SYRENof sullen moods and fading hues,Yet haply not incapable of joy,Sweet Autumn! I thee hailWith welcome all unfeigned;And oft as morning from her lattice peepsTo beckon up the sun, I seek with theeTo drink the dewy breathOf fields left fragrant then,In solitudes, where no frequented pathsBut what thy own foot makes betray thine home,Stealing obtrusive thereTo meditate thy end:By overshadowed ponds, in woody nooks,With ramping sallows lined, and crowding sedge,Which woo the winds to play,And with them dance for joy;And meadow pools, torn wide by lawless floods,Where water-lilies spread their oily leaves,On which, as wont, the flyOft battens in the sun;Where leans the mossy willow half way o’er,On which the shepherd crawls astride to throwHis angle, clear of weedsThat crowd the water’s brim;Or crispy hills, and hollows scant of sward,Where, step by step, the patient lonely boyHath cut rude flights of stairsTo climb their steepy sides;Then track along their feet, grown hoarse with noise,The crawling brook, that ekes its weary speed,And struggles through the weedsWith faint and sullen brawl.—These haunts I long have favoured, more as nowWith thee thus wandering, moralizing on;Stealing glad thoughts from grief,And happy, though I sigh.Sweet Vision, with the wild dishevelled hair,And raiment shadowy of each wind’s embrace,Fain would I win thine harpTo one accordant theme.Now not inaptly craved, communing thus,Beneath the curdled arms of this stunt oak,While pillowed on the grass,We fondly ruminateO’er the disordered scenes of woods and fields,Ploughed lands, thin travelled with half-hungry sheep,Pastures tracked deep with cows,Where small birds seek for seed:Marking the cow-boy that so merry trillsHis frequent, unpremeditated song,Wooing the winds to pause,Till echo brawls again;As on with plashy step, and clouted shoon,He roves, half indolent and self-employed,To rob the little birdsOf hips and pendant haws,And sloes, dim covered as with dewy veils,And rambling bramble-berries, pulpy and sweet,Arching their prickly trailsHalf o’er the narrow lane:Noting the hedger front with stubborn faceThe dank bleak wind, that whistles thinly byHis leathern garb, thorn proof,And cheek red hot with toil;While o’er the pleachy lands of mellow brown,The mower’s stubbling scythe clogs to his footThe ever ekeing whisp,With sharp and sudden jerk,Till into formal rows the russet shocksCrowd the blank field to thatch time-weather’d barns,And hovels rude repair,Stript by disturbing winds.See! from the rustling scythe the haunted hareScampers circuitous, with startled earsPrickt up, then squat, as byShe brushes to the woods,Where reeded grass, breast-high and undisturbed,Forms pleasant clumps, through which the soothing windsSoften her rigid fears,And lull to calm repose.Wild Sorceress! me thy restless mood delights,More than the stir of summer’s crowded scenes,Where, jostled in the din,Joy palled my ear with song;Heart-sickening for the silence, that is hereNot broken inharmoniously, as nowThat lone and vagrant beeBooms faint with weary chime.Now filtering winds thin winnow through the woodsIn tremulous noise, that bids, at every breath,Some sickly cankered leafLet go its hold, and die.And now the bickering storm, with sudden start,In flirting fits of anger carps aloud,Thee urging to thine end,Sore wept by troubled skies.And yet, sublime in grief! thy thoughts delightTo show me visions of most gorgeous dyes,Haply forgetting nowThey but prepare thy shroud;Thy pencil dashing its excess of shades,Improvident of waste, till every boughBurns with thy mellow touchDisorderly divine.Soon must I view thee as a pleasant dreamDroop faintly, and so reckon for thine end,As sad the winds sink lowIn dirges for their queen;While in the moment of their weary pause,To cheer thy bankrupt pomp, the willing larkStarts from his shielding clod,Snatching sweet scraps of song.Thy life is waning now, and Silence triesTo mourn, but meets no sympathy in sounds,As stooping low she bends,Forming with leaves thy grave;To sleep inglorious there mid tangled woods,Till parched-lipped Summer pines in drought awayThen from thine ivy’d tranceAwake to glories new.
