'TIS the merry nightingale That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates COLERIDGE SWEET bird, that sing'st away the early hours Of winters past, or coming, void of care, Well pleased with delights which present are, Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers; To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare, And what dear gifts on thee He did not spare, A stain to human sense in sin that lowers. What soul can be so sick which by thy songs (Attir'd in sweetness) sweetly is not driven Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs, And lift a reverend eye and thought to Heaven? Sweet artless songster, thou my mind dost raise To airs of spheres, yes, and to angels' lays. DRUMMOND. MINE be a cot beside the hill; A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear; A willowy brook, that turns a mill, With many a fall, shall linger near. The swallow oft, beneath my thatch, Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, And share my meal, a welcome guest. Around my ivied porch shall spring Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing, In russet gown and apron blue. The village church beneath the trees, ROGERS. TRIUMPHAL arch that fill'st the sky, When storms prepare to part, I ask not proud philosophy To teach me what thou art. Still seem, as to my childhood's sight, A mid-way station given For happy spirits to alight, Betwixt the earth and heaven. Can all that optics teach, unfold How glorious is thy girdle cast O'er mountain, tower, and town, Or mirrored in the ocean vast, For, faithful to its sacred page, CAMPBELL. |