And what if thou, sweet May, hast known Have perished in thy sight; If loves and joys, while up they sprung, However bright and fair. Lo! Streams that April could not check By thee, thee only, could be sent How delicate the leafy veil Through which yon house of God Gleams 'mid the peace of this deep dale By few but shepherds trod ! In thy fresh wreaths, than they for praise Season of fancy and of hope, Permit not for one hour, A blossom from thy crown to drop, Nor add to it a flower! Keep, lovely May, as if by touch Of self-restraining art, This modest charm of not too much, Part seen, imagined part! 1326-1834 XXX COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPT. 3, 1802 EARTH has not anything to show more fair: The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, Never did sun more beautifully steep XXXI THE TROSACHS THERE'S not a nook within this solemn Pass, Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone, Withered at eve. From scenes of art which chase Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass Untouched, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy quest, XXXII SONNET COMPOSED AT NIDPATH CASTLE [The person alluded to was the then Duke of Queensbury. The fact was told me by Walter Scott.] DEGENERATE Douglas! oh, the unworthy Lord Whom mere despite of heart could so far please, And love of havoc, (for with such disease Fame taxes him,) that he could send forth word To level with the dust a noble horde, an ancient dome, and towers like these, Beggared and outraged !-Many hearts deplored The fate of those old Trees; and oft with pain On wrongs, which Nature scarcely seems to heed: For sheltered places, bosoms, nooks, and bays, And the green silent pastures, yet remain. 1803 XXXIII THE VALLEY OF DOVER NOV. 1820 WHERE be the noisy followers of the game Peace We mark majestic herds of cattle, free The Season's harmless pastime. Ruder sound Stirs not; enrapt I gaze with strange delight, That lifts the spirit to a calmer height, XXXIV A PARSONAGE IN OXFORDSHIRE WHERE holy ground begins, unhallowed ends, The turf unites, the pathways intertwine; Garden, and that domain where kindred, friends, With shady night. Soft airs, from shrub and flower, Waft fragrant greetings to each silent grave; And while those lofty poplars gently wave Their tops, between them comes and goes a sky Bright as the glimpses of eternity, To saints accorded in their mortal hour. |