SYRENof sullen moods and fading hues,Yet haply not incapable of joy,Sweet Autumn! I thee hailWith welcome all unfeigned;And oft as morning from her lattice peepsTo beckon up the sun, I seek with theeTo drink the dewy breathOf fields left fragrant then,In solitudes, where no frequented pathsBut what thy own foot makes betray thine home,Stealing obtrusive thereTo meditate thy end:By overshadowed ponds, in woody nooks,With ramping sallows lined, and crowding sedge,Which woo the winds to play,And with them dance for joy;And meadow pools, torn wide by lawless floods,Where water-lilies spread their oily leaves,On which, as wont, the flyOft battens in the sun;Where leans the mossy willow half way o’er,On which the shepherd crawls astride to throwHis angle, clear of weedsThat crowd the water’s brim;Or crispy hills, and hollows scant of sward,Where, step by step, the patient lonely boyHath cut rude flights of stairsTo climb their steepy sides;Then track along their feet, grown hoarse with noise,The crawling brook, that ekes its weary speed,And struggles through the weedsWith faint and sullen brawl.—These haunts I long have favoured, more as nowWith thee thus wandering, moralizing on;Stealing glad thoughts from grief,And happy, though I sigh.Sweet Vision, with the wild dishevelled hair,And raiment shadowy of each wind’s embrace,Fain would I win thine harpTo one accordant theme.Now not inaptly craved, communing thus,Beneath the curdled arms of this stunt oak,While pillowed on the grass,We fondly ruminateO’er the disordered scenes of woods and fields,Ploughed lands, thin travelled with half-hungry sheep,Pastures tracked deep with cows,Where small birds seek for seed:Marking the cow-boy that so merry trillsHis frequent, unpremeditated song,Wooing the winds to pause,Till echo brawls again;As on with plashy step, and clouted shoon,He roves, half indolent and self-employed,To rob the little birdsOf hips and pendant haws,And sloes, dim covered as with dewy veils,And rambling bramble-berries, pulpy and sweet,Arching their prickly trailsHalf o’er the narrow lane:Noting the hedger front with stubborn faceThe dank bleak wind, that whistles thinly byHis leathern garb, thorn proof,And cheek red hot with toil;While o’er the pleachy lands of mellow brown,The mower’s stubbling scythe clogs to his footThe ever ekeing whisp,With sharp and sudden jerk,Till into formal rows the russet shocksCrowd the blank field to thatch time-weather’d barns,And hovels rude repair,Stript by disturbing winds.See! from the rustling scythe the haunted hareScampers circuitous, with startled earsPrickt up, then squat, as byShe brushes to the woods,Where reeded grass, breast-high and undisturbed,Forms pleasant clumps, through which the soothing windsSoften her rigid fears,And lull to calm repose.Wild Sorceress! me thy restless mood delights,More than the stir of summer’s crowded scenes,Where, jostled in the din,Joy palled my ear with song;Heart-sickening for the silence, that is hereNot broken inharmoniously, as nowThat lone and vagrant beeBooms faint with weary chime.Now filtering winds thin winnow through the woodsIn tremulous noise, that bids, at every breath,Some sickly cankered leafLet go its hold, and die.And now the bickering storm, with sudden start,In flirting fits of anger carps aloud,Thee urging to thine end,Sore wept by troubled skies.And yet, sublime in grief! thy thoughts delightTo show me visions of most gorgeous dyes,Haply forgetting nowThey but prepare thy shroud;Thy pencil dashing its excess of shades,Improvident of waste, till every boughBurns with thy mellow touchDisorderly divine.Soon must I view thee as a pleasant dreamDroop faintly, and so reckon for thine end,As sad the winds sink lowIn dirges for their queen;While in the moment of their weary pause,To cheer thy bankrupt pomp, the willing larkStarts from his shielding clod,Snatching sweet scraps of song.Thy life is waning now, and Silence triesTo mourn, but meets no sympathy in sounds,As stooping low she bends,Forming with leaves thy grave;To sleep inglorious there mid tangled woods,Till parched-lipped Summer pines in drought awayThen from thine ivy’d tranceAwake to glories new.
