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Wafted in varying cadence, by the shore
A day of jubilee,
An ancient holiday.
And gaily echoing to the laughing sky,
On the sinooth-shaven green,
Resounds the voice of Mirth.
Who now are in their graves,
Kept up the Whitsun dance
And that another hour, and they must fall
Like those who went before, and sleep as stil Lull'd by the laden bee, oi sultry fly,..
Beneath the silent sod, Invoke the god of slumber.
A cold and cheerless sleep.
Yet why should thoughts like these intrude to And, hark! how merrily, from distant tower,
scare Ring round the village bells ! now on the gale The vagrant Happiness, when she will deign They rise with gradual swell, distinct and loud;
To smile upon us here,
A transient visitor ?
Mortals ! be gladsome while ye have the power, Commix'd along the unfrequented shore,
And laugh and seize the glittering lapse of joy ; The sound of village dance and tabor loud,
In time the bell will toll Startling the musing ear of Solitude.
That warns ye to your graves. Such is the jocund wake of Whitsuntide,
I to the woodland solitude will bend
(shout When happy Superstition, gabbling eld!
My lonesome way-where Mirth's obstreperous Holds her unhurtful gambols.-All the day
Shall not intrude to break
The meditative hour.
Joyless and sad of heart, and consecrate
This day of jubilee
To sad reflection's shrine;
And I will cast my fond eye far beyond
This world of care, to where the steeple loud Along the lone wood's unfrequented path,
Shall rock above the sod,
Where I shall sleep in peace.
Oh, Ignorance !
1. Burn down his scorching cheek; or the keen steel
MAIDEN! wrap thy mantle round thee, Of wounded feeling penetrate his breast.
Cold the rain beats on thy breast :
Why should Horror's voice astound thee? Even now, as leaning on this fragrant bank,
Death can bid the wretched rest! I taste of all the keener happiness
All under the tree
Thy bed may be,
And thou may'st slumber peacefully.
Maiden! once gay Pleasure knew thee;
Now thy cheeks are pale and deep : That I could almost err in reason's spite,
Love has been a felon to thee, And trespass on my judginent.
Yet, pour maiden, do not weep :
There's rest for thee
All under the tree,
Where thou wilt sleep most peacefully.
COMMENCEMENT OF A POEM
WRITTEN ON WHIT-MONDAY.
SOME to Aonian lyres of silver sound
ith winning elegance attune their song,
HARK! how the merry bells ring jocund round
Anon they thunder lord
Scenes never to return.
O'er the smooth bosom of the sullen decp,
But Nature sleeps a deathless sleep,
For the hour of battle is nigh. "Tis wan Despair I sing; if sing I can
Not a loose leaf waves on the dusky oak, Of him before whose blast the voice of Song:
But a creeping stillness reigns around; And Mirth, and Hope, and Happiness all fly, Except when the raven, with ominous croak, Nor ever dare return. His notes are heard
On the ear does unwelcomely sound. At noon of night, where on the coast of blood,
I know, I know what this silence means ;
I know what the raven saith-
For this is the eve of death.
Behold, how along the twilight air 'Tis him I sing-Despair-terrific name,
The shades of our fathers glide ! Striking unsteadily the tremulous chord
There Morved fled, with the blood-drench'd hair, Of timorous terror-discord in the sound:
And Colma with gray side. For to a theme revolting as is this,
No gale around its coolness flings,
Yet sadly sigh the gloomy trees;
Sound sweet, as if swept by a whispering breeze! Calling the hero to the field of glory,
"Tis done! the sun he has set in blood! And firing him with deeds of high emprise,
He will never set more to the brave; And warlike triumph: but from scenes like mine Let us pour to the hero the dirge of deathShrink they aftrighted, and detest the bard
For to-morrow he hies to the grave.
Hence, then, soft maids,
OH! who would cherish life, Hither, ye furious imps of Acheron,
And cling unto this heavy clog of clay,
Love this rude world of strife,
Where glooms and tempests cloud the fairest day;
And where, 'neath outward smiles, The infernal chorus. Tis L'espair I sing!
Conceal'd, the snake lies feeding on its prey, He, whose sole tooth inflicts a deadlier parg
Where pitfalls lie in every flowery way, Than all your tortures join'd. Sing, sing Despair ! And sirens lure the wanderer to their wiles ! Repeat the sound, and celebrate his power;
Hateful it is to me, Unite shouts, screams, and agonizing shrieks, Its riotous railings and revengeful strife; Till the loud pæan ring through hell's high vault, I'm tired with all its screams and brutal shouts And the remotest spirits of the deep
Dinning the ear ;-away-away with life!
