Tis thine to range in busy quest of prey, A WISH. MINE be a cot beside the hill, A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear; A willowy brook, that turns a mill, With many a fall, shall linger near. The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch Around my ivied porch shall spring The village-church, among the trees, WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT. 1786. WHILE through the broken pane the tempest sighs, Ard my step falters on the faithless floor, Shades of departed joys around me rise, With many a face that smiles on me no more; With many a voice that thrills of transport gave, Now silent as the grass that tufts their grave! AN ITALIAN SONG. DEAR is my little native vale. The ring-dove builds and murmurs there; In orange-groves and myrtle-bowers, The shepherd's horn at break of day, Sung in the silent greenwood shade, AN INSCRIPTION. SHEPHERD, or Huntsman, or worn Mariner, Whate'er thou art, who wouldst allay thy thirst, Drink and be glad. This cistern of white stone, Arch'd, and o'erwrought with many a sacred verse This iron cup chain'd for the general use, And these rude seats of earth within the grove, Were given by FATIMA. Borne hence a bride, "T was here she turn'd from her beloved sire, To see his face no more.' Oh, if thou canst, ("T is not far off) visit his tomb with flowers; And with a drop of this sweet water fill The two small cells scoop'd in the marble there, That birds may come and drink upon his grave, Making it holy! 2 WRITTEN IN THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND BLUE was the loch, the clouds were gone The fairy-isles fled far away; Tarbat, thy shore I climb'd at last, Night fell; and dark and darker grev The shatter'd fortress, whence the Dane All into midnight-shadow sweep, The prow wakes splendor; and the oar, Glad sign, and sure! for now we hail A FAREWELL ONCE more, enchanting maid adieu! I must be gone while yet I may; Oft shall I weep to think of you, But here I will not, cannot stay. The sweet expression of that face, Yet give me, give me, ere I go, -Say, when to kindle soft delight, That hand has chanced with mine to meet, How could its thrilling touch excite A sigh so short, and yet so sweet! O say-but no, it must not be. INSCRIPTION FOR A TEMPLE DEDICATED TO THE GRACES.2 APPROACH with revererce. There are those within Whose dwelling-place is Heaven. Daughters of Jove, From them flow all the decencies of life; Without them nothing pleases, Virtue's self Admired, not loved; and those on whom they smile, Great though they be, and wise, and beautiful, Shine forth with double lustre. 1 A phenomenon described by many navigators. 2 At Woburn-Abbey. TO THE BUTTERFLY. CHILD of the sun! pursue thy rapturous flight, Mingling with her thou lovest in fields of light; And, where the flowers of Paradise unfold, Quaff fragrant nectar from their cups of gold. There shall thy wings, rich as an evening-sky, Expand and shut with silent ecstary! -Yet wert thou once a worm, a thing that crept On the bare earth, then wrought a tomb and slept And such is man; soon from his cell of clay To burst a seraph in the blaze of day! WRITTEN IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. WHOE'ER thou art, approach, and, with a sigh, Oh say, of Him now rests there but a name; Wont, as He was, to breathe ethereal flame? Friend of the Absent, Guardian of the Dead! 4 Who but would here their sacred sorrows shed? (Such as He shed on Nelson's closing grave; How soon to claim the sympathy He gave!) In Him, resentful of another's wrong, The dumb were eloquent, the feeble strong. Truth from his lips a charm celestial drewAh, who so mighty and so gentle too? What though with War the madding nations rung Peace," when He spoke, was ever on his tongue! Amidst the frowns of Power, the tricks of State, Fearless, resolved, and negligently great! In vain malignant vapors gather'd round; He walk'd, erect, on consecrated ground. The clouds, that rise to quench the Orb of day, Reflect its splendor, and dissolve away! 1 After the funeral of the Right Hon. Charles James Fox. 2 Venez voir le peu qui nous reste de tant de grandeur, eto -Bossuet. Oraison funèbre de Louis de Bourbon. 3 Et rien enfin ne manque dans tous ces honneurs, que celui à qui on les rend.-Ibid. 4 Alluding particularly to his speech on moving a new writ for the borough of Tavistock, March 16, 1802. 5 See that admirable delineation of his character by Sir James Mackintosh, which first appeared in the Bombay Courier January 17, 1807. When in retreat He laid his thunder by, For letter'd ease and calm Philosophy, Blest were his hours within the silent grove, Where still his godlike Spirit deigns to rove; Blest by the orphan's smile, the widow's prayer, For many a deed, long done in secret there. There shone his lamp on Homer's hallow'd page; There, listening, sate the hero and the sage; And they, by virtue and by blood allied, THE END OF ROGERS'S WORKS. |