SYRENof sullen moods and fading hues,Yet haply not incapable of joy,Sweet Autumn! I thee hailWith welcome all unfeigned;
And oft as morning from her lattice peepsTo beckon up the sun, I seek with theeTo drink the dewy breathOf fields left fragrant then,
In solitudes, where no frequented pathsBut what thy own foot makes betray thine home,Stealing obtrusive thereTo meditate thy end:
By overshadowed ponds, in woody nooks,With ramping sallows lined, and crowding sedge,Which woo the winds to play,And with them dance for joy;
And meadow pools, torn wide by lawless floods,Where water-lilies spread their oily leaves,On which, as wont, the flyOft battens in the sun;
Where leans the mossy willow half way o’er,On which the shepherd crawls astride to throwHis angle, clear of weedsThat crowd the water’s brim;
Or crispy hills, and hollows scant of sward,Where, step by step, the patient lonely boyHath cut rude flights of stairsTo climb their steepy sides;
Then track along their feet, grown hoarse with noise,The crawling brook, that ekes its weary speed,And struggles through the weedsWith faint and sullen brawl.—
These haunts I long have favoured, more as nowWith thee thus wandering, moralizing on;Stealing glad thoughts from grief,And happy, though I sigh.
Sweet Vision, with the wild dishevelled hair,And raiment shadowy of each wind’s embrace,Fain would I win thine harpTo one accordant theme.
Now not inaptly craved, communing thus,Beneath the curdled arms of this stunt oak,While pillowed on the grass,We fondly ruminate
O’er the disordered scenes of woods and fields,Ploughed lands, thin travelled with half-hungry sheep,Pastures tracked deep with cows,Where small birds seek for seed:
Marking the cow-boy that so merry trillsHis frequent, unpremeditated song,Wooing the winds to pause,Till echo brawls again;
As on with plashy step, and clouted shoon,He roves, half indolent and self-employed,To rob the little birdsOf hips and pendant haws,
And sloes, dim covered as with dewy veils,And rambling bramble-berries, pulpy and sweet,Arching their prickly trailsHalf o’er the narrow lane:
Noting the hedger front with stubborn faceThe dank bleak wind, that whistles thinly byHis leathern garb, thorn proof,And cheek red hot with toil;
While o’er the pleachy lands of mellow brown,The mower’s stubbling scythe clogs to his footThe ever ekeing whisp,With sharp and sudden jerk,
Till into formal rows the russet shocksCrowd the blank field to thatch time-weather’d barns,And hovels rude repair,Stript by disturbing winds.
See! from the rustling scythe the haunted hareScampers circuitous, with startled earsPrickt up, then squat, as byShe brushes to the woods,
Where reeded grass, breast-high and undisturbed,Forms pleasant clumps, through which the soothing windsSoften her rigid fears,And lull to calm repose.
Wild Sorceress! me thy restless mood delights,More than the stir of summer’s crowded scenes,Where, jostled in the din,Joy palled my ear with song;
Heart-sickening for the silence, that is hereNot broken inharmoniously, as nowThat lone and vagrant beeBooms faint with weary chime.
Now filtering winds thin winnow through the woodsIn tremulous noise, that bids, at every breath,Some sickly cankered leafLet go its hold, and die.
And now the bickering storm, with sudden start,In flirting fits of anger carps aloud,Thee urging to thine end,Sore wept by troubled skies.
And yet, sublime in grief! thy thoughts delightTo show me visions of most gorgeous dyes,Haply forgetting nowThey but prepare thy shroud;
Thy pencil dashing its excess of shades,Improvident of waste, till every boughBurns with thy mellow touchDisorderly divine.
