GLIDE gently, thus for ever glide,
O Thames that other bards may see
As lovely visions by thy side
As now, fair river! come to me.
O glide, fair stream! for ever so,
Thy quiet soul on all bestowing,
Till all our minds for ever flow
As thy deep waters now are flowing.
Vain thought!-Yet be as now thou art,
That in thy waters may be seen
The image of a poet's heart,
How bright, how solemn, how serene!
Such as did once the Poet bless,
Who, murmuring here a later ditty,
Could find no refuge from distress
But in the milder grief of pity.
Now let us, as we float along,
For him suspend the dashing oar;
And pray that never child of song
May know that Poet's sorrows more.
How calm! how still! the only sound,
The dripping of the oar suspended!
-The evening darkness gathers round
By virtue's holiest powers attended.
Descends the eternal force, and with strong gust Turns from its bottom the discolour'd deep. Through the black night that sits immense around, Lash'd into foam, the fierce conflicting brine Seems o'er a thousand raging waves to burn. Meantime the mountain-billows to the clouds In dreadful tumult swell'd, surge above surge, Burst into chaos with tremendous roar, And anchor'd navies from their stations drive, Wild as the winds across the howling waste Of mighty waters: now the inflated wave Straining they scale, and now impetuous shoot Into the secret chambers of the deep. Emerging thence again, before the breath Of full-exerted heaven, they wing their course.
HOCK-CART, OR HARVEST HOME.
COME, Sons of summer, by whose toil
We are the lords of wine and oil;
By whose tough labours, and tough hands,
We rip up first, then reap our lands!
Crown'd with the ears of corn, now come,
And to the pipe sing "Harvest home."
Come forth, my lord, and see the cart
Drest up with all the country art.
See, here a manikin, there's a sheet
As spotless pure as it is sweet;
The horses, mares, and frisking fillies,
Clad all in linen white as lilies.
The harvest swains and wenches bound
For joy, to see the hock-cart crown'd.
About the cart hear how the rout
Of rural younglings raise the shout,
Pressing before, some coming after,-
Those with a shout, and these with laughter.
Some bless the cart, some kiss the sheaves,
Some prank them up with oaken leaves;
Some cross the thill-horse, some with great
Devotion stroke the home-borne wheat !
While other rustics, less attent
To prayers than to merriment,
Run after, with their garments rent.
Well on, brave boys! to your lord's hearth
Glittering with fire; where, for your mirth,
Ye shall see first the large and chief
Foundation of your feast-fat beef,
With upper stories-mutton, veal,
And bacon-which makes full the meal;
With several dishes standing by—
As here a custard, there a pie,
And here all-tempting frumenty.
And for to make the merry cheer,
If smirking wine be wanting here,
There's that which drowns all care-stout
beer;
Which freely drink to your lord's health,
Then to the plough, the commonwealth;
Next to your flails, your fanes, your fats;
Then to the maids with wheaten hats.
To the rough sickle and crook'd scythe,
Drink, frolic boys, till all be blithe.
Feed and grow fat; and as ye eat,
Be mindful that the labouring neat,
As you, may have their full of meat;
And know besides, ye must revoke
The patient ox unto the yoke,
And all go back unto the plough
And harrow, though they're hang'd up now.
And you must know your lord's words
Feed him ye must whose food fills you;
And that this pleasure is like rain,
Not sent ye for to drown your pain,
But for to make it spring again.
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