The DESERTED COTTAGE.
Who dwelt in yonder lonely Cot,Why is it thus forsaken?It seems, by all the world forgot,Above its path the high grass grows,And through its thatch the northwind blows—Its thatch, by tempests shaken.And yet, it tops a verdant hillBy Summer gales surrounded:Beneath its door a shallow rillRuns brawling to the vale below,And near it sweetest flowrets growBy banks of willow bounded.Then why is ev’ry casement dark?Why looks the Cot so chearless?Ah! why does ruin seem to markThe calm retreat whereLoveshould dwell,AndFriendshipteach the heart to swellWith rapture, pure and fearless?There, far above the busy croud,Man may repose in quiet;There, smile, that he has left the proud,And blest with liberty, enjoyMore than Ambition’s gilded toy,Or Folly’s sick’ning riot.For there, the ever tranquil mind,On calm Religion resting,May in each lonely labyrinth findTheDeity, whose boundless pow’rDirects the blast, or tints the flow’r—No mortal foe molesting.Stranger, yon spot was once the sceneWhere peace and joy resided:And oft the merry time has beenWhen Love and Friendship warm’d the breast,And Freedom, making wealth a jest,The pride of Pomp derided.OldJacobwas the Cottage Lord,His wide domain, surrounding,By Nature’s treasure amply stor’d;He from his casement could beholdThe breezy mountain, ting’d with gold,The varied landscape bounding!The coming morn, with lustre gay,Breath’d sweetly on his dwelling;The twilight veil of parting dayStole softly o’er his quiet shed,Hiding the mountain’s misty head,Where the night-breeze was swelling.One lovely Girl, OldJacobrear’dAnd she was fair, and blooming;She, like the morning Star, appear’d,Swift gliding o’er the mountain’s crest,While her blue eyes her soul confess’d,No borrow’d rays assuming.’Twas her’s, the vagrant lamb to lead,To watch the wild goat playing:To join the Shepherd’s tuneful reed,And, when the sultry Sun rose high,To tend the Herds, deep-lowing nigh,Where the swift brook was straying.One sturdy Boy, a younker bold,Ere they were doom’d to sever,Maintain’d poorJacob, sick and old;But now, where yon tall poplars wave,Pale primroses adorn the grave—WhereJacobsleeps, for Ever!Young, in the wars, the brave Boy fell!His Sister died of sadness!Butoneremain’d their fate to tell,ForJacobnow was left alone,And he, alas! was helpless grown,And pin’d in moody madness.At night, by moonshine would he stray,Along the upland dreary;And, talking wildly all the way,Would fancy, ’till the Sun uprose,That Heav’n, in pity, mark’d the woes—Of which his soul was weary.One morn, upon the dewy grassPoorJacob’s sorrows ended,The woodland’s narrow winding passWas his last scene of lonely care,For, gentle Stranger, lifeless there—WasJacob’s form extended!He lies beneath yon Poplar treeThat tops the church-yard, sighing!For sighing oft it seems to be,And as its waving leaves, around,With morning’s tears begem the groundThe Zephyr trembles, flying!And now behold yon little CotAll dreary and forsaken!And know, that soon ’twill be thy lot,To fall, likeJacoband his race,And leave on Time’s swift wing no trace,Which way thy course is taken.Yet, if for Truth and feeling known,Thou still shalt be lamented!For when thy parting sigh has flown,FondMem’ryon thy grave shall giveA tear—to bid thyVirtueslive!Then—Smile,AND BE CONTENTED!