Soon must I view thee as a pleasant dreamDroop faintly, and so reckon for thine end,As sad the winds sink lowIn dirges for their queen;
While in the moment of their weary pause,To cheer thy bankrupt pomp, the willing larkStarts from his shielding clod,Snatching sweet scraps of song.
Thy life is waning now, and Silence triesTo mourn, but meets no sympathy in sounds,As stooping low she bends,Forming with leaves thy grave;
To sleep inglorious there mid tangled woods,Till parched-lipped Summer pines in drought awayThen from thine ivy’d tranceAwake to glories new.
WHATare life’s joys and gains,What pleasures crowd its ways,That man should take such painsTo seek them all his days?Sift this untoward strifeOn which thy mind is bent—See if this chaff of lifeBe worth the trouble spent.Is pride thy heart’s desire?Is power thy climbing aim?Is love thy folly’s fire?Is wealth thy restless game?—Pride, power, love, wealth, and all,Time’s touchstone shall destroy;And, like base coin, prove allVain substitutes for joy.Dost think thy pride exaltsThyself in others’ eyes,And hides thy folly’s faults,Which reason will despise?Dost strut, and turn, and stride,Like walking weathercocks?The shadow, by thy side,Becomes thy ape, and mocks.Dost think that power’s disguiseCan make thee mighty seem?It may in folly’s eyes,But not in worth’s esteem.When all that thou canst ask,And all that she can give,Is but a paltry mask,Which tyrants wear and live.Go, let thy fancies range,And ramble where they mayView power in every change,And what is its display?—The country magistrate,The lowest shade in power,To rulers of the state?—The meteors of an hour.View all, and mark the endOf every proud extreme,Where flattery turns a friend,And counterfeits esteem;Where worth is aped in show,That doth her name purloin—As toys of golden glow,Are sold for copper coin.Ambition’s haughty nodWith fancies may deceive—Nay, tell thee thou’rt a god;And wilt thou such believe?Go, bid the seas be dry;Go, hold earth like a ball;Or throw thy fancies by,For God can do it all.Dost thou possess the dowerOf laws, to spare or kill?Call it not heavenly power,When but a tyrant’s will.Know what a god will do,And know thyself a fool;Nor tyrant-like pursue,Where he alone should rule.O put away thy pride,Or be ashamed of powerThat cannot turn asideThe breeze that waves a flower;Or bid the clouds be still—Though shadows, they can braveThy poor power-mocking will,Then make not man a slave.Dost think, when wealth is won,Thy heart has its desire?Hold ice up to the sun,And wax before the fire;Nor triumph o’er the reignWhich they so soon resign,In this world’s ways they gainInsurance safe as thine.Dost think life’s peace secureIn houses and in land?Go, read the fairy lure—To twist a cord of sand,Lodge stones upon the sky,Hold water in a sieve;Nor give such tales the lie,And still thine own believe.Whoso with riches deals,And thinks peace bought and sold,Will find them slippery eels,That slide the firmest hold;Though sweet as sleep with healthThy lulling luck may be,Pride may o’erstride thy wealth,And check prosperity.Dost think that beauty’s powerLife’s sweetest pleasure gives?Go, pluck the summer flower,And see how long it lives:Behold the rays glide onAlong the summer plain,’Ere thou canst say, “They’re gone!”And measure beauty’s reign.Look on the brightest eye,Nor teach it to be proud,But view the clearest sky,And thou shalt find a cloud;Nor call each face you meetAn angel’s, ’cause it’s fair,But look beneath your feet,And think of what they are.Who thinks that love doth liveIn beauty’s tempting show,Shall find his hopes misgive,And melt in reason’s thaw;Who thinks that pleasure liesIn every fairy bower,Shall oft, to his surprise,Find poison in the flower.Dost lawless passions grasp?—Judge not thou deal’st in joy;Its flowers but hide the asp,Thy revels to destroy.Who trusts a harlot’s smile,And by her wiles is led,Plays with a sword the while,Hung dropping o’er his head.Dost doubt my warning song?—Then doubt the sun gives light;Doubt truth to teach the wrong,And wrong alone as right;And live as lives the knave,Intrigue’s deceiving guest;Be tyrant or be slave,As suits thy ends the best.Or pause amid thy toilsFor visions won and lost,And count the fancied spoils,If ’ere they quit the cost;And if they still possess,Thy mind as worthy things;Plat straws with bedlam Bess,And call them diamond rings.Thy folly’s past advice,Thy heart’s already won,Thy fall’s above all price,So go and be undone:For all who thus preferThe seeming great for small,Shall make wine vinegar,And sweetest honey gall.Would’st heed the truths I sing,To profit wherewithal?Clip Folly’s wanton wing,And keep her within call.I’ve little else to give,What thou canst easy try;The lesson how to live,Is but to learn to die.
