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Anon in view a portal's blazon'd arch

Arose; the trumpet bids the valves unfold,
And forth an host of little warriors march,
Grasping the diamond lance, and targe of gold.
Their look was gentle, their demeanor bold,
And green their helms, and green their silk attire;
And here and there, right venerably old,

The long-rob'd minstrels wake the warbling wire, And some with mellow breath the martial pipe inspire.

With merriment, and song, and timbrels clear,
A troop of dames from myrtle bowers advance;
The little warriors doff the targe and spear,
And loud enlivening strains provoke the dance.
They meet, they dart away, they wheel askance;
To right, to left, they thrid the flying maze;

Now bound aloft with vigorous spring, then glance
Rapid along with many-colour'd rays

Of tapers, gems, and gold, the echoing forests blaze.

The dream is fled. Proud harbinger of day, Who scard'st the vision with thy clarion shrill, Fell chanticleer! who oft has reft away My fancied good, and brought substantial ill! O to thy cursed scream, discordant still, Let Harmony aye shut her gentle ear: Thy boastful mirth let jealous rivals spill, Insult thy crest, and glossy pinions tear, And ever in thy dreams the ruthless fox appear.

Forbear, my Muse. Let love attune thy line. Revoke the spell. Thine Edwin frets not so. For how should he at wicked chance repine, Who feels from every change amusement flow? Even now his eyes with smiles of rapture glow, As on he wanders thro' the scenes of morn, Where the fresh flowers in living lustre blow, Where thousand pearls the dewy lawns adorn, A thousand notes of joy in every breeze are borne.

But who the melodies of morn can tell? The wild brook babbling down the mountain side; The lowing herd; the sheepfold's simple bell; The pipe of early shepherd dim descried In the lone valley; echoing far and wide The clamorous horn along the cliffs above; The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide; The hum of bees, and linnet's lay of love, And the full choir that wakes the universal grove.

The cottage curs at early pilgrim bark;

Crown'd with her pail the tripping milk-maid sings; The whistling ploughman stalks afield; and hark! Down the rough slope the ponderous waggon rings; Thro' rustling corn the hare astonish'd springs; Slow tolls the village-clock the drowsy hour; The partridge bursts away on whirring wings; Deep mourns the turtle in sequester'd bower, And shrill lark carols clear from her aërial tour.

O Nature, how in every charm supreme!
Whose votaries feast on raptures ever new!
O for the voice and fire of seraphim,

To sing thy glories with devotion due!
Blest be the day I 'scaped the wrangling crew,
From Pyrrho's maze, and Epicurus' sty;
And held high converse with the godlike few,
Who to th' enraptur'd heart, and ear, and eye,
Teach beauty, virtue, truth, and love, and melody.

Hence ye, who snare and stupify the mind, Sophists! of beauty, virtue, joy, the bane! Greedy and fell, tho' impotent and blind, Who spread your filthy nets in Truth's fair fane, And ever ply your venom'd fangs amain! Hence to dark Error's den, whose rankling slime First gave you form! hence! lest the Muse should deign (Tho' loth on theme so mean to waste a rhyme,) With vengeance to pursue your sacrilegious crime.

But hail, ye mighty masters of the lay,

Nature's true sons, the friends of man and truth!
Whose song, sublimely sweet, serenely gay,
Amus'd my childhood, and inform'd my youth.
O let your spirit still my bosom sooth,

Inspire my dreams, and my wild wanderings guide!
Your voice each rugged path of life can smooth;
For well I know, wherever ye reside,

There harmony, and peace, and innocence, abide.

Ah me! abandon'd on the lonesome plain,
As yet poor Edwin never knew your lore,
Save when against the winter's drenching rain,
And driving snow, the cottage shut the door.
Then as instructed by tradition hoar,
Her legends when the Beldam 'gan impart,
Or chant the old heroic ditty o'er,

Wonder and joy ran thrilling to his heart;
Much he the tale admir'd, but more the tuneful art.

Various and strange was the long-winded tale;
And halls, and knights, and feats of arms, display'd;
Or merry swains, who quaff the nut-brown ale,
And sing, enamour'd, of the nut-brown maid;
The moon-light revel of the fairy glade;
Or hags, that suckle an infernal brood,
And ply in caves the unutterable trade,

'Midst fiends and spectres, quench the moon in blood,

Yell in the midnight storm, or ride the infuriate flood.

But when to horror his amazement rose,

A gentler strain the Beldham would rehearse,
A tale of rural life, a tale of woes,

The orphan babes, and guardian uncle fierce.

* Mackbeth. How now, ye secret, black, and midnight hags,

What is't you do?

Witches. A deed without a name.

O cruel! will no pang of pity pierce

That heart by lust of lucre sear'd to stone! For sure, if aught of virtue last, or verse, To latest times shall tender souls bemoan Those helpless orphan-babes by thy fell arts undone.

Behold, with berries smear'd, with brambles torn, The babes now famish'd lay them down to die, 'Midst the wild howl of darksome woods forlorn, Folded in one another's arms they lie;

Nor friend, nor stranger, hears their dying cry; "For from the town the man returns no more." But thou, who Heaven's just vengeance dar'st defy, This deed with fruitless tears shall soon deplore, When Death lays waste thy house, and flames consume thy store:

A stifled smile of stern vindictive joy

Brighten'd one moment Edwin's starting tear."But why should gold man's feeble mind decoy, "And innocence thus die by doom severe ?" O Edwin! while thy heart is yet sincere, Th' assaults of discontent and doubt repel : Dark even at noontide is our mortal sphere; But let us hope-to doubt, is to rebel,Let us exult in hope, that all shall yet be well.

Nor be thy generous indignation check'd,
Nor check'd the tender tear to Misery given;
From Guilt's contagious power shall that protect,
This soften and refine the soul for Heaven.
But dreadful is their doom, whom doubt has driven
To censure Fate, and pious Hope forego:
Like yonder blasted boughs by lightning riven,
Perfection, beauty, life, they never know,

But frown on all that pass, a monument of woe.

See the fine old ballad, called, The Children in the Wood.

B

Shall he, whose birth, maturity, and age,
Scarce fill the circle of one summer-day,
Shall the poor gnat with discontent and rage
Exclaim, that Nature hastens to decay,
If but a cloud obstruct the solar ray,
If but a momentary shower descend!

Or shall frail man Heaven's dread decree gainsay,
Which bade the series of events extend
Wide thro' unnumber'd worlds, and ages without end!

One part, one little part, we dimly scan
Thro' the dark medium of life's feverish dream,
Yet dare arraign the whole stupendous plan,
If but that little part incongruous seem.
Nor is that part perhaps what mortals deem;
Oft from apparent ill our blessings rise.
O then renounce that impious self-esteem,
That aims to trace the secrets of the skies:
For thou art but of dust; be humble, and be wise.

Thus Heaven enlarg'd his soul in riper years;
For Nature gave him strength and fire, to soar
On Fancy's wing above this vale of tears;
Where dark cold-hearted sceptics, creeping, pore
Thro' microscope of metaphysic lore;
And much they grope for truth, but never hit.
For why? their powers, inadequate before,
This art preposterous renders more unfit;

[wit.

Yet deem they darkness light, and their vain blunders

Nor was this ancient dame a foe to mirth,
Her ballad, jest, and riddle's quaint device

Oft cheer'd the shepherds round their social hearth;
Whom levity or spleen could ne'er entice
To purchase chat or laughter, at the price
Of decency. Nor let it faith exceed,
That Nature forms a rustic taste so nice.
Ah! had they been of court or city breed,
Such delicacy were right marvellous indeed.

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