3 Is it weakness thus to dwell

On passion that I dare not tell?
Such weakness I would ever prove;
'Tis painful, though 'tis sweet to love.

ON WHIT-MONDAY.

1 HARK! how the merry bells ring jocund round, And now they die upon the veering breeze; Anon they thunder loud

Full on the musing ear.

2 Wafted in varying cadence, by the shore Of the still twinkling river, they bespeak A day of jubilee,

An ancient holiday.

3 And lo! the rural revels are begun,
And gaily echoing to the laughing sky,
On the smooth shaven green
Resounds the voice of Mirth.

4 Alas! regardless of the tongue of Fate, That tells them 'tis but as an hour since they, Who now are in their graves,

Kept up the Whitsun dance;

5 And that another hour, and they must fall Like those who went before, and sleep as still Beneath the silent sod,

A cold and cheerless sleep.

K

6 Yet why should thoughts like these intrude to scare The vagrant Happiness, when she will deign To smile upon us here,

A transient visitor?

7 Mortals! be gladsome while ye have the power, And laugh and seize the glittering lapse of joy ; In time the bell will toll

That warns ye to your graves.

8 I to the woodland solitude will bend

My lonesome way—where Mirth's obstreperous shout
Shall not intrude to break

The meditative hour.

9 There will I ponder on the state of man, Joyless and sad of heart, and consecrate This day of jubilee

To sad reflection's shrine;

10 And I will cast my fond eye far beyond
This world of care, to where the steeple loud
Shall rock above the sod,

Where I shall sleep in peace.

TO THE WIND, AT MIDNIGHT.

1 NOT unfamiliar to mine ear,

Blasts of the night! ye howl, as now
My shuddering casement loud
With fitful force ye beat.

2 Mine ear has dwelt in silent awe,

The howling sweep, the sudden rush;
And when the passing gale
Pour'd deep the hollow dirge.

TO THE HARVEST MOON.

Cum ruit imbriferum ver:

Spicea jam campis cum messis inhorruit, et cum
Frumenta in viridi stipula lactentia turgent:

Cuncta tibi Cererem pubes agrestis adoret.

1 MOON of Harvest, herald mild

VIRGIL.

Of plenty, rustic labour's child,
Hail! oh hail! I greet thy beam,
As soft it trembles o'er the stream,
And gilds the straw-thatch'd hamlet wide,
Where Innocence and Peace reside!

'Tis thou that glad'st with joy the rustic throng, Promptest the tripping dance, th' exhilarating song.

2 Moon of Harvest, I do love

O'er the uplands now to rove,
While thy modest ray serene
Gilds the wide surrounding scene;
And to watch thee riding high

In the blue vault of the sky,
Where no thin vapour intercepts thy ray,
But in unclouded majesty thou walkest on thy way.

3 Pleasing 'tis, O modest moon! Now the night is at her noon,

'Neath thy sway to musing lie,
While around the zephyrs sigh,
Fanning soft the sun-tann'd wheat,
Ripen'd by the summer's heat;
Picturing all the rustic's joy

When boundless plenty greets his eye,
And thinking soon,

4 Storms and tempests, floods and rains,
Stern despoilers of the plains,
Hence, away, the season flee,
Foes to light-heart jollity:
May no winds careering high

Drive the clouds along the sky,

But may all nature smile with aspect boon,

When in the heavens thou show'st thy face, O Harvest Moon!

5 'Neath yon lowly roof he lies,

The husbandman, with sleep-seal'd eyes;
He dreams of crowded barns, and round
The yard he hears the flail resound;
Oh! may no hurricane destroy

His visionary views of joy!

God of the winds! oh, hear his humble prayer,

And while the Moon of Harvest shines, thy blustering whirlwind spare.

6 Sons of luxury, to you

Leave I sleep's dull power to woo;

Press ye still the downy bed,

While feverish dreams surround your head;
I will seek the woodland glade,

Penetrate the thickest shade,

Wrapp'd in contemplation's dreams,

Musing high on holy themes,

While on the gale

Shall softly sail

The nightingale's enchanting tune,

And oft my eyes

Shall grateful rise

To thee, the modest Harvest Moon!

TO THE HERB ROSEMARY.1

1 SWEET scented flower! who art wont to bloom
On January's front severe,

And o'er the wintry desert drear
To waft thy waste perfume!

Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now,
And I will bind thee round my brow;

And as I twine the mournful wreath,

I'll weave a melancholy song;

And sweet the strain shall be, and long,
The melody of death.

2 Come, funeral flower! who lov'st to dwell
With the pale corse in lonely tomb,
And throw across the desert gloom
A sweet decaying smell,

'The Rosemary buds in January. It is the flower commonly put in the coffins of the dead.