WHATare life’s joys and gains,What pleasures crowd its ways,That man should take such painsTo seek them all his days?Sift this untoward strifeOn which thy mind is bent—See if this chaff of lifeBe worth the trouble spent.Is pride thy heart’s desire?Is power thy climbing aim?Is love thy folly’s fire?Is wealth thy restless game?—Pride, power, love, wealth, and all,Time’s touchstone shall destroy;And, like base coin, prove allVain substitutes for joy.Dost think thy pride exaltsThyself in others’ eyes,And hides thy folly’s faults,Which reason will despise?Dost strut, and turn, and stride,Like walking weathercocks?The shadow, by thy side,Becomes thy ape, and mocks.Dost think that power’s disguiseCan make thee mighty seem?It may in folly’s eyes,But not in worth’s esteem.When all that thou canst ask,And all that she can give,Is but a paltry mask,Which tyrants wear and live.Go, let thy fancies range,And ramble where they mayView power in every change,And what is its display?—The country magistrate,The lowest shade in power,To rulers of the state?—The meteors of an hour.View all, and mark the endOf every proud extreme,Where flattery turns a friend,And counterfeits esteem;Where worth is aped in show,That doth her name purloin—As toys of golden glow,Are sold for copper coin.Ambition’s haughty nodWith fancies may deceive—Nay, tell thee thou’rt a god;And wilt thou such believe?Go, bid the seas be dry;Go, hold earth like a ball;Or throw thy fancies by,For God can do it all.Dost thou possess the dowerOf laws, to spare or kill?Call it not heavenly power,When but a tyrant’s will.Know what a god will do,And know thyself a fool;Nor tyrant-like pursue,Where he alone should rule.O put away thy pride,Or be ashamed of powerThat cannot turn asideThe breeze that waves a flower;Or bid the clouds be still—Though shadows, they can braveThy poor power-mocking will,Then make not man a slave.Dost think, when wealth is won,Thy heart has its desire?Hold ice up to the sun,And wax before the fire;Nor triumph o’er the reignWhich they so soon resign,In this world’s ways they gainInsurance safe as thine.Dost think life’s peace secureIn houses and in land?Go, read the fairy lure—To twist a cord of sand,Lodge stones upon the sky,Hold water in a sieve;Nor give such tales the lie,And still thine own believe.Whoso with riches deals,And thinks peace bought and sold,Will find them slippery eels,That slide the firmest hold;Though sweet as sleep with healthThy lulling luck may be,Pride may o’erstride thy wealth,And check prosperity.Dost think that beauty’s powerLife’s sweetest pleasure gives?Go, pluck the summer flower,And see how long it lives:Behold the rays glide onAlong the summer plain,’Ere thou canst say, “They’re gone!”And measure beauty’s reign.Look on the brightest eye,Nor teach it to be proud,But view the clearest sky,And thou shalt find a cloud;Nor call each face you meetAn angel’s, ’cause it’s fair,But look beneath your feet,And think of what they are.Who thinks that love doth liveIn beauty’s tempting show,Shall find his hopes misgive,And melt in reason’s thaw;Who thinks that pleasure liesIn every fairy bower,Shall oft, to his surprise,Find poison in the flower.Dost lawless passions grasp?—Judge not thou deal’st in joy;Its flowers but hide the asp,Thy revels to destroy.Who trusts a harlot’s smile,And by her wiles is led,Plays with a sword the while,Hung dropping o’er his head.Dost doubt my warning song?