Who in some foggy vault art laid,
Comes to disturb thy dismal sway;
And there amid unwholesome damps dost sleep
That all thy senses stupified,
Are to marble petrified.
Sweet are thy calms to misery.
Poppies I will ask no more,
Nor the fatal hellebore;
Death is the best, the only cure,
His are slumbers ever sure.
Lay me in the Gothic tomb,
In whose solemn fretted gloom
I may lie in mouldering state,
With all the grandeur of the great:
Over me, magnificent,
Weeping o'er the father dead.
Duly too at close of day,
And while the harmonious thunders
Chant a vesper to my soul :
Thus how sweet my sleep will be, 1.
Shut out from thoughtful misery! SILENCE of death-portentous calm,
Those airy forms that yonder fly, Denote that your void fore-runs a storm, That the hour of fate is nigh.
ATHANATOS. I see, I see, on the dim mist borne,
The Spirit of battles rear his crest ! I see, I see, that ere the morn,
AWAY with Death-away His spear will forsake its hated rest,
With all her sluggish sleeps and cra!ling damps And the widow'd wife of Larrendill will beat her Impervious to the day, raked breast.
Where Nature sinks into inanity.
How can the soul desire
Such hateful nothingness to crave, Aluding to the two pleasing poems, the Pleas
And yield with joy the vital fire, ures of Hope and of Memory.
To moulder in the grave!
Yet mortal life is sad,
TO THE HARVEST MOON.
Away with mortal life!
Cum ruit imbriferum ver : The seraph Immortality!
Spicea jam campis cum messis inhorruit, et cum Hail the Heavenly bowers of peace !
Frumenta in viridi stipula lactentia turgent Where all the storins of passion cease. Wild Life's dismaying struggle o'er, The wearied spirit weeps no more ;
Cuncta tabi Cererem pubes agrestis adoret. But wears the eternal smile of joy,
Virgil. Tasting bliss without alloy.
MOON of Harvest, herald mild Welcome, welcome, happy bowers,
Of plenty, rustic labour's child, Where no passing terapest lowers;
Hail! oh hail! I greet thy beam, But the azure heavens display
As soft it trembles o'er the stream, The everlasting smile of day;
And gilds the straw-thatch'd hamlet wide, Where the choral serapła choir
Where Innocence and Peace reside; Strike to praise the harmonious lyre;
'Tis thou that glad'st with joy the rustic throng, And the spirit sinks to ease,
Promptest the tripping dance, th' exhilarating song Lullid by distant synphonies. Oh! to think of meeting there
Moon of Harvest, I do love The friends whose graves received our tear, O'er the uplands now to rove, The daughter loved, the wife adored,
While thy modest ray serene To our widow'd arnis restored ;
Gilds the wide surrounding scene; And all the joys which death did sever,
And to watch thee riding high Given to us again for ever!
In the blue vault of the sky, Who would cling to wretched life,
Where no thin vapour intercepts thy ray, And hug the poison'd thorn of strife ;
But in unclouded majesty thou walkest on thy way. Who would not long from earth to fly, A sluggish senseiess lump to lie,
Pleasing 'tis, oh! modest Moon ! When the glorious prospect lies
Now the Night is at her noon,
'Neath thy sway to musing lie,
When boundless plenty greets his eye,
And thinking soon,
Oh, modest Moon !
How many a female eye will roam Written between the ages of Fourteen and Fifteen,
Along the road,
To see the load,
The last dear load of harvest-home.
Stern despoilers of the plains,
Hence away, the season flee, Can still each mental storm, each tumult calm,
Foes to light-heart jollity:. Soothe anxious Care on sleepless couch reclined,
May no winds careering high, And even tierce Anger's furious rage disarm.
Drive the clouds along the sky, At her command the various passions lie;
But may all nature smile with aspect boon,
When in the heavens thou show'st thy face, oh, She stirs to battle, or she lulls to peace;
Harvest Moon !
Neath yon lowly roof he lies,
The husbandman, with sleep-seal'd eyes; Her martial sounds can fainting troops inspire
He dreams of crowded barns, and round With strength unwonted, and enthusiasm raise ; The yard he hears the flail resound; Infuse new ardour, and with youthful fire
Oh ! may no hurricane destroy Urge on the warrior gray with length of days.