Who dwelt in yonder lonely Cot,Why is it thus forsaken?It seems, by all the world forgot,Above its path the high grass grows,And through its thatch the northwind blows—Its thatch, by tempests shaken.And yet, it tops a verdant hillBy Summer gales surrounded:Beneath its door a shallow rillRuns brawling to the vale below,And near it sweetest flowrets growBy banks of willow bounded.Then why is ev’ry casement dark?Why looks the Cot so chearless?Ah! why does ruin seem to markThe calm retreat whereLoveshould dwell,AndFriendshipteach the heart to swellWith rapture, pure and fearless?There, far above the busy croud,Man may repose in quiet;There, smile, that he has left the proud,And blest with liberty, enjoyMore than Ambition’s gilded toy,Or Folly’s sick’ning riot.For there, the ever tranquil mind,On calm Religion resting,May in each lonely labyrinth findTheDeity, whose boundless pow’rDirects the blast, or tints the flow’r—No mortal foe molesting.Stranger, yon spot was once the sceneWhere peace and joy resided:And oft the merry time has beenWhen Love and Friendship warm’d the breast,And Freedom, making wealth a jest,The pride of Pomp derided.OldJacobwas the Cottage Lord,His wide domain, surrounding,By Nature’s treasure amply stor’d;He from his casement could beholdThe breezy mountain, ting’d with gold,The varied landscape bounding!The coming morn, with lustre gay,Breath’d sweetly on his dwelling;The twilight veil of parting dayStole softly o’er his quiet shed,Hiding the mountain’s misty head,Where the night-breeze was swelling.One lovely Girl, OldJacobrear’dAnd she was fair, and blooming;She, like the morning Star, appear’d,Swift gliding o’er the mountain’s crest,While her blue eyes her soul confess’d,No borrow’d rays assuming.’Twas her’s, the vagrant lamb to lead,To watch the wild goat playing:To join the Shepherd’s tuneful reed,And, when the sultry Sun rose high,To tend the Herds, deep-lowing nigh,Where the swift brook was straying.One sturdy Boy, a younker bold,Ere they were doom’d to sever,Maintain’d poorJacob, sick and old;But now, where yon tall poplars wave,Pale primroses adorn the grave—WhereJacobsleeps, for Ever!Young, in the wars, the brave Boy fell!His Sister died of sadness!Butoneremain’d their fate to tell,ForJacobnow was left alone,And he, alas! was helpless grown,And pin’d in moody madness.At night, by moonshine would he stray,Along the upland dreary;And, talking wildly all the way,Would fancy, ’till the Sun uprose,That Heav’n, in pity, mark’d the woes—Of which his soul was weary.One morn, upon the dewy grassPoorJacob’s sorrows ended,The woodland’s narrow winding passWas his last scene of lonely care,For, gentle Stranger, lifeless there—WasJacob’s form extended!He lies beneath yon Poplar treeThat tops the church-yard, sighing!For sighing oft it seems to be,And as its waving leaves, around,With morning’s tears begem the groundThe Zephyr trembles, flying!And now behold yon little CotAll dreary and forsaken!And know, that soon ’twill be thy lot,To fall, likeJacoband his race,And leave on Time’s swift wing no trace,Which way thy course is taken.Yet, if for Truth and feeling known,Thou still shalt be lamented!For when thy parting sigh has flown,FondMem’ryon thy grave shall giveA tear—to bid thyVirtueslive!Then—Smile,AND BE CONTENTED!
Who dwelt in yonder lonely Cot,Why is it thus forsaken?It seems, by all the world forgot,Above its path the high grass grows,And through its thatch the northwind blows—Its thatch, by tempests shaken.
Who dwelt in yonder lonely Cot,
Why is it thus forsaken?
It seems, by all the world forgot,
Above its path the high grass grows,
And through its thatch the northwind blows
—Its thatch, by tempests shaken.
And yet, it tops a verdant hillBy Summer gales surrounded:Beneath its door a shallow rillRuns brawling to the vale below,And near it sweetest flowrets growBy banks of willow bounded.
And yet, it tops a verdant hill
By Summer gales surrounded:
Beneath its door a shallow rill
Runs brawling to the vale below,
And near it sweetest flowrets grow
By banks of willow bounded.
Then why is ev’ry casement dark?Why looks the Cot so chearless?Ah! why does ruin seem to markThe calm retreat whereLoveshould dwell,AndFriendshipteach the heart to swellWith rapture, pure and fearless?
Then why is ev’ry casement dark?
Why looks the Cot so chearless?
Ah! why does ruin seem to mark
The calm retreat whereLoveshould dwell,
AndFriendshipteach the heart to swell
With rapture, pure and fearless?
There, far above the busy croud,Man may repose in quiet;There, smile, that he has left the proud,And blest with liberty, enjoyMore than Ambition’s gilded toy,Or Folly’s sick’ning riot.
There, far above the busy croud,
Man may repose in quiet;
There, smile, that he has left the proud,
And blest with liberty, enjoy
More than Ambition’s gilded toy,
Or Folly’s sick’ning riot.
For there, the ever tranquil mind,On calm Religion resting,May in each lonely labyrinth findTheDeity, whose boundless pow’rDirects the blast, or tints the flow’r—No mortal foe molesting.
For there, the ever tranquil mind,
On calm Religion resting,
May in each lonely labyrinth find
TheDeity, whose boundless pow’r
Directs the blast, or tints the flow’r—
No mortal foe molesting.
Stranger, yon spot was once the sceneWhere peace and joy resided:And oft the merry time has beenWhen Love and Friendship warm’d the breast,And Freedom, making wealth a jest,The pride of Pomp derided.
Stranger, yon spot was once the scene
Where peace and joy resided:
And oft the merry time has been
When Love and Friendship warm’d the breast,
And Freedom, making wealth a jest,
The pride of Pomp derided.