—Then doubt the sun gives light;Doubt truth to teach the wrong,And wrong alone as right;And live as lives the knave,Intrigue’s deceiving guest;Be tyrant or be slave,As suits thy ends the best.Or pause amid thy toilsFor visions won and lost,And count the fancied spoils,If ’ere they quit the cost;And if they still possess,Thy mind as worthy things;Plat straws with bedlam Bess,And call them diamond rings.Thy folly’s past advice,Thy heart’s already won,Thy fall’s above all price,So go and be undone:For all who thus preferThe seeming great for small,Shall make wine vinegar,And sweetest honey gall.Would’st heed the truths I sing,To profit wherewithal?Clip Folly’s wanton wing,And keep her within call.I’ve little else to give,What thou canst easy try;The lesson how to live,Is but to learn to die.
WHATare life’s joys and gains,What pleasures crowd its ways,That man should take such painsTo seek them all his days?Sift this untoward strifeOn which thy mind is bent—See if this chaff of lifeBe worth the trouble spent.
Is pride thy heart’s desire?Is power thy climbing aim?Is love thy folly’s fire?Is wealth thy restless game?—Pride, power, love, wealth, and all,Time’s touchstone shall destroy;And, like base coin, prove allVain substitutes for joy.
Dost think thy pride exaltsThyself in others’ eyes,And hides thy folly’s faults,Which reason will despise?Dost strut, and turn, and stride,Like walking weathercocks?The shadow, by thy side,Becomes thy ape, and mocks.
Dost think that power’s disguiseCan make thee mighty seem?It may in folly’s eyes,But not in worth’s esteem.When all that thou canst ask,And all that she can give,Is but a paltry mask,Which tyrants wear and live.
Go, let thy fancies range,And ramble where they mayView power in every change,And what is its display?—The country magistrate,The lowest shade in power,To rulers of the state?—The meteors of an hour.
View all, and mark the endOf every proud extreme,Where flattery turns a friend,And counterfeits esteem;Where worth is aped in show,That doth her name purloin—As toys of golden glow,Are sold for copper coin.
Ambition’s haughty nodWith fancies may deceive—Nay, tell thee thou’rt a god;And wilt thou such believe?Go, bid the seas be dry;Go, hold earth like a ball;Or throw thy fancies by,For God can do it all.
Dost thou possess the dowerOf laws, to spare or kill?Call it not heavenly power,When but a tyrant’s will.Know what a god will do,And know thyself a fool;Nor tyrant-like pursue,Where he alone should rule.
O put away thy pride,Or be ashamed of powerThat cannot turn asideThe breeze that waves a flower;Or bid the clouds be still—Though shadows, they can braveThy poor power-mocking will,Then make not man a slave.
Dost think, when wealth is won,Thy heart has its desire?Hold ice up to the sun,And wax before the fire;Nor triumph o’er the reignWhich they so soon resign,In this world’s ways they gainInsurance safe as thine.
Dost think life’s peace secureIn houses and in land?Go, read the fairy lure—To twist a cord of sand,Lodge stones upon the sky,Hold water in a sieve;Nor give such tales the lie,And still thine own believe.
Whoso with riches deals,And thinks peace bought and sold,Will find them slippery eels,That slide the firmest hold;Though sweet as sleep with healthThy lulling luck may be,Pride may o’erstride thy wealth,And check prosperity.
Dost think that beauty’s powerLife’s sweetest pleasure gives?Go, pluck the summer flower,And see how long it lives:Behold the rays