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Again on futile hope to rest,

An unsubstantial prop at best, And not to know one swallow makes no summer!

Ah! soon he'll find the brilliant gleam, Which flash'd across the hemisphere, Illumining the darkness there,

Was but a single solitary beam, While all around remain'd in custom'd night.

Still leaden Ignorance reigns serene, In the false court's delusive height,

And only one Carlisle is seen, To illume the heavy gloom with pure and steady




Down the sultry arc of day
The burning wheels have urged their way,
And eve along the western skies
Spreads her intermingling dyes.
Down the deep, the miry lane,
Creeking comes the empty wain,
And driver on the shaft-horse sits,
Whistling now and then by fits;
And oft with his accustom'd call,
Urging on the sluggish Ball.
The barn is still, the master's gone,
And thresher puts his jacket on,

While Dick, upon the ladder tall,
Nails the dead kite to the wall.
Here comes shepherd Jack at last,
He has penn’d the sheep-cote fast,
For 'twas but two nights before,
A lamb was eaten on the moor:
His empty wallet Rover carries,
Now for Jack, when near home, tarries, ..
With lolling tongue he runs to try,
If the horse-trough be not dry.
The milk is settled in the pans,
And supper messes in the cans;
In the hovel carts are wheeld,
And both the colts are drove a-field;
The horses are all bedded up,
And the ewe is with the tup,
The snare for Mister Fox is set,
The leaven laid, the thatching wet,
And Bess has slink'd away to talk
With Roger in the holly-walk.

Now, on the settle all, but Bess,
Are set to eat their supper mess;
And little Tom and roguish Kate,
Are swinging on the meadow gate.
Now they chat of various things,
Of taxes, ministers, and kings,
Or else tell all the village news,
How madam did the squire refuse;
How parson on his tithes was bent,
And landlord oft distrained for rent.

Thus do they talk, till in the sky
The pale-eyed moon is mounted high,
And from the alehouse drunken Ned
Had reel'd—then hasten all to bed.
The mistress sees that lazy Kate
The heaping coal on kitchen grate
Has laid-while master goes throughout,
Sees shutters fast, the mastiff out,
The candles safe, the hearths all clear,
And nought from thieves or fire to fear;
Then both to bed together creep,
And join the general troop of sleep.


COME, pensive sage, who lov'st to dwell
In some retired Lapponian cell,
Where, far from noise and riot rude,
Resides sequester'd Solitude.
Come, and o'er my longing soul
Throw thy dark and russet stole,
And open to my duteous eyes,
The volume of thy mysteries.

I will meet thee on the hill,
Where, with printless footsteps still
The morning in her buskin gray,
Springs upon her eastern way;
While the frolic zephyrs stir,
Playing with the gossamer,

And, on ruder pinions borne,
Shake the dew-drops from the thorn.
There, as o'er the fields we pass,
Brushing with hasty feet the grass,
We will startle from her nest
The lively lark with speckled breast,
And hear the floating clouds among
Her gale-transported matin song,
Or on the upland stile embower'd,
With fragrant hawthorn snowy flower'd.
Will sauntering sit, and listen still .
To the herdsman's oaten quill,
Wafted from the plain below;
Or the heifer's frequent low ;
Or the milkmaid in the grove,
Singing of one that died for love.
Or when the noontide heats oppress,
We will seek the dark recess,
Where, in th' empower'd translucent stream,
The cattle shun the sultry beam,
And o'er us on the marge reclined,
The drowsy fly her horn shall wind,
While Echo, from her ancient oak,
Shall answer to the woodman's stroke;
Or the little peasant's song,
Wandering lone the glens among,
His artless lip with berries dyed,
And feet through ragged shoes descried.

But oh! when evening's virgin queen
Sits on her fringed throne serene,

And mingling whispers rising near, Still on the still reposing ear: While distant brooks decaying round, Augment the mix'd dissolving sound, And the zephyr flitting by, Whispers mystic harmony, , We will seek the woody lane, By the hamlet, on the plain, Where the weary rustic nigh, Shall whistle his wild melody, And the creaking wicket oft Shall echo from the neighbouring croft; And as we trace the green path lone, With moss and rank weeds overgrown, We will muse on pensive lore Till the full soul brimming o'er, Shall in our upturn'd eyes appear, Embodied in a quivering tear. Or else, serenely silent, set By the brawling rivulet, Which on its calm unruffled breast, Bears the old mossy arch impressid, That clasps its secret stream of glass Half hid in shrubs and waving grass, The wood-nymph's lone secure retreat, Unpress'd by fawn or sylvan's feet, We'll watch in eve's ethereal braid, The rich vermilion slowly fade; Or catch, faint twinkling from afar, The first glimpse of the eastern star, Fair Vesper, mildest lamp of light, That heralds in imperial night;

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