OldJacobwas the Cottage Lord,His wide domain, surrounding,By Nature’s treasure amply stor’d;He from his casement could beholdThe breezy mountain, ting’d with gold,The varied landscape bounding!
OldJacobwas the Cottage Lord,
His wide domain, surrounding,
By Nature’s treasure amply stor’d;
He from his casement could behold
The breezy mountain, ting’d with gold,
The varied landscape bounding!
The coming morn, with lustre gay,Breath’d sweetly on his dwelling;The twilight veil of parting dayStole softly o’er his quiet shed,Hiding the mountain’s misty head,Where the night-breeze was swelling.
The coming morn, with lustre gay,
Breath’d sweetly on his dwelling;
The twilight veil of parting day
Stole softly o’er his quiet shed,
Hiding the mountain’s misty head,
Where the night-breeze was swelling.
One lovely Girl, OldJacobrear’dAnd she was fair, and blooming;She, like the morning Star, appear’d,Swift gliding o’er the mountain’s crest,While her blue eyes her soul confess’d,No borrow’d rays assuming.
One lovely Girl, OldJacobrear’d
And she was fair, and blooming;
She, like the morning Star, appear’d,
Swift gliding o’er the mountain’s crest,
While her blue eyes her soul confess’d,
No borrow’d rays assuming.
’Twas her’s, the vagrant lamb to lead,To watch the wild goat playing:To join the Shepherd’s tuneful reed,And, when the sultry Sun rose high,To tend the Herds, deep-lowing nigh,Where the swift brook was straying.
’Twas her’s, the vagrant lamb to lead,
To watch the wild goat playing:
To join the Shepherd’s tuneful reed,
And, when the sultry Sun rose high,
To tend the Herds, deep-lowing nigh,
Where the swift brook was straying.
One sturdy Boy, a younker bold,Ere they were doom’d to sever,Maintain’d poorJacob, sick and old;But now, where yon tall poplars wave,Pale primroses adorn the grave—WhereJacobsleeps, for Ever!
One sturdy Boy, a younker bold,
Ere they were doom’d to sever,
Maintain’d poorJacob, sick and old;
But now, where yon tall poplars wave,
Pale primroses adorn the grave—
WhereJacobsleeps, for Ever!
Young, in the wars, the brave Boy fell!His Sister died of sadness!Butoneremain’d their fate to tell,ForJacobnow was left alone,And he, alas! was helpless grown,And pin’d in moody madness.
Young, in the wars, the brave Boy fell!
His Sister died of sadness!
Butoneremain’d their fate to tell,
ForJacobnow was left alone,
And he, alas! was helpless grown,
And pin’d in moody madness.
At night, by moonshine would he stray,Along the upland dreary;And, talking wildly all the way,Would fancy, ’till the Sun uprose,That Heav’n, in pity, mark’d the woes—Of which his soul was weary.
At night, by moonshine would he stray,
Along the upland dreary;
And, talking wildly all the way,
Would fancy, ’till the Sun uprose,
That Heav’n, in pity, mark’d the woes—
Of which his soul was weary.
One morn, upon the dewy grassPoorJacob’s sorrows ended,The woodland’s narrow winding passWas his last scene of lonely care,For, gentle Stranger, lifeless there—WasJacob’s form extended!
One morn, upon the dewy grass
PoorJacob’s sorrows ended,
The woodland’s narrow winding pass
Was his last scene of lonely care,
For, gentle Stranger, lifeless there—
WasJacob’s form extended!
He lies beneath yon Poplar treeThat tops the church-yard, sighing!For sighing oft it seems to be,And as its waving leaves, around,With morning’s tears begem the groundThe Zephyr trembles, flying!
He lies beneath yon Poplar tree
That tops the church-yard, sighing!
For sighing oft it seems to be,
And as its waving leaves, around,
With morning’s tears begem the ground
The Zephyr trembles, flying!
And now behold yon little CotAll dreary and forsaken!And know, that soon ’twill be thy lot,To fall, likeJacoband his race,And leave on Time’s swift wing no trace,Which way thy course is taken.
And now behold yon little Cot
All dreary and forsaken!
And know, that soon ’twill be thy lot,
To fall, likeJacoband his race,
And leave on Time’s swift wing no trace,
Which way thy course is taken.
Yet, if for Truth and feeling known,Thou still shalt be lamented!For when thy parting sigh has flown,FondMem’ryon thy grave shall giveA tear—to bid thyVirtueslive!Then—Smile,AND BE CONTENTED!
Yet, if for Truth and feeling known,
Thou still shalt be lamented!
For when thy parting sigh has flown,
FondMem’ryon thy grave shall give
A tear—to bid thyVirtueslive!
Then—Smile,AND BE CONTENTED!