« AnteriorContinuar »
"It was thus, by the glare of false science betray'd
Destruction before me, and sorrow behind.
So breaks on the traveller, faint and astray,
And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb.'
ON VISITING A SCENE IN ARGYLESHIRE.
AT the silence of twilight's comtemplative hour,
On the wind-shaken weeds that embosom the bower,
And lonely the dark raven's sheltering tree;
Yet wandering, I found on my ruinous walk,
Where the flower of my forefathers grew.
Sweet bud of the wilderness! emblem of all
But patience shall never depart!
Tho' the wilds of enchantment, all vermil and bright,
Be hush'd my dark spirit! for wisdom condemns
Be strong as the rock of the ocean that stems
THE EXILE OF ERIN.
THERE came to the beach a poor exile of Erin,
But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion;-
Sad is my fate! (said the heart-broken stranger)—
Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers,
In dreams, I revisit thy sea-beaten shore;
Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood ?—
Ah! my sad soul, long abandon'd by pleasure!
Yet,--all its fond recollections suppressing,
THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT.
THE small-birds rejoice in the green leaves returning,
The hawthorn-trees blow in the dews of the morning,
Can sooth the sad bosom of joyless despair.
The deed that I dar'd, could it merit their malice?
His right are these hills, and his right are these vallies,
Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can find
But 'tis not my sufferings,-thus wretched, forlorn!My brave gallant friends, 'tis your ruin I mourn: Your deeds prov'd so loyal in hot bloody trial!Alas! can I make you no sweeter return!
GRAY'S ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD.
Reprinted according to the original copy.
THE Curfew tolls-the knell of parting day! The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;
Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care;
No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees, the envy'd kiss to share.
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield; Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor;
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, And all that beauty, all that wealth, e'er gave, Await, alike, the inevitable hour:
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Nor you, ye Proud! impute to these the fault, If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where, thro' the long-drawn aisle, and fretted vault,
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
Can storied urn, or animated bust,
Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dustOr Flattery sooth the dull, cold ear of death?
Perhaps, in this neglected spot, is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or wak'd to ecstacy the living lyre.
But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark, unfathom'd caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
Some village-Hampden,that, with dauntless breast, The little tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.