" HOURS OF IDLENESS. The aid which once improved their light, And bade them burn with fiercer glow, Now quenches all their sparks in night; Thus has it been with passion's fires, As many a boy and girl remembers, While all the force of love expires, 367 Extinguish'd with the dying embers. Has thrice perform'd her stated round, And chased away the gloom profound, Above the dear-loved peaceful seat, ΤΟ OH! had my fate been join'd with thine, For then my peace had not been broken. To thee, the wise and old reproving; They know my sins, but do not know "Twas thine to break the bonds of loving. For once my soul, like thine, was pure, And all its rising fires could smother; But now thy vows no more endure, Bestow'd by thee upon another. Perhaps his peace I could destroy, And spoil the blisses that await him; Yet let my rival smile in joy, For thy dear sake I cannot hate him. Ah! since thy angel form is gone, My heart no more can rest with any; But what it sought in thee alone, Attempts, alas! to find in many. HOURS OF IDLENESS. Then fare thee well, deceitful maid, But pride may teach me to forget thee. Yet all this giddy waste of years, This tiresome round of palling pleasures; These varied loves, these matron's fears, These thoughtless strains to passion's measures; If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd:- Yes, once the rural scene was sweet, For Nature seem'd to smile before thee; And once my breast abhorr'd deceit, For then it beat but to adore thee. 369 But now I seek for other joys, To think, would drive my soul to madness; Yet, even in these a thought will steal, STANZAS. I WOULD I were a careless child, Or bounding o'er the dark blue wave; The cumbrous pomp of Saxon* pride Take back this name of splendid sound! I hate the slaves that cringe around: Place me along the rocks I love, Which sound to ocean's wildest roar, I ask but this-again to rove Through scenes my youth hath known before. Few are my years, and yet I feel The world was ne'er design'd for me; The hour when man must cease to be? I loved-but those I loved are gone; When all its former hopes are dead! Dispel awhile the sense of ill, Whom rank or chance, whom wealth or power, * Sassenage, or Saxon, a Gaelic word, signifying either Lowland or English. Give me again a faithful few, Where boist❜rous joy is but a name. My hope, my comforter, my all! How cold must be my bosom now, When e'en thy smiles begin to pall. This busy scene of splendid woe, Which virtue knows, or seems to know. 'Fain would I fly the haunts of men,— I seek to shun, not hate, mankind; Whose gloom may suit a darken'd mind; LINES, WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM, IN THE CHURCH-YARD OF HARROW ON THE HILL, SEPTEMBER 2, 1807. SPOT of my youth! whose hoary branches sigh, Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky, Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod, With those, I loved, thy soft and verdant sod; With those who, scatter'd far, perchance deplore, Like me, the happy scenes they knew before; Oh! as I trace again thy winding hill, Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still. *Psalm lv. ver. 6. And I said, Oh! that I had wings like a dove, then would I fly away, and be at rest.' This verse also constitutes a part of the most beautiful anthem in our language. |