Returning at the pleasant holidays,
I felt from thy dumb welcome. Pensively Sometimes have I remarked thy slow decay, Feeling myself changed too, and musing much On many a sad vicissitude of life!
Ah, poor companion! when thou followedst last Thy master's parting footsteps to the gate Which closed for ever on him, thou didst lose Thy truest friend, and none was left to plead For the old age of brute fidelity!
But fare thee well! Mine is no narrow creed; And He who gave thee being did not frame The mystery of life to be the sport
Of merciless man! There is another world For all that live and move-a better one! Where the proud bipeds, who would fain confine Infinite Goodness to the little bounds
Of their own charity, may envy thee!
ON A LANDSCAPE OF GASPAR POUSSIN.
POUSSIN! how pleasantly thy pictured scenes Beguile the lonely hour! I sit and gaze With lingering eye, till charmed fancy makes The lovely landscape live, and the rapt soul From the foul haunts of herded human-kind Flies far away with spirit speed, and tastes The untainted air, that with the lively hue Of health and happiness illumes the cheek Of mountain liberty. My willing soul, All eager, follows on thy fairy flights, Fancy! best friend; whose blessed witcheries With loveliest prospects cheat the traveller O'er the long wearying desert of the world. Nor dost thou, fancy! with such magic mock My heart, as, demon-born, old Merlin knew, Or Alquif, or Zarzafiel's sister sage, Whose vengeful anguish for so many a year Held in the jacinth sepulchre entranced Lisvart and Perion, pride of chivalry.
Friend of my lonely hours! thou leadest me To such calm joys as nature, wise and good, Proffers in vain to all her wretched sons;
Her wretched sons who pine with want amid The abundant earth, and blindly bow them down Before the Moloch shrines of wealth and power, Authors of evil. Oh, it is most sweet
To medicine with thy wiles the wearied heart, Sick of reality. The little pile
That tops the summit of that craggy hill Shall be my dwelling: craggy is the hill
And steep; yet through yon hazles upward leads The easy path, along whose winding way, Now close embowered, I hear the unseen stream Dash down, anon behold its sparkling foam Gleam through the thicket; and ascending on, Now pause me to survey the goodly vale That opens on my vision. Half-way up, Pleasant it were upon some broad smooth rock To sit and sun myself, and look below,
And watch the goatherd down yon high-banked path Urging his flock grotesque; and bidding now His lean rough dog from some near cliff to drive The straggler; while his barkings loud and quick Amid their trembling bleat arising oft, Fainter and fainter, from the hollow road Send their far echoes, till the waterfall, Hoarse bursting from the caverned cliff beneath, Their dying murmurs drown. A little yet Onward, and I have gained the upmost height. Fair spreads the vale below: I see the stream Stream radiant on beneath the noontide sky. A passing cloud darkens the bordering steep, Where the town-spires behind the castle towers Rise graceful; brown the mountain in its shade, Whose circling grandeur, part by mists concealed, Part with white rocks resplendent in the sun, Should bound mine eyes,-ay, and my wishes too,- For I would have no hope or fear beyond. The empty turmoil of the worthless world, Its vanities and vices, would not vex My quiet heart. The traveller, who beheld The low tower of the little pile, might deem It were the house of God: nor would ne err,
So deeming, for that home would be the home Of peace and love, and they would hallow it To Him. Oh, life of blessedness! to reap The fruit of honourable toil, and bound Our wishes with our wants!
That soothe the solitude of maniac hope, Ye leave her to reality awaked,
Like the poor captive, from some fleeting dream Of friends and liberty and home restored,
Startled and listening, as the midnight storm Beats hard and heavy through his dungeon bars.
MUSINGS ON THE WIG OF A SCARE-CROW.
ALAS for this world's changes and the lot Of sublunary things! yon wig that there Moves with each motion of the inconstant air, Invites my pensive mind to serious thought. Was it for this its curious caul was wrought Close as the tender tendrils of the vine With cluster'd curls? Perhaps the artist's cane Its borrowed beauties for some lady fair Arranged with nicest art and fingers fine; Or for the forehead fram'd of some divine
Its graceful gravity of grizzled grey;
Or whether on some stern schoolmaster's brow Sate its white terrors, who shall answer now? On yonder rag-robed pole for many a day
Have those dishonour'd locks endur'd the rains And winds, and summer sun, and winter snow, Scaring with vain alarms the robber crow, Till of its former form no trace remains, None of its ancient honours! I survey Its alter'd state with moralizing eye, And journey sorrowing on my lonely way, And muse on fortune's mutability.
FAINT gleams the evening radiance through the sky, The sober twilight dimly darkens round; In short quick circles the shrill bat flits by, And the slow vapour curls along the ground.
Now the pleased eye from yon lone cottage sees On the green mead the smoke long-shadowing play; The red-breast on the blossomed spray Warbles wild her latest lay,
And sleeps along the dale the silent breeze. Calm contemplation, 'tis thy favourite hour! Come tranquillizing power!
view thee on the calmy shore
When ocean stills his waves to rest; Or when slow-moving on the serges hoar Meet with deep hollow roar
And whiten o'er his breast;
For lo! the moon with softer radiance gleams, And lovelier heave the billows in her beams.
When the low gales of evening moan along, I love with thee to feel the calm cool breeze, And roam the pathless forest wilds among Listening the mellow murmur of the trees Full-foliaged, as they lift their arms on high And wave their shadowy heads in wildest melody.
Or lead me where amid the tranquil vale The broken stream flows on in silver light, And I will linger where the gale
O'er the bank of violets sighs,
Listening to hear its softened sounds arise; And hearken the dull beetle's drowsy flight:
And watch the horn-eyed snail
Creep o'er his long moon-glittering trail,
And mark where, radiant through the night, [light. Moves in the grass-green hedge the glow-worm's living
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