Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; The homely Nurse doth all she can And that imperial palace whence he came. Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, A mourning or a funeral ; And this hath now his heart, To dialogues of business, love, or strife; Ere this be thrown aside, And with new joy and pride The little actor cons another part; Filling from time to time his "humorous stage," Were endless imitation. * * * * O joy! that in our embers That nature yet remembers The thought of our past years in me doth breed For that which is most worthy to be blest, Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast; The song of thanks and praise; Those shadowy recollections, Which, be they what they may, Are yet the fountain-light of all our day, Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Can utterly abolish or destroy; Hence, in a season of calm weather, Though inland far we be, Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea Can in a moment travel thither, And see the children sport upon the shore, Then, sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song! As to the tabor's sound! We, in thought, will join your throng, Ye that through your hearts to-day What though the radiance that was once so bright Be now for ever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, or glory in the flower; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind, In the primal sympathy In Which having been must ever be, In the faith that looks through death, years that bring the philosophic mind. And O, ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves, Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; To live beneath your more habitual sway; I love the brooks which down their channels fret, Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as they; The innocent brightness of a new-born day Is lovely yet; The clouds that gather round the setting sun That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; SIR WALTER SCOTT. Born, 1771; Died, 1832. SCOTCH SCENERY. THE western waves of ebbing day Where twined the path in shadow hid, Huge as the tower which builders vain Wild crests as pagod ever deck'd, Nor were these earth-born castles bare, Boon Nature scatter'd, free and wild, Each plant or flower, the mountain's child. Here eglantine embalm'd the air, Hawthorn and hazel mingled there; The primrose pale, and violet flower, Found in each cliff a narrow bower; Foxglove and nightshade side by side, Emblems of punishment and pride, Grouped their dark hues with every stain The weather-beaten crags retain. With boughs that quaked at every breath, Cast anchor in the rifted rock ; |