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Even then we soar'd to many a height sublime, And many a day-dream charm’d the lazy time.
At evening too, how pleasing was our walk,
Endear’d by Friendship’s unrestrained talk,
When to the upland heights we bent our way,
To view the last beam of departing day;
How calm was all around ! no playful breeze
Sigh'd mid the wavy foliage of the trees,
But all was still, save when, with drowsy song,
The gray-fly wound his sullen horn along;
And save when, heard in soft, yet merry glee,
The distant church-bells' mellow harmony;
The silver mirror of the lucid brook,
That 'mid the tufted broom its still course took;
The rugged arch, that clasp'd its silent tides,
With moss and rank weeds hanging down its sides:
The craggy rock, that jutted on the sight;
The shrieking bat, that took its heavy flight;
All, all was pregnant with divine delight.
We loved to watch the swallow swimming high,
In the bright azure of the vaulted sky;
Or gaze upon the clouds, whose colour'd pride
Was scatter'd thinly o’er the welkin wide,
And tinged with such. variety of shade,
To the charm'd soul sublimest thoughts convey'd.
In these what forms romantic did we trace,
While Fancy led us o'er the realms of space!
Now we espied the Thunderer in his car,
Leading the embattled seraphim to war,
Then stately towers descried, sublimely high,
In Gothic grandeur frowning on the sky,
Or saw, wide stretching o'er the azure height,
A ridge of glaciers dressed in mural white,
Hugely terrific.—But those times are o'er,
And the fond scene can charm mine eyes no more;
For thou art gone, and I am left below,
Alone to struggle through this world of wo.
The scene is o'er-still seasons onward roll,
And each revolve conducts me toward the goal ;
Yet all is blank, without one soft relief,
One endless continuity of grief;
And the tired soul, now led to thoughts sublime,
Looks but for rest beyond the bounds of time.
Toil on, toil on, ye busy crowds, that pant
For hoards of wealth which ye will never want:
And, lost to all but gain, with ease resign
The calms of peace and happiness divine !
Far other cares be mine-Men little crave
In this short journey to the silent grave; [health,
And the poor peasant, bless'd with peace and
I envy more than Cræsus with his wealth.
Yet grieve not I, that Fate did not decree
Paternal acres to await on me;
She gave me more, she placed within my breast
A heart with little pleased with little bless'd :
I look around me, where, on every side,
Extensive manors spread in wealthy pride;
And could my sight be borne to either zone,
I should not find one foot of land my own.
But whither do I wander ? shall the muse
For golden baits, her simple theme refuse?
Oh, no! but while the weary spirit greets
The fading scenes of childhood's far-gone sweets,
It catches all the infant's wandering tongue,
And prattles on in desultory song.
That song must close—the gloomy mists of night
Obscure the pale stars' visionary light,
And ebon darkness, clad in vapoury wet,
Steals on the welkin in primæval jet.
The song must close.—Once more my adverse lot
Leads me reluctant from this cherish'd spot:
Again compels to plunge in busy life,
And brave the hateful turbulence of strife.
Scenes of my youth—ere my unwilling feet
Are turn'd for ever from this loved retreat,
Ere on these fields, with plenty cover'd o'er
My eyes are closed to ope on them no more,
Let me ejaculate, to feeling due,
One long, one last affectionate adieu.
Grant that, if ever Providence should please
To give me an old age
ease, Grant that, in these sequester'd shades, my days May wear away in gradual decays; And oh! ye spirits, who unbodied play, Unseen upon the pinions of the day, Kind genii of my native fields benign, Who were
DING-DONG ! ding-dong!
Merry, merry, go the bells,
Over the heath, over the moor, and over the dale,
Swinging slow with sullen roar,"
Dance, dance away the jocund roundelay!
Ding-dong, ding-dong, calls us away.
Round the oak, and round the elm,
Merrily foot it o'er the ground !
The sentry ghost it stands aloof,
So merrily, merrily foot it round.
Merry, merry go the bells
Swelling in the nightly gale,
The sentry ghost,
It keeps its post,
And soon, and soon our sports must fail :
But let us trip the nightly ground,
While the merry, merry bells ring round,
Hark! hark! the death-watch ticks !
See, see, the winding-sheet!
Our dance is done,
Our race is run,
And we must lie at the alder's feet!
Merry, merry go the bells, Swinging o'er the weltering wave!
And we must seek
Our death-beds bleak,
Where the green sod grows upon the grave.
They vanish- The Goddess of Consumption de
scends, habited in a sky-blue Robe, attended by mournful Music.
Come, Melancholy, sister mine,
Cold the dews, and chill the night!
Come from thy dreary shrine !
The wan moon climbs the heavenly height,
And underneath the sickly ray,
Troops of squalid spectres play,
And the dying mortals' groan
Startles the night on her dusky throne.
Come, come, sister mine!
Gliding on the pale moon-shine: