WITH many a weary step, at length I gain
Thy summit, Lansdown; and the cool breeze plays, Gratefully round my brow, as hence the gaze Returns to dwell upon the journeyed plain. 'Twas a long way and tedious! To the Though fair the extended vale, and fair to view The falling leaves of many a faded hue,
That eddy in the wild gust moaning by. Even so it fared with life! in discontent,
Restless through fortune's mingled scenes I went....
Yet wept to think they would return no more!
But cease, fond heart, in such sad thoughts to roam;
For surely thou ere long shalt reach thy home,
And pleasant is the way that lies before.
FAIR is the rising morn, when o'er the sky
The orient sun expands his roseate ray,
And lovely to the bard's enthusiast eye
Fades the meek radiance of departing day;
But fairer is the smile of one we love,
Than all the scenes in nature's ample sway,
And sweeter than the music of the grove,
The voice that bids us welcome. Such delight,
Edith! is mine; escaping to thy sight
From the hard durance of the empty throng.
Too swiftly then towards the silent night,
Ye hours of happiness! ye speed along;
Whilst I, from all the world's cold cares apart,
Pour out the feelings of my burthened heart.
How darkly o'er yon far-off mountain frowns
The gathered tempest! from that lurid cloud
The deep-voiced thunders roll, awful and loud,
Though distant; while upon the misty downs
Fast falls in shadowy streaks the pelting rain.
I never saw so terrible a storm!
Perhaps some way-worn traveller in vain
Wraps his torn raiment round his shivering form,
Cold even as hope within him! I the while
Pause me in sadness, though the sun-beams smile
Cheerily round me. Ah, that thus my lot
Might be with peace and solitude assigned,
Where I might, from some little quiet cot,
Sigh for the crimes and miseries of mankind!
STATELY yon vessel sails adown the tide
To some far-distant land adventurous bound,
The sailors' busy cries, from side to side,
Pealing among the echoing rocks resound;
A patient, thoughtless, much-enduring band,
Joyful they enter on their ocean way,
With shouts exulting leave their native land,
And know no care beyond the present day.
But is there no poor mourner left behind,
Who sorrows for a child or husband there?
Who at the howling of the midnight wind
Will wake and tremble in her boding prayer?
So may her voice be heard, and heaven be kind—
Go gallant ship, and be thy fortune fair!
BEWARE a speedy friend, the Arabian said,
And wisely was it he advised distrust.
The flower that blossoms earliest fades the first.
Look at yon oak that lifts its stately head
And dallies with the autumnal storm, whose rage
Tempests the ocean waves; slowly it rose,
Slowly its strength increased, through many an age,
And timidly did its light leaves unclose,
As doubtful of the spring, their palest green.
They to the summer cautiously expand,
And by the warmer sun and season bland
Matured, their foliage in the grove is seen,
When the bare forest by the wintry blast
Is swept, still lingering on the boughs the last.
A WRINKLED crabbed man they picture thee,
Old winter, with a ragged beard as gray
As the long moss upon the apple tree;
Close muffled up, and on thy dreary way,
Blue lipt, an ice-drop at thy sharp blue nose,
Plodding alone through sleet and drifting snows.
They should have drawn thee by the high-heapt hearth,
Old winter! seated in thy great arm'd chair,
Watching the children at their Christmas mirth,
Or circled by them as their lips declare
Some merry jest or tale of murder dire,
Or troubled spirit that disturbs the night,
Pausing at times to move the languid fire,
Or taste the old October brown and bright.
DURING A TEMPEST.
O GOD! have mercy in this dreadful hour
On the poor mariner!-In comfort here,
Safe sheltered as I am, I almost fear
The blast that rages with resistless power.
What were it now to toss upon the waves,-
The maddened waves,-and know no succour near;
The howling of the storm alone to hear,
And the wild sea that to the tempest raves,
gaze amid the horrors of the night,
And only see the billows' gleaming light;
And in the dread of death to think of her
Who as she listens sleepless to the gale,
Puts up a silent prayer and waxes pale!
O God! have mercy on the mariner.
The three utilities of poetry-the praise of virtue and goodness, the memory of things remarkable, and to invigorate the affections.-Welsh Triad.
ART thou a patriot, traveller ? on this field
Did Falkland fall, the blameless and the brave,
Beneath a tyrant's banners: dost thou boast
Of loyal ardour? Hampden perished here,
The rebel Hampden, at whose glorious name
The heart of every honest Englishman
Beats high with conscious pride. Both uncorrupt,
Friends to their common country both, they fought,
They died in adverse armies. Traveller!
If with thy neighbour thou shouldst not accord,
In charity remember these good men,
And quell each angry and injurious thought.
TOR A CAVERN THAT OVERLOOKS THE RIVER AVON.
ENTER this cavern, stranger! the ascent
Is long and steep and toilsome; here awhile
Thou mayst repose thee from the noontide heat,
O'ercanopied by this arched rock that strikes
A grateful coolness: clasping its rough arms
Round the rude portal, the old ivy hangs
Its dark green branches down. No common spot
Receives thee, for the power who prompts the song
Loves this secluded haunt.
Scarce sends the sound of waters to thine ear;
And yon high-hanging forest to the wind
Varies its many hues. Gaze, stranger, here!
And let thy softened heart intensely feel
How good, how lovely, nature! When from hence
Departing to the city's crowded streets,
Thy sickening eye at every step revolts
From scenes of vice and wretchedness; reflect
That man creates the evil he endures.
FOR A TABLET AT SILBURY-HILL.
THIS mound in some remote and dateless day
Reared o'er a chieftain of the age* of hills,
May here detain thee, traveller! from thy road
Not idly lingering. In his narrow house
Some warrior sleeps below; his gallant deeds
Haply at many a solemn festival
The bard has harped, but perished is the song
Of praise, as o'er these bleak and barren downs
The wind that passes and is heard no more.
Go, traveller, and remember when the pomp
Of earthly glory fades, that one good deed
Unseen, unheard, unnoted by mankind,
Lives in the eternal register of heaven.
FOR A MONUMENT IN THE NEW FOREST.
THIS is the place where William's kingly power
Did from their poor and peaceful homes expel,
Unfriended, desolate, and shelterless,
The habitants of all the fertile tract
Far as these wilds extend. He levelled down
Their little cottages, he bade their fields
*The northern nations distinguished the two periods when the bodies of the dead were consumed by fire, and when they were buried beneath the tumuli so common in this country, by the age of fire and the age of hills.
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