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Of mountain-torrents; or the visible scene
This boy was taken from his mates, and died In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old. Preëminent in beauty is the vale Where he was born and bred: the churchyard hangs Upon a slope above the village school; And, thro' that churchyard when my way has led On summer evenings, I believe that there A long half-hour together I have stood Mute, - looking at the grave in which he lies !
O BLITHE New-comer! I have heard,
While I am lying on the grass
Though babbling only to the Vale,
Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!
The same whom in my schoolboy days
To seek thee did I often rove
And I can listen to thee yet;
O blessed Bird ! the earth we pace
A NIGHT PIECE.
- The sky is overcast With a continuous cloud of texture close, Heavy and wan, all whitened by the Moon, Which through that veil is indistinctly seen, A dull, contracted circle, yielding light So feebly spread, that not a shadow falls, Checkering the ground, from rock, plant, tree, or
tower. At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam Startles the pensive traveller while he treads His lonesome path, with unobserving eye Bent earthwards; he looks up,—the clouds are split Asunder, — and above his head he sees The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens. There, in a black-blue vault she sails along, Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small, And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss Drive as she drives : how fast they wheel away, Yet vanish not ! — the wind is in the tree, But they are silent ; — still they roll along Immeasurably distant; and the vault, Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds, Still deepens its unfathomable depth. At length the Vision closes ; and the mind, Not undisturbed by the delight it feels, Which slowly settles into peaceful calm, Is left to muse upon the solemn scene.
- Not a breath of air Ruffles the bosom of this leafy glen. From the brook's margin, wide around, the trees Are steadfast as the rocks; the brook itself, Old as the hills that feed it from afar, Doth rather deepen than disturb the calm Where all things else are still and motionless. And yet, even now, a little breeze, perchance Escaped from boisterous winds that rage without, Has entered, by the sturdy oaks unfelt, But to its gentle touch how sensitive Is the light ash! that, pendent from the brow Of yon dim cave, in seeming silence makes A soft eye-music of slow-waving boughs, Powerful almost as vocal harmony To stay the wanderer's steps and soothe his
THERE is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale,
Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore:
That threaten the profane ; — a pillared shade,