The treacherous surface, while the quick-eyed trout Watches his time to spring; or, from above, Some feathered dam, purveying 'mong the boughs, Darts from her perch, and to her plumeless brood Bears off the prize :- Sad emblem of man's lot! He, giddy insect, from his native leaf, (Where safe and happily he might have lurked) Elate upon ambition's gaudy wings, Forgetful of his origin, and, worse, Unthinking of his end, flies to the stream; And if from hostile vigilance he 'scape, Buoyant he flutters but a little while, Mistakes the inverted image of the sky For heaven itself, and, sinking, meets his fate. Now, let me trace the stream up to its source Among the hills; its runnel by degrees Diminishing, the murmur turns a tinkle. Closer and closer still the banks approach, Tangled so thick with pleaching bramble-shoots, With brier, and hazel branch, and hawthorn spray, That, fain to quit the dingle, glad I mount Into the open air: Grateful the breeze That fans my throbbing temples! smiles the plain Spread wide below : how sweet the placid view! But, O! more sweet the thought, heart-soothing thought, That thousands, and ten thousands of the sons Of toil, partake this day the common joy Again I turn me to the hill, and trace The wizard stream, now scarce to be discerned; Woodless its banks, but green with ferny leaves, And thinly strewed with heath-bells up and down. Now, when the downward sun has left the glens, Each mountain's rugged lineaments are traced Upon the adverse slope, where stalks gigantic The shepherd's shadow thrown athwart the chasm, As on the topmost ridge he homeward hies. How deep the hush! the torrent's channel, dry, Presents a stony steep, the echo's haunt. But hark, a plaintive sound floating along! 'Tis from yon heath-roofed shielin; now it dies Away, now rises full; it is the song Which He, who listens to the halleluiahs Of choiring Seraphim-delights to hear; It is the music of the heart, the voice Of venerable age,-of guileless youth, In kindly circle seated on the ground Before their wicker door: Behold the man! The grandsire and the saint; his silvery locks Beam in the parting ray; before him lies, Upon the smooth-cropt sward, the open book, His comfort, stay, and ever new-delight; While, heedless, at a side, the lisping boy Fondles the lamb that nightly shares his couch. AN AUTUMN SABBATH WALK. WHEN homeward bands their several ways disperse, Of rest, to wander round from tomb to tomb, And lead him to a sunny seat, and climb But let me quit this melancholy spot, And roam where nature gives a parting smile. As yet the blue-bells linger on the sod That copes the sheepfold ring; and in the woods A second blow of many flowers appears, Flowers faintly tinged, and breathing no perfume. But fruits, not blossoms, form the woodland wreath, That circles Autumn's brow: The ruddy haws Now clothe the half-leaved thorn; the bramble bends Beneath its jetty load; the hazel hangs With auburn bunches, dipping in the stream That sweeps along, and threatens to o'erflow The leaf-strewn banks. Oft, statue-like, I gaze, In vacancy of thought, upon that stream, And chace, with dreaming eye, the eddying foam, Or rowan's clustered branch, or harvest sheaf, Borne rapidly adown the dizzying flood. |