His visionary views of joy !
God of the Winds! oh, hear his humble prayer, Far better she, when, with her soothing lyre, And while the moon of harvest shines, thy blusterShe charms the falchion from the savage grasp,
ing whirlwind spare. And melting into pity vengeful Ire, Looses the bloody breastplate's iron clasp.
Sons of luxury, to you
Leave I Sleep's dull power to woo With her in pensive mood I long to roam,
Press ye still the downy bed, At midnight's hour, or evening's calm decline,
While feverish dreams surround your head; And thoughtful o'er the falling streamlet's fuam,
I will seek the woodland glade, In calm Seclusion's hermit-walks recline.
Penetrate the thickest shade, Whilst mellow sounds from distant copse arise,
Wrapp'd in Contemplation's dreams, Of softest flute or reeds harmonic join'd,
Musing high on holy themes,
While on the gale With rapture thrill'd each worldly passion dies,
Shall softly sail And pleased Attention claims the passive mind.
The nightingale's enchanting tune,
And oft my eyes
Shall grateful rise
To thee, the modest Harvest Moon !
WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN. With joy I'd yield each sensual wish, to live Por ever 'neath your undefiled control.
I. Oh! surely melody from heaven was sent,
SOFTLY, softly blow, ye breezes, To cheer the soul when tired with human strife,
Gently o'er my Edwy fly! To soothe the wayward heart by sorrow rent,
Lo! he slumbers, slumbers sweetly; And soften down the rugged road of life.
Softly, zephyrs, pass him by!
My love is asleep,
He lies by the deep,
Water-flags, and branches dry.
My love is asleep,
Hé lies by the deep,
Fastly closed is his eye;.
Alas! he is dead,
He has chose his death-bed All along where the salt waves sigh.
IV. Is it, is it so, my Edwy ?
Wil thy slumbers never fly? Couldst thou think I would survive thee? No, my love, thou bidd'st me die.
Thou bidd'st me seek
Thy death-bed bleak
On thy breast l'il lay my head,
The moon will smile sweet,
And the wild wave will beat, Oh! so sofily o'er our lonely bed.
And then I talk, and often think
A solitary man.
And pleasant are my dream And Fancy gives me back my wife; And Fancy gives me back my child; She gives me back my little home,
And all its placid joys. Then hateful is the morning hour, That calls me from the dream of bliss, To find myself still lone, and hear
The same dull sounds again. The deep-toned winds, the moaning sea, The whispering of the boding trees, The brooks eternal flow, and oft
'The Condor's hollow scieam.
SWEET to the gay of heart is Summer's smile,
Sweet the wild music of the laughing Spring; But ah! my soul far other scenes beguile,
Where gloomy storms their sullen shadows fling. Is it for me to strike the Idalian string
Raise the soft music of the warbling wire, While in my ears the howls of furies ring,
And melancholy wastes the vital fire Away with tho hts like these_To some lone cave Where howls the shrill blast, and where sweeps
the wave, Direct my steps; there, in the lonely drear,
I'll sit remote from worldly noise, and muse
Till through my soul shall Peace her balm infuse And whisper sounds of comfort in mine ear.
SHIPWRECKED SOLITARY'S SONG
TO THE NIGHT:
BEING CONFINED TO SCHOOL
ONE PLEASANT MORNING IN SPRING.
Written at the age of Thirteen.
THOU, spirit of the spangled night!
Of lonely mariner.
A melancholy song!
That marks thy mournful reign.
A solitary man.
To sing my evening song.
To hymns of harmony.
I hail'd thy star-beam mild.
My woes are mix'd with joy.
THE morning sun's enchanting rays Now call forth every songster's praise ; Now the lark, with upward flight, Gayly ushers in the light; While wildly warbling from each tree, The birds sing songs to Liberty. But for me no songster sings, For me no joyous lark up-springs; For I, confined in gloomy school, Must own the pedant's iron rule, And, far from sylvan shades and bowers, In durance vile must pass the hours; There con the scholiast's dreary lines, Where no bright ray of genius shines, And close to rugged learning cling, While laughs around the jocund spring. How gladly would my soul forego All that arithmeticians know, Or stiff grammarians quaintly teach, Or all that industry can reach, To taste each morn of all the joys That with the laughing sun arise And unconstrain'd to rove along The bushy brakes and glens among; And woo the muse's gentle power, In unfrequented rural bower! But, ah ! such heaven-approaching jogs Will never greet my longing eyes; Still will they choat in vision fine, Yet never but in fancy shine.
Oh, that I were the little wrer
Come, thou shalt form my naeegay now,
And I will bind thee round my brow;
And as 1 twine the mournfúl wreath,
I'll weave a melancholy song:
And sweet the strain shall be and long, Hop and sing at liberty;
The melody of death. And till death should stop my lays,
2. Far from men would spend my days.
Come, funeral flower! who lov'st to dwe!
With the pale corse in lonely tomb,
And throw across the desert gloom
A sweet decaying smell.
Come, press my lips, and lie with me
Beneath the lowly alder tree,
And we will sleep a pleasant sleep, THEE do I own, the prompter of my joys,
And not a care shall dare intrude, The soother of my cares, inspiring peace;
To break the marble solitude
So peaceful and so deep.
And hark! the wind-god, as he flies,
Moans hollow in the forest trees, The good things of the world may be my lot,
And sailing on the gusty breeze, And I might taste the blessedness of wealth:
Mysterious music dies. But, oh! I was not made for money-getting;
Sweet flower! that requiem wild is mine, For me no much-respected plum awaits,
It warns me to the lonely shrine, Nor civic honour, envied.-For as still
The cold turf altar of the dead; I tried to cast with school dexterity
My grave shall be in yon lone spot, The interesting sums, my vagrant thoughts
Where as I lie, by all forgot, Would quick revert to many a woodland haunt,
A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed.
WRITTEN DURING ILLNESS.
BEAMS of the day-break faint! I hail
Your dubious hues, as on the robe
Of night, which wraps the slumbering globe,
I mark your traces pale. The busy bustling crowds could meditate,
Tired with the taper's sickly light, And send my thoughts ten thousand leagues away
And with the wearying, number'd night, Beyond the Atlantic, resting on my friend.
I hail the streaks of morn divine: Ay, Contemplation, even in earliest youth
And lo! they break between the dewy wreaths I woo'd thy heavenly influence! I would walk
That round my rural casement twine: A weary way when all my toils were done,
The fresh gale o'er the green lawn breathes; To lay myself at night in some lone wood,
It fans my feverish brow,-it calms the mental strife, And hear the sweet song of the nightingale.
And cheerily re-illumes the lambent flame of life.
The lark has her gay song begun,
She leaves her grassy nest,
And soars till the unrisen sun Stolen from sleep, was ample recompense
Gleams on her speckled breast. For all the hateful busules of the day.
Now let me leave my restless bed, My opening mind was ductile then, and plastic,
And o'er the spangled uplands tread; And soon the marks of care were worn away,
Now through the custom'd wood-walk wend; While I was sway'd hy every novel impulse, Yielding to all the fancies of hour.
By many a green land lies my way,
Where high o'er head the wild briars bend, But it has now assumed its character;
Till on the mountain's summit gray, Mark'd by strong lineaments, its haughty tone,
I sit me down, and mark the glorious dawn of day. Like the firm oak, would sooner break than bend. Yet still, oh, Contemplation! I do love To indulge thy solemn musings; still the saine
Oh, Heaven ! the soft refreshing gale With thee alone I know to melt and weep,
It breathes into my breast! In thee alone delighting. Why along
My sunk eye gleams; my cheek, so pale, The dusky tract of commerce should I toil,
Is with new colours dressid.
Blithe Health ! thou soul of life and ease!
Come thou too, on the balmy breeze
Invigorate my frame: Can I partake of happiness on earth;
I'll join with thee the buskin'd chase, And to be happy here is man's chief end,
With thee the distant clime will trace,
Beyond those clouds of flame.
In all the varied view!
Behind the twilight's hue.
The mists which on old Night await,
Far to the west they hold their state,
They shun the clear blue face of Morn 1.
Along the fine cerulean shy,
The fleecy clouds succesive fly, SWEET scented flower! who are wont to blooin While bright prismatic beams their shadowy folds On January's front severe,
adorn. And o'er the wintry desert drear To waft thy waste perfume !
And hark! the Thatcher has begun
His whistle on the eaves, • The Rosemary buds in January; It is the And oft the Hedger's bill is heard flower commonly put in the coffins of the dead.
Among the rustling leaves.