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Is all the proud and mighty have
Between the cradle and the grave,
And, see the rivers, how they run,
Through woods and meads, in shade and sun,
Sometimes swift, and sometimes Now,
Wave succeeding wave they go,
A various journey to the deep,
Like human life, to endless sleep!
Thus is Nature's verture wrought,
To instruct our wand'ring thought;
Thas the dresses green and gay,
To disperse our cares away.
Ever charming, ever new,
When will the landscape tire the view!
The fountain's fall, the river's flow,
The woody vallies, warm and low;
The windy summit wild and high,
Roughly rushing on the sky!
The pleasant seat, the ruin'd tow's,
The naked rock, the shady bow'r ;
The town and village, dome and farm ;
Each give each a double charm,
As pearls upon an Ethiop's arm.
See on the mountain's southern side,
Where the prospect opens wide,
Where the ev'ning gilds the tide, '
How close and small the hedges lie!
What streaks of meadows cross the eye!
A step, methinks, may pass the stream,
So little distant dangers seem :
So we mistake the future's face,
Ey'd through Hope's deluding glass.
As con immits, fort and fair,
Cad in erlcars of the air,
Which, to those who journey near,
Barren, brown, and rough appear:
St il we tread the fame coarte way ;
The present's füill a clondy day.
O may I w.th mrlelf agree,
And never coget what I fee!
Content me with an hamble fhade,
My pations tam'd; ny withes laid;
For while our withes wildly roll,
We banith quiet from the soul :
'Tis thus the busy beat the air,
And mifers gather wealth and care.
Now, e'en now, my jops run high,
As on the mountain-turf I lie;
While the wantoa zephyr fings,
And in the vale perfumes his wicgs;
While the waters murmur deep;
While the hepherd charms his sheep;
While the birds unbounded fy,
And with music fill the íky,
Now, e'en now, my joys run high.
Be full, ye courts! be great who will;
Search for Peace with all your skill;
Open wide the lofty door,
Seek her on the marble floor :
In vain ye search, she is not there;
In vain ye search the domes of Care !
Grass and flowers Quiet treads,
On the meads and mountain-heads,
Along with Pleasure close ally'd,
Ever by each other's fide;
And often, by the murm’ring rill,
Hears the thrush while all is still,
Within the groves of Grongar Hill.
ON A PILE OF RUINS.
IN the full prospect yonder hill commands,
O'er forest, fields, and vernal-coated plains,
The veftige of an ancient Abbey stands,
Close by a ruin's Castle's rude remains.
Half bury'd there lie many a broken bust,
And obelisk, and urn, o'erthrown by Time ;
And many a cherub there descends in dust
From the rent roof and portico sublime.
The rivulets, oft' frighted at the found
Of fragments tumbling from the tow'rs on high,
Plunge to their fource in secret caves profound,
Leaving their banks and pebbly bottoms dry.
Where rev’rend shrines in Gothic grandeur stood,
The nettle or the noxious nightshade spreads ;
And alhlings, wafted from the neighb'ring wood,
Thro' the worn turrets wave their trembling heads.
There Contemplation, to the crowd unknown, Her attitude compos’d, and afpe&t sweet,
Sits músing on a monumental stone,
And points to the memento at her feet.
Soon as sage Ev'ning check'd Day's funny pride,
I left the mantling ihade in moral mood,
And, seated by the maid's fequefter'd fide,
Zoutn doring books, as the mould'ring monuments I view’d.
Inexorably calm, with filent pace,
Here time has pass'd-What ruin marks his way!
This Pile, now crumbling o'er its hallow'd base,
Turn'd not his step, nor could his course delay.
Religion rais’d her supplicating eyes
In vain, and Melody her song sublime ;
In vain Philosophy, with maxims wise,
Would touch the cold unfeeling heart of Time.
Yet the hoar tyrant, tho' not mov’d to spare,
Relented when he struck its finish'd pride;
And partly the rude ravage to repair,
The tottring towr's with twisted ivy ty'd.
How folemn is the cell, o'ergrown with moss,
That terminates the view yon' cloister'd way!
In the crush'd wall a time-corroded cross,
Religion like, ftands mould’ring in decay.
Where the mild sun through saint-encypher'd glafs,
Illum'd with mellow light you dusky aisle,
Many rapt hours might Meditation pass,
Slow moving 'twixt the pillars of the Pile.
And Piety, with myftic-meaning beads,
Bowing to faints on ev'ry fide inurnd,
Trod oft' the solitary path that leads
Where now the sacred altar lies o’erturn'd!
Thro’the grey grove, between those with'ring trees,
'Mongst a rude group of monuments, appears
A marble-imag'd matron on her knees,
Half-wasted, like a Niobe, in tears :
Low level'd in the dust her darling's laid !
Death pity'd nor the pride of youthful bloom;
Nor could maternal piety disfuade
Or soften the fell tyrant of the tomb.
The relics of a mitred saint may rest
Where mould'ring in the niche his ftatue Atands,
Now nameless as the crowd that kiss'd his velt,
And cray'd the benediction of his hands.
Near the brown arch, redoubling yonder gloom,
The bones of an illustrious chieftain lie;
As trac'd among the fragments of his tomb,
The trophies of a broken Fame imply.
Ab! what avails that o'er the vailal-plain
His rights and rich demesnes extended wide ?
That Honour and her knights compos'd his train,
And Chivalry stood marshall'd by his fide ?
Tho' to the clouds his castle seem'd to climb,
And frown'd defiance on the defp'rate foe;
Tho' deem'd invincible, the conq'ror Time
Levellid the fabric as the founder low.
Where the light lyre gave many a soft'ning sound,
Ravens and rooks, the birds of Discord, dwell;
And where Society fat sweetly crown'd
Eternal Solitude has fix'd her cell.
The lizard and the lazy lurking bat Inhabit now, perhaps, the painted room,