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Unchanging still from year to year,
With undiminished rays,
The dawn of lengthening days.
Thy self-renewing race
In this neglected place.
From scythe and plough secure;
While earth and skies endure !
Fresh in perennial prime,
The woes and waste of time.
This fading eye and withering mien
Since more and more estranged,
Through Folly's wilds I ranged. Then fields and woods I proudly spurned ; From Nature's maiden love I turned,
And wooed the enchantress Art; Yet while for her my fancy burned
Cold was my wretched heart, —
My peace untimely slain,
To fields and woods again. 'T was spring: my former haunts I found, My favourite flowers adorned the ground,
My darling minstrels played ; The mountains were with sunset crowned, The valleys dun with shade.
With lorn delight the scene I viewed :
My infant hopes and fears
Of retrospective years.
And still, in Memory's twilight bowers,
With mellowing tints, portray
For ever fallen away.
Till youth's delirious dream is o'er,
The future good to find ;
For bliss we look behind.
THE SWISS COWHERD'S SONG
IN A FOREIGN LAND.
Oh, when shall I visit the land of my birth,
Our forests, our fountains,
Our hamlets, our mountains, With the pride of our mountains, the maid I adore ! Oh, when shall I dance on the daisy-white mead, In the shade of an elm, to the sound of the reed? When shall I return to that lowly retreat, Where all my fond objects of tenderness meet,The lambs and the heifers that follow my call,
My father, my mother,
My sister, my brother,
(Imitated from Metastasio.)
THE tall oak, towering to the skies,
THIS shadow on the Dial's face,
That steals from day to day, With slow, unseen, unceasing pace,
Moments, and months, and years away, — This shadow, which in every clime,
Since light and motion first began,
What is it?- Mortal Man !
Yet, in its calm career,
And still, through each succeeding year,
This silent phantom, day by day, With slow, unseen, unceasing pace,
Steal moments, months, and years away ; From hoary rock and aged tree,
From proud Palmyra's mouldering walls, From Teneriffe, towering o'er the sea, From every blade of grass it falls ;
For still, where'er a shadow sweeps,
The scythe of Time destroys,
O’er evanescent joys ;
His scythe, a trophy, o'er my tomb,
Each frail beholder's doom.
Though Time's triumphant flight be shown,
Points from the churchyard stone.
ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND ON THE BIRTH OF HIS
Two Roses, on one slender spray,
In sweet communion grew,
And drank the evening dew;
They opened into bloom,
Their beauty and perfume ;
They faded in the wind,
The loveliest of their kind,