
And her rude visions give severe delight.
O winged bark! how swift along the night
Pass'd thy proud keel! nor shall I let go by
Lightly of that drear hour the memory,
When wet and chilly on thy deck I stood,
Unbonnetted, and gazed upon the flood,
Even till it seemed a pleasant thing to die,--
To be resolv'd into th' elemental wave,
Or take my portion with the winds that rave.




FROM CHARLES LLOYD'S POEMS ON THE DEATH OF PRISCILLA FARMER, 1796


THE GRANDAME

(Summer, 1796. Text of 1818)