The lily of the vale, of flow'rs the queen,
Puts on the robe she neither sew'd nor spun:
The birds on ground, or on the brauches green,
Hop to and fro, and glitter in the sun.
Soon as o'er eastern hills the morning peers,
From her low nest the tufted lark upsprings;
And, cheerful singing, up the air she steers;
Still high she mounts, still loud and sweet she
sings.
On the green furze, cloth'd o'er with golden blooms,
That fill the air with fragrance all around,
The linnet sits, and tricks his glossy plumes,
While o'er the wild his broken notes resound.
While the sun journeys down the western sky,
Along the greensward, mark'd with Roman mound,
Beneath the blithesome shepherd's watchful eye,
The cheerful lambkins dance and frisk around.
Now is the time for those who wisdom love,
Who love to walk in virtue's flow'ry road,
Along the lovely paths of spring to rove
And follow nature up to nature's God.
Thus Zoroaster studied nature's laws;
Thus Socrates, the wisest of mankind ; Thus heaven-taught Plato trac'd the Almighty cause, And left the wond'ring multitude behind.
Thus Ashly gather'd academic bays;
Thus gentle Thomson, as the seasons roll, Taught them to sing the great Creator's praise, And bear their poet's name from pole to pole.
Thus have I walk'd along the dewy lawn;
My frequent foot the blooming wild hath worn Before the lark I've sung the beauteous dawn,
And gather'd health from all the gales of morn..
And, e'en when winter chill'd the aged year,
I wander'd lonely o'er the hoary plain;
Though frosty Boreas warn'd me to forbear,
Boreas, with all his tempests warn'd in vain.
Then sleep my nights, and quiet bless'd my days;
I fear'd no loss, my mind was all my store:
No anxious wishes e'er disturb'd my ease;
Heav'n gave content and health,-I ask'd no more.
Now spring returns; but not to me returns
The vernal joy my better years have known ;
Dim in my breast life's dying taper burns,
And all the joys of life with health are flown.
Starting and shiv'ring in th' inconstant wind,
Meagre and pale, the ghost of what I was,
Beneath some blasted tree I lie reclin'd,
And count the silent moments as they pass;
The winged moments, whose unstaying speed
No art can stop, or in their conrse arrest;
Whose flight shall shortly count me with the dead,
And lay me down in peace with those that rest.
Oft morning dreams presage approaching fate;
And morning dreams, as poets tell, are true;
Led by pale ghosts, I enter death's dark gate,
And bid the realms of life and light adieu.
I hear the helpless wail, the shriek of woe;
I see the muddy wave, the dreary shore;
The sluggish streams that slowly creep below,
Which mortals visit, and return no more.
Farewell, ye blooming fields! ye cheerful plains!
Enough for me the church-yard's lonely mound,
Where melancholy with still silence reigns,
And the rank grass waves o'er the cheerless ground.
There let me wander at the close of eve,
When sleep sits dewy on the labourer's eyes; The world and all its busy follies leave,
And talk with wisdom where my Daphuis lies.
There let me sleep forgotten in the clay,
When death shall shut these weary aching eyes;
Rest in the hopes of an eternal day,
"Till the long night is gone, and the last morn arise.
Written on the Plains of Fontenoy.
CHILL blows the blast, and twilight's dewy hand
Draws in the west her dusky veil away;
A deeper shadow steals along the land,
And nature muses at the death of day.
Near this bleak waste no friendly mansion rears
Its walls, where mirth and social joys resound;
But each sad object melts the soul to tears,
While horror treads the sacred bones around.
As thus alone and comfortless I roam,
Wet with the drizzling show'r, I sigh sincere;
I cast a fond look tow'rds my native home,
And think what valiant Britons perish'd here.
Yes, the time was, nor very far the date,
When carnage here her crimson toil began;
When nations' standards wav'd in threat'ning state,
And man, the murd'rer, met the murd'rer, man.
For war is murder, tho' the voice of kings
Has styl'd it justice, styl'd it glory too;
Yet, from worse motives fierce ambition springs,
And there fix'd prejudice is all we view!
But sure 'tis Heav'n's immutable decree,
For thousands ev'ry age in fight to fall;
Some nat❜ral cause prevails we cannot see,
And that is fate which we ambition call.
Olet th' aspiring warrior think with grief,
That as produc'd by chymic art refin'd;
So glitt'ring conquest from the laurel-leaf
Extracts a gen'ral poison for mankind.
Here let me wander at the midnight hour,
These morbid rains, these gelid gales to meet;
And mourn, like me, the ravages of pow'r!
And feel, like me, that vict'ry is defeat!
Nor deem, ye vain! that e'er I mean to swell
My feeble verse with many a sounding name;
Of such the mercenary bard may tell,
And call such dreary desolation, fame.
The genuine muse removes the thin disguise
That cheats the world, whene'er she deigns to sing; And full as meritorious, to her eyes,
Seems the poor soldier as the mighty king.
Yet much my beating breast respects the brave;
Too well I love them not to mourn their fate:
Why should they seek for greatness in the grave?
Their hearts are noble, and in life they're great.
Nor think 'tis but in war the brave excel-
To valour ev'ry virtue is ally'd ;
Here faithful friendship 'mid the battle fell,
And love, true love, in bitter anguish dy'd.
Alike I shun in labour'd strains to show,
How Britain more than triumph'd, tho' she fled: Where Louis stood; where stalk'd the column slow: I turn from these and dwell upon the dead.
Alas! the solemn slaughter I retrace,
That checks life's current circling thro' my veins, Bath'd in moist sorrow many a beauteous face, And gave a grief, perhaps, that still remains.
I can no more-an agony too keen
Absorbs my senses, and my mind subdues: Hard were that heart which here could beat serene, Or the just tribute of a pang refuse.
But lo! thro' yonder op'ning cloud afar
Shoots the bright planet's sanguinary ray,
That bears thy name, fictitious lord of war!
And with red lustre guides my lonely way.
Then, Fontenoy, farewell! yet much I fear
(Wherever chance my course compels) to find
Discord and blood-the thrilling sounds I hear;
"The noise of battle hurtles in the wind."
From barb'rous Turkey to Britannia's shore
Opposing int'rests into rage increase;
Destruction rears her sceptre, tumults roar,
Ah! where shall helpless man repose in peace?
Written in a Country Church Yard,
THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimm'ring landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his drony flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds.
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r,
The moping owl does to the moon complain,
Of such as wand'ring near the secret bow'r,
Molest her ancient, solitary reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
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