« PředchozíPokračovat »
To-morrow comes,- the swallow race
And here a grave to find.
See, from these elms the bounds you trace
Hath fall’n my heritage !
Unhasped, there swings my rustic gate;
Within my small domain.
My shrubs encroach upon my walks ;
A tangled, self-willed mass.
The vine, that wraps my wall, and craves
And wears a tarnished look;
The clusters now more obvious are,
A flush of flamy gold.
Nor let me, thankless, fail to point
With amethystine gems.
Live we not in a verdant bower?
My garden-plot supplies.
-Such were the topics which obtained
I led the homeward walk.
It was by merest accident
On travel to the West.
My saunter had conducted me
Persuaded him to stay.
He still was dwelling lingeringly
Had left the brotherhood;
Long left the college, well content
An humble board to bless.
Studies severe, since we had met,
No book-worm he by nature.
Pure thoughts, quick feelings, homage high
In his monastic cell.
Such was the friend to whom
-Come, friend, examine all within,
Although uncostly taste.
We lack no charm which music makes,
Responsive as she sings.
The walls betray my pencil's work;
See, by our hearth, her flowers endure
Her choice or execution.
And she,— this casket's single gem,-
Who share his countenance;
She (all unweeting) will prevail,
The single knows not bliss !
Hail, wedded love! thy constant flame,
Nor is it self-consumed!
Look round, I call this room my own,
Long since on college shelves.
This open window gives to view
Which guards its cross-crowned porch.
Full to the south, the hallowed field
Repels the northern wind.
There weekly am I circled round,
A minister of good.
The cots pour out their various groups ;
But half-restrained from sport.
The old men stand erect, and look
Which speaks of faith and grace;
While the young crowd that fill the aisle,
The final blessing said.
I know their every joy and woe,
The death-bed's gloom to cheer.
Their children's guardian I; a train
And other gospel lore.
Merely to fix the marriage-ties,
My private approbation.
The doubtful swain oft comes to me,
But of his means of life.
Trust me, this pastoral employ,
And gathers wreaths of flowers.
-But hark! a voice that shouts amain, “ Father!" with childhood's eagerness ; My boy (a three years' imp) bursts in
To claim the accustomed kiss!
This done—his courage soon is laid —
His father's leg beside.
“ Come forth, shy child !” – He'll not forsake My coat-flap's deep intrenching screen, Yet peeping thence, one dimpled cheek
And one bright eye are seen.
Not far behind, the mother speeds
The blush-rose hue of joy!
"Mary, you will, I know, rejoice,
In matron modesty.