He laid him by the brawling brook At eventide to ruminate, He watch'd the swallow skimming round, And mused, in reverie profound, On wayward man's unhappy state, And pondered much, and paused on deeds of ancient date. II. 1. "Oh, 't was not always thus," he cried, "There was a time, when genius claimed Respect from even towering pride, Nor hung her head ashamed: But now to wealth alone we bow, The titled and the rich alone Are honour'd, while meek Merit pines, On penury's wretched couch reclines, Unheeded in his dying moan, [known. As, overwhelmed with want and woe, he sinks un III. 1. "Yet was the muse not always seen In poverty's dejected mien, Not always did repining rue, And misery her steps pursue. Time was, when nobles thought their titles graced By the sweet honours of poetic bays, When Sidney sung his melting song, When Sheffield joined the harmonious throng, And Lyttelton attuned to love his lays. Those days are gone alas, for ever gone! Their brows with anadems, by genius won, But arrogantly deem the muse as base; How differently thought the sires of this degenerate race!" I. 2. still at eve Thus sang the minstrel: The upland's woody shades among And still his shame was aye the same, And muse on all his sorrows o'er, And vow that he would join the abjured world no more. II. 2. But human vows, how frail they be! And all amazed, he thought to see Regrets he'd sunk in impotence, And hails the ideal day of virtuous eminence. THE POEMS OF III. 2. Ah! silly man, yet smarting sore An unsubstantial prop at best, And not to know one swallow makes no summer! Was but a single solitary beam, Still leaden ignorance reigns serene, In the false court's delusive height, And only one Carlisle is seen To illume the heavy gloom with pure and steady light. TO CONTEMPLATION. COME, pensive sage, who lovest to dwell In some retired Lapponian cell, Where, far from noise and riot rude, Resides sequestered solitude. Come, and o'er my longing soul Throw thy dark and russet stole, And open to my duteous eyes The volume of thy mysteries. I will meet thee on the hill, Where, with printless footsteps still, Where, in the embowered translucent stream, The cattle shun the sultry beam, And o'er us on the marge reclined, The drowsy fly her horn shall wind, Or the little peasant's song, Wandering lone the glens among, His artless lip with berries dyed, And feet through ragged shoes descried. But oh! when evening's virgin queen Sits on her fringed throne serene, And mingling whispers rising near Steal on the still reposing ear; While distant brooks decaying round, Augment the mixed dissolving sound, And the zephyr flitting by Whispers mystic harmony, We will seek the woody lane, By the hamlet, on the plain, Where the weary rustic nigh Shall whistle his wild melody, And the croaking wicket oft Shall echo from the neighbouring croft; And as we trace the green path lone, With moss and rank weeds overgrown, We will muse on pensive lore, Till the full soul, brimming o'er, Shall in our upturned eyes appear, Embodied in a quivering tear. Or else, serenely silent, sit By the brawling rivulet, Which on its calm unruffled breast Rears the old mossy arch impressed, That clasps its secret stream of glass, |