« AnteriorContinuar »
Still seem as to my childhood's sight,
A midway station given For happy spirits to alight
Betwixt the earth and heaven.
Thy form to please me so,
Hid in thy radiant bow?
Enchantment's veil withdraws,
To cold material laws !
But words of the Most High,
Was woven in the sky.
Heaven's covenant thou didst shine, How came the world's
fathers forth To watch thy sacred sign ! And when its yellow lustre smild
O’er mountains yet untrod, Each mother held aloft her child,
To bless the bow of God.
The first-made anthem rang
And the first poet sang.
eye Unraptur'd greet thy beam; Theme of primeval prophecy,
Be still the poet's theme?
The earth to thee her incense yields,
The lark thy welcome sings,
The snowy mushroom springs.
O'er mountain, tower, and town,
A thousand fathoms down!
As young thy beauties seem,
First sported in thy beam.
Heaven still rebuilds its span,
That first spoke peace to man. T. Campbell.
SONNET TO A FOUNTAIN.
Sweet Fountain, in thy cool and glassy bed,
A SPIRIT sits with me by day
A spirit sits with me by night; In the warm sun's refulgent ray
In the cold moon's unclouded light. It whispers where the wild winds sigh
It glitters in the dewy glade; If to the forest's depths I fly,
It blackens in the blackest shade. It lies with me on banks of flowers;
With me beside the streams it sits; And, where the blossoms falls in showers,
The spirit, like a meteor, flits. If, where the waves are bounding dark,
Adventurous, to my boat I flee,
It toils upon the tumbling sea.
I look upon those worlds afar,
I see it flit from star to star.
Around the abbey's mouldering walls; I hear it in the softest gale
That ever sigh'd through marble halls. Its voice is ever in my ear
Its hand is often on my brow, -
I feel its icy fingers now !
WILLIAM THE THRESHER.
Who owns that
cot in the lane that we pass, Whose flinty foundations are bedded in grass, Whose corners are guarded with fragments of rock, From the wheels of the wain, and the waggon's rude
shock ? 'Tis his, who, from youth to decline of his days, Has dwelt there a stranger to censure or praise ; Poor William the Thresher; who forward and back To the barn in the valley, pursues the same track. E'en the sheep, long accustom’d to see him thus pass, Familiarly meet him, and gaze in his face; The heifer, across the green path as she lies, Starts not at his footsteps, nor offers to rise; And all the day long you may hear his flail sound As you walk on the hill through the woodlands
around; Save when the ripe harvest his labour demands, Then stripp'd in the corn-fields he joins the gay
bands; And ere autumn's rich opportunity slides, A trifle for winter's dull season provides. He ne'er saw the city, nor often the town, But when to the market he pass'd the broad down, Or dress’d in his church-going suit, once a year With neighbours and friends at the fair would
appear. His garden, his hives, and his sties are his pride, And by those half the wants of his life are supplied ; While mother and wife their kind efforts unite, To mark the calm comforts of home his delight. No anxious forebodings his breast ever knows; Ambition nor Envy disturbs his repose;
The tumult and terror of wide-wasting war
days, Ere lux’ry and av’rice corrupted their ways; Or cities, polluted with vices and crimes, Call’d judgments from Heav'n on degenerate times, "Twould be well for the world, could its restless ones
taste The bliss of retirement, so blameless and chaste; Then violence, strife, and oppression might cease, And innocence rest on the bosom of
peace. Most happy the Bard, whom such solitude charms, Whom virtue and nature invite to their arms; 0! grant me, kind Heaven! in life's feeble wane, To enjoy the sweet calm of some cot in the lane.
I love thee, Twilight! As thy shadows roll,