The bare bleak mountain speckled thin with sheep;
Gray clouds that shadowing spot the sunny fields;
And river, now with bushy rocks o'erbrow'd,
Now winding bright and full with naked banks;
And seats and lawns, the abbey and the wood,
And cots and hamlets and faint city-spire:
The channel there, the islands and white sails,
Dim coasts and cloudlike hills and shoreless ocean;
It seems like omnipresence!, God, methought,
Had built him there a temple: The whole world
Seem'd imaged in its vast circumference.
No wish profaned my overwhelmed heart.
Bless'd hour! It was a luxury to be!
O quiet dell! dear cot! and mount sublime! I was constrain'd to quit you. Was it right, While my unnumber'd brethren toil'd and bled, That I should dream away the' intrusted hours On rose-leaf beds, pampering the coward heart With feelings all too delicate for use?
Sweet is the tear that from some Howard's eye
Drops on the cheek of one he lifts from earth:
And he that works me good with unmoved face
Does it but half; he chills me while he aids;
My benefactor, not my brother man!
Yet even this, this cold beneficence
Seizes my praise, when I reflect on those,
The sluggard Pity's vision-weaving tribe!
Who sigh for wretchedness, yet shun the wretched,
Nursing in some delicious solitude
Their slothful loves and dainty sympathies!
I therefore go, and join head, heart, and hand,
Active and firm, to fight the bloodless fight
Of Science, Freedom, and the Truth in Christ.
Yet oft when after honourable toil
Rests the tired mind and waking loves to dream,
My spirit shall revisit thee, dear cot!
Thy jasmine and thy window-peeping rose,
And myrtles fearless of the mild sea-air.
And I shall sigh fond wishes-sweet abode!
Ah!-had none greater! and that all had such!
It might be so-but the time is not yet.
Speed it, O Father! Let thy kingdom come!
SHEPHERD'S COTTAGE GARDEN.
WHERE Woods of ash and beech And partial copses fringe the green hill foot, The upland shepherd rears his modest home. There wanders by a little nameless stream That from the hill wells forth, bright now and clear, Or after rain with chalky mixture gray, But still refreshing in its shallow course The cottage garden; most for use design'd, Yet not of beauty destitute. The vine Mantles the little casement, yet the briar Drops fragrant dew among the July flowers; And pansies ray'd, and freak'd and mottled pinks Grow among balm and rosemary and rue:
There honeysuckles flaunt and roses blow
Almost uncultured: Some with dark green leaves
Contrast their flowers of pure unsullied white;
Others, like velvet robes of regal state
Of richest crimson, while in thorny moss
Enshrined and cradled, the most lovely wear
The hues of youthful beauty's glowing cheek.
With fond regret I recollect e'en now,
In spring and summer, what delight I felt
Among these cottage gardens, and how much
Such artless nosegays, knotted with a rush
By village housewife or her ruddy maid,
Were welcome to me; soon and simply pleased.
RETURNING FROM AN EVENING VISIT.
Now let me mark civility's arrears
Where'er recorded, and repay at eve
The long due visit to the distant friend,
That, by the full orb lighted, I may march
Mute and contemplative at leisure home.
Mild be the temperature of heaven, serene
The silent atmosphere. Let fancy deem
She feels the moon-beam warm. Be nothing heard,
Save the far distant murmur of the deep-
Or the near grasshopper's incessant note
That snug beneath the wall in comfort sits,
And chirping imitates the silvery chink
Of wages told into the ploughman's palm—
Or gentle curlew, bidding kind good night
To the spent villager, or e'er his hand
The cottage taper quench-or grazing ox
His dewy supper from the savoury herb
Audibly gathering-or cheerful hind
From the loved harvest feast returning home,
Whistling at intervals some rustic air,
Or at due distance chanting in the vale
Exhilarated song. Such rural sounds,
If haply noticed by the musing mind,
Sweet interruption yield, and thrice improve
The solemn luxury of idle thought.
Oft at yon huddled town that guards remote
The sounding ship yard and contiguous port,
By sweet civility detain'd, the bridge,
At such late hour returning, let me pass;
What time aloft the moon, no more rotund,
Shines gibbous o'er the pure and still expanse
Of tide-uplifted Ouse, and lends to Night
An ample mirror, where her sober eye
Her twinkling jewelry and face serene,
Thrice placid and thrice beauteous, may behold.
DOMESTIC COMFORT ON A STORMY
PLEASANT the hearth and converse snug within,
While the nocturnal tempest raves without,
For entrance buffeting the sash in vain; [eaves
And while the sullen shower from the drench'd
Drips fast, and on the flooded pavement spanks.
In such a night, who feels not Heaven his friend
To bless him with a warm secure abode
Impervious to the blast and chilly shower?
Who feels it not vast privilege to sit
And court the glowing embers of his hearth,
Till at his bidding their aspiring flames
Illuminate and cheer his farthest room?
Who deems it not rich pleasure, then, to read
By the clear taper unannoyed, or sweep
The strings of harmony unvex'd, and hear
At every pause the persevering storm
Rave at his window, in his chimney howl?
Who thinks his lot unhappy, then, to sup
At an ill furnish'd board, whose only fare
Springs from the dairy and the winnow'd floor?
Who deems not shelter and a crust a feast,
To the hard fate of him who plods without
Fatigued and weather-foil'd, or his more hard
Who wrestles with inclement skies above
And tossing seas beneath, nor dares retire,
Fearful of shipwreck, till the dawn returns?
Is he not lapp'd in paradise who thinks,
Ere slumber close his eyes, how others toil
While peace and comfort curtain him around?
ERE yet I sing the round-revolving year,
And show the toils and pastime of the swain,
At Alcon's grave I drop a pious tear;
Right well he knew to raise his learned strain,
And, like his Milton, scorn'd the rhyming chain.
Ah! cruel fate, to tear him from our eyes;
Receive his wreath, albe the tribute's vain,
From the green sod may flowers immortal rise,
To mark the sacred spot where the sweet poet lies.
It is the cuckoo that announceth spring,
And with his wreakful† tale the spouse doth fray :
Meanwhile the finches harmless ditties sing,
And hop, in buxom youth, from spray to spray,
• The late Mr. Thomson. + Revengeful.
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