Of sharpening scythe: the mower sinking, heaps
O'er him the humid hay, with flowers perfumed;
And scarce a chirping grasshopper is heard
Through the dumb mead. Distressful Nature pants.
The very streams look languid from afar :
Or, through th' unsheltered glade, impatient, seem
To hurl into the covert of the grove.
All-conquering heat, oh, intermit thy wrath,
And on my throbbing temples potent thus
Beam not so fierce! incessant still you flow,
And still another fervent flood succeeds,
Pour'd on the head profuse. In vain I sigh,
And restless turn, and look around for night;
Night is far off, and hotter hours approach.
Thrice happy he! who, on the sunless side
Of a romantic mountain, forest-crown'd,
Beneath the whole collected shade reclines:
Or in the gelid caverns, woodbine-wrought,
And fresh bedew'd with ever-spouting streams,
Sits coolly calm; while all the world without,
Unsatisfied and sick, tosses in noon.
Emblem instructive of the virtuous man,
Who keeps his temper'd mind serene and pure,
And every passion aptly harmonised,
Amid a jarring world with vice inflamed.
Lord Ullin's Daughter.
CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound,
Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry!
And I'll give thee a silver pound
To row us o'er the ferry."
"Come back! come back!" he cried in grief,
"Across this stormy water;
And I'll forgive your Highland chief,—
My daughter! O my daughter!"
'Twas vain: the loud waves lash'd the shore,
Return or aid preventing :
The waters wild went o'er his child,
And he was left lamenting.
Portrait of Isaac Ashford, a Peasant.
EXE to these ladies, but in nought allied, A noble peasant, Isaac Ashford, died, Noble he was, contemning all things mean; His truth unquestioned, and his soul serene; Of no man's presence Isaac felt afraid; At no man's question Isaac looked dismayed; Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace; Truth, simple truth, was written in his face. Yet while the serious thought his soul approved, Cheerful he seemed, and gentleness he loved:
PORTRAIT OF ISAAC ASHFORD, A PEASANT.
To bliss domestic he his heart resigned,
And with the firmest, had the fondest mind:
Were others joyful, he looked smiling on,
And gave allowance where he needed none;
Good he refused with future ill to buy,
Nor knew a joy that caused reflection's sigh ;
A friend to virtue, his unclouded breast
No envy stung, no jealousy distressed;
Yet far was he from stoic pride removed ;
He felt humanely, and he warmly loved.
I marked his action when his infant died,
And his old neighbour for offence was tried;
The still tears, stealing down that furrowed cheek,
Spoke pity, plainer than the tongue can speak.
If pride were his, 'twas not their vulgar pride,
Who, in their base contempt, the great deride;
Nor pride in learning-though my clerk agreed,
If fate should call him, Ashford might succeed!
Nor pride in rustic skill, although we knew
None his superior, and his equals few:
But if that spirit in his soul had place,
It was the jealous pride that shuns disgrace;
A pride in honest fame, by virtue gained,
In sturdy boys to virtuous labours trained ;
Pride, in the power that guards his country's coast,
And all that Englishmen enjoy and boast;
Pride, in a life that Slander's tongue defied,
In fact, a noble passion, misnamed Pride.
I feel his absence in the hours of prayer,
And view his seat, and sigh for Isaac there;
I see no more those white locks thinly spread
Round the bald polish of that honoured head;
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