THE WANDERING BOY. A SONG. I. WHEN the winter wind whistles along the wild moor, And the cottager shuts on the beggar his door; When the chilling tear stands in my comfortless eye, Oh, bow hard is the lot of the Wandering Boy! II. The winter is cold, and I have no vest, And my heart it is cold as it beats in my breast; No father, no mother, no kindred have I, For I am a parentless Wandering Boy. III. Yet I had a home, and I once had a sire, tale. IV. But my father and mother were summon'd away, And they left me to hard-hearted strangers a prey; I fled from their rigour with many a sigh, V. The wind it is keen, and the snow loads the gale, And no one will list to my innocent tale; I'll go to the grave where my parents both lie, And death shall befriend the poor Wandering Boy. FRAGMENT. The western gale, Mild as the kisses of connubial love, Plays round my languid limbs, as all dissolved, I lie, exhausted with the noontide heat: Dispensing coolness.-On the fringed marge many a floweret rears its head, or pink, Or gaudy daffodil.-'Tis here, at noon, The buskin'd wood-nymphs from the heat retire, And, hark! how merrily, from distant tower, Such is the jocund wake of Whitsuntide, Oh, Ignorance! Thou art fall'n man's best friend! With thee he speeds In frigid apathy along his way, And never does the tear of agony Burn down his scorching cheek; or the keen steel Of wounded feeling penetrate his breast. Even now, as leaning on this fragrant bank, Which sense refined affords-Even now, my heart Throw off these garments, and in shepherd's weeds, With a small flock, and short suspended reed, That I could almost err in reason's spite, Such is life; The distant prospect always seems more fair, ODE, WRITTEN ON WHIT-MONDAY. HARK! how the merry bells ring jocund round, And now they die upon the veering breeze; Anon they thunder loud Full on the musing ear. Wafted in varying cadence, by the shore An ancient holiday. And, lo! the rural revels are begun, Alas! regardless of the tongue of Fate, Kept up the Whitsun dance. And that another hour, and they must fall Like those who went before, and sleep as still Beneath the silent sod, A cold and cheerless sleep. |