And sweet leaved myrtle, aromatic thyme, The prickly juniper, and the green leaf
Which feeds the spinning worm; while glowing bright
Beneath the various foliage, wildly spreads The arbutus, and rears his scarlet fruit Luxuriant, mantling o'er the craggy steeps; And thy own native laurel crowns the scene. Hail to thy savage forests awful, deep; Thy tangled thickets, and thy crowded woods, The haunt of herds untamed; which sullen bound From rock to rock with fierce unsocial air, And wilder gaze, as conscious of the power That loves to reign amid the lonely scenes Of unquell'd nature: precipices huge,
And tumbling torrents, trackless deserts, plains Fenced in with guardian rocks,whose quarries teem With shining steel, that to the cultured fields And sunny hills, which wave with bearded grain, Defends their homely produce. Liberty, The mountain goddess, loves to range at large Amid such scenes, and on the iron soil
Prints her majestic step. For these she scorns The green enamel'd vales, the velvet lap Of smooth savannahs, where the pillow'd head Of luxury reposes; balmy gales
[first And bowers that breathe of bliss. For these, when This isle emerging like a beauteous gem From the dark bosom of the Tyrrhene main Rear'd its fair front, she mark'd it for her own, And with her spirit warm'd.
AN AFRICAN NIGHT SCENE.
AMID the nightly prowlers of thy wilds, Britain! man walks serene: in all their tribes None found to bid him tremble, none to aim Talon or fang against their rightful lord. O, wretched he whom Senegambian shades Inclose at eve! He, while a vault of flame Smote on his brow, and scorch'd his gasping throat, Day after day through sandy oceans toil'd, Where deathlike silence brooded o'er the waste, And boundless space seem'd but a larger grave: No sign that ever foot the burning earth Had track'd, or life inhaled the vapoury fire, Save when some camel's bleaching ribs he pass'd, Or corse of long-lost pilgrim parch'd to stone. If to a bordering forest, when the sun
Kindles the west, his weary course draw nigh; Soon as the orb its last red crescent dips, At once the lion's desert-shaking roar, The gaunt hyena's shriek, the panther's growl, And yells of every tone that breathes dismay, Strain'd from unnumber'd throats athirst for blood, Join dissonant: with serpent hiss the gloom Quivers: the herded elephants advance [woods With thundering shock, and through opposing Crush their wide way. Now the brief twilight In agony he shudders; through the dusk [fades: Sees fiery eyeballs glare, and hears the rout Of countless antelopes, than tropic storms
More fleet, rush headlong from the gripe of death; Hears famish'd monsters panting in the chase, And cries and groans proclaim the arrested flight
Of victim after victim. Stretch'd on earth, Each limb with icy dread convulsed, he lies, Lies powerless, hopeless: and with vain regret Sighs for the horrors of the fervid noon,
Where deathlike silence brooded o'er the wild, 'And boundless space seem'd but a larger grave; Where late the camel's bleaching ribs he pass'd, And corse of long-lost pilgrim parch'd to stone. O wretch, whom noon shall never light again!
INSCRIPTION FOR A FOUNTAIN ON A HEATH.
THIS Sycamore, oft musical with bees,—
Such tents the patriarchs loved! O, long unharmed May all its aged boughs o'ercanopy
The small round basin, which this jutting stone Keeps pure from falling leaves! Long may the Quietly as a sleeping infant's breath, Send up cold waters to the traveller
With soft and even pulse! Nor ever cease Yon tiny cone of sand its soundless dance, Which at the bottom, like a fairy's page, As merry and no taller, dances still,
Nor wrinkles the smooth surface of the fount. Here twilight is and coolness: here is moss, A soft seat, and a deep and ample shade. Thou mayst toil far and find no second tree. Drink, pilgrim, here! Here rest! and if thy heart Be innocent, here too shalt thou refresh Thy spirit, listening to some gentle sound, Or passing gale, or hum of murmuring bees!
IN A DRAWING OF A LANDSCAPE.
AFTER a lonely course through yon deep woods, And the green quietness of distant vales, Now, gentle river, to the haunts of men The rude stone arches stretching o'er thy flood Note thine approach; and as with silent lapse Thou glidest under them, the staid old cow And lumpish horse above are driven afield By time-worn herdsman. Then, in swifter course, Thy lately tranquil streams, jocund and loud, Rush down the Wier. Again,soon calm'd, they flow, And the young day shines on their glassy train. So dost thou wander by the pleasant base Of a clean village, climbing up the steep And shrubby knoll; while, bosom❜d in thick trees, The church the hill top crowns. The day is young; Closed yonder cottage door; the din and hum Of clamorous infants and laborious man Unheard as yet, though from the chimney top The gray smoke, rising to the churchyard trees, Curls its light vapour round the boughs, and gives Promise of morning meal. Behold the cart That late, well loaded, on thy pebbled bank Had creak'd and crept, at the yet silent mill Stopp'd, those full stores resigning, which shall soon Employ thy loltering waters, and awake The clattering hubbub of the busy scene. Adown those rocky stairs, which to thy brink Lead from the hamlet cots, erewhile shall step, With cleanly pail light rocking on her head, The rustic maid, new-risen; for she has seen,
Through lattice curtain'd by the briar rose, Her cow slow pacing up thy left hand bank, Intelligent of hour, the burden rich
Duteous to yield; and, yet more welcome, sees, Not far behind, the youth beloved, from copsed And hay-stack'd tenement down in the vale. Yes! and thou soon shalt hear the tender vows Of true love breathed, and breathed in sweeter sound Than song of linnet, or the quiet tune [woods. Of thine own stream when hush'd are all the Mark that closed door, for it shall ope ere long, It is the good dame's school, and in shall creep, Like bees in spring time to their dusky hive, The little troop, and in resembling hum Mutter the morning task; but when yon tower Shall tell, far heard, the welcome tale of noon, Some striding and some tumbling o'er the sill, The infant tribe released, with clamour loud Shall totter down, and on thy shelving bank [hurl Shout, laugh, and squabble, strenuous while they The frequent stone, dividing thy smooth waves. But, on the morrow, Sabbath bells shall ring, And 'twixt the matin and the vesper hour, And at the rosy setting of the sun, That little lawless multitude, which late, Noisy and wild, had clamour'd on thy brink, In Sunday vestment, and with sober gait Walk by their parents' side; while from each hand The varied posies, dappled pinks, and rose, Woodbine, and fragrant southernwood, and thyme Scent the wide air. Leisure and quietness, Apparel clean, and vacant looks, all speak The sacred day of rest; and thou shalt bear, From that wood-mantled tower, the holy chimes,
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