Then, hermit, let us turn our feet
To the low Abbey's still retreat,
Embowered in the distant glen,
Far from the haunts of busy men,
Where, as we sit upon the tomb,
The glow-worm's light may gild the gloom,
And show to fancy's saddest eye,
Where some lost hero's ashes lie.
And oh, as through the mouldering arch,
With ivy filled and weeping larch,
The night-gale whispers sadly clear,
Speaking dear things to fancy's ear,
We'll hold communion with the shade.
Of some deep-wailing ruined maid-
Or call the ghost of Spencer down,
To tell of woe and fortune's frown;
And bid us cast the eye of hope,
Beyond this bad world's narrow scope.
Or if these joys, to us denied,
To linger by the forest's side;
Or in the meadow or the wood,
Or by the lone romantic flood;
Let us in the busy town,
When sleep's dull streams the people drown,
Far from drowsy pillows flee,
And turn the church's massy key;
Then, as through the painted glass,
The moon's pale beams obscurely pass
And darkly on the trophied wall,
Her faint ambiguous shadows fall;
Let us, while the faint winds wail,
Through the long reluctant aisle,
As we pace with reverence meet,
Count the echoings of our feet;
While from the tombs, with confessed breath,
Distinct responds the voice of death.
If thou, mild sage, wilt condescend,
Thus on my footsteps to attend,
To thee my lonely lamp shall burn,
By fallen Genius' sainted urn!
As o'er the scroll of Time I pore,
And sagely spell of ancient lore.
Till I can rightly guess of all
That Plato could to memory call,
And scan the formless views of things,
Or with old Egypt's fettered kings,
Arrange the mystic trains that shine
In night's high philosophic mine;
And to thy name shall e'er belong
The honors of undying song.
ODE TO THE GENIUS OF ROMANCE."
Оn, thou who in my early youth,
When fancy wore the garb of truth,
Wert wont to win my infant feet,
To some retired, deep-fabled seat,
Where by the brooklet's secret tide,
The midnight ghost was known to glide;
Or lay me in some lonely glade,
In native Sherwood's forest shade,
Where Robin Hood, the outlaw bold,
Was wont his sylvan courts to hold;
And there as musing deep I lay,
Would steal my little soul away,
And all thy pictures represent,
Of siege and solemn tournament;
Or bear me to the magic scene,
Where clad in greaves and gaberdine
The warrior knight of chivalry,
Made many a fierce enchanter flee;
And bore the high-born dame away,
Long held the fell magician's prey.
Or oft would tell the shuddering tale
Of murders, and of goblins pale,
Haunting the guilty baron's side
(Whose floors with secret blood were dyed),
Which o'er the vaulted corridore,
On stormy nights was heard to roar,
By old domestic, wakened wide
By the angry winds that chide.
Or else the mystic tale would tell,
Of Greensleeve, or of Blue-Beard fell.
Он, yonder is the well-known spot,
My dear, my long-lost native home!
Oh! welcome is yon little cot,
Where I shall rest, no more to roam!
Oh! I have travelled far and wide,
O'er many a distant foreign land;
Each place, each province I have tried,
And sung and danced my saraband.
But all their charms could not prevail,
To steal my heart from yonder vale.
Of distant climes the false report
It lured me from my native land;
It bade me rove-my sole support
My cymbals and my saraband.
The woody dell, the hanging rock,
The chamois skipping o'er the heights;
The plain adorned with many a flock,
And, oh! a thousand more delights,
That grace yon dear beloved retreat,
Have backward won my weary feet.
Now safe returned, with wandering tired,
No more my little home I'll leave;
And many a tale of what I've seen
Shall while away the winter's eve.
Oh! I have wandered far and wide,
O'er many a distant foreign land;
Each place, each province I have tried,
And sung and danced my saraband;
But all their charms could not prevail,
To steal my heart from yonder vale.
Written impromptu, on reading the following passage in Mr. Capel Lofft's beautiful and interesting preface to Nathaniel Bloomfield's poems, just published.— "It has a mixture of the sportive, which deepens the impression of its melancholy close. I could have wished, as I have said in a short note, the conclusion had been otherwise. The sours of life less offend my taste than its sweets delight it."
Go to the raging sea, and say, "Be still,"
Bid the wild lawless winds obey thy will;
Preach to the storm, and reason with despair,
But tell not Misery's son that life is fair!
Thou, who in Plenty's lavish lap hast rolled,
And every year with new delight hast told,
Thou, who recumbent on the lacquered barge,
Hast dropt down joy's gay stream of pleasant marge,
Thou mayst extol life's calm untroubled sea,
The storms of misery never burst on thee!
Go to the mat where squalid want reclines,
Go to the shade obscure, where Merit pines;
Abide with him whom penury's charms control,
And bind the rising yearnings of his soul,
Survey his sleepless couch, and standing there,
Tell the poor pallid wretch, that life is fair!
Press thou the lonely pillow of his head,
And ask why sleep his languid eyes has fled:
Mark his dewed temples, and his half-shut eye,
His trembling nostrils, and his deep-drawn sigh,
His muttering mouth, contorted with despair,
And ask if Genius could inhabit there.
Oh yes! that sunken eye with fire once gleamed,
And rays of light from its full circlet streamed;
But now neglect has stung him to the core,
And hope's wild raptures thrill his breast no more.
Domestic Anguish winds his vitals round,
And added Grief compels him to the ground.
Lo! o'er his manly form, decayed and wan,
The shades of death with gradual steps steal on;
And the pale mother pining to decay,
Weeps for her boy, her wretched life away.
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