"Twas not thy voice, my buried friend!-Oh, no: And I can think I see the groves again, And the slant sunshine on the village tower. And I can think I hear its sabbath chime Come smoothly soften'd down the woody vale; Or mark on yon lone eminence sublime, Fast whirling in the wind the white mill's sail. Phantom! that by my bed dost beckoning glide; Spectre of Death! to the damp charnel hie; Thy dim pale hand, thy fostering visage hide; Thou comest to say, 'I with thy worms shall lie!' Thou comest to say that my once vacant mind Amid those scenes shall never more rejoice; Nor on the day of rest the hoary hind Bend o'er his staff, attentive to my voice! Hast thou not visited that pleasant place That hath pierced all on which life seem'd to But Hope might whisper,- Many a smiling day And many a cheerful eve might yet be mine, Ere age's autumn strew my locks with gray, And weary to the dust my steps decline.' I argue not, but uncomplaining bow To Heaven's high hest; secure, whate'er my lot, Meek spirit of resign'd Content, that thou Wilt smooth my pillow, and forsake me not. Thou to the turfy hut with pilgrim feet Wanderest from halls of loud tumultuous joy; Or on the naked down, when the winds beat, Dost sing to the forsaken shepherd boy. Thou art the sick man's nurse, the poor man's friend, And through each change of life thou hast been mine; In every ill thou canst a comfort blend, And bid the eye, though sad, in sadness shine. Thee I have met on Cherwell's willow'd side; And when our destined road far onward lay, Thee I have found, whatever chance betide, The kind companion of my devious way. With thee unwearied have I loved to roam By the smooth-flowing Scheldt or rushing Rhine; And thou hast gladden'd my sequester'd home, And hung my peaceful porch with eglantine. When cares and crosses my tired spirits tried, And, bless'd with thee, forgot a world unkind. Even now, while toiling through the sleepless night, I see thee come half-smiling to my bed, Whose arm sustaining holds my drooping head, O firmer spirit! on some craggy height Who, when the tempest sails aloft, dost stand, And hearest the ceaseless billows of the night Rolling upon the solitary strand; At this sad hour, when no harsh thoughts intrude And languid life seems verging to its close; O, let me thy pervading influence feel! Be every weak and wayward thought repress'd! And hide thou, as with plates of coldest steel, The faded aspect and the throbbing breast. Silent the motley pageant may retreat, And vain mortality's brief scenes remove; Yet let my bosom, whilst with life it beat, Breathe a last prayer for all on earth I love. Slow creeping pain weighs down my heavy eye, BOWLES. * See Dr. Harington's exquisite air to the words: Come, gentle Muse, lall me to sleep ELEGY. DISASTROUS man! sad child of Pain and Grief! E'en the soft virtues which thy bosom fill Rest from the parent's anxious pillow flies, The heart, with anguish torn, which for mankind When, for the nymph beloved, alas, too well, To the sick mind, by sorrow wearied long, To haunt the gloomy mansions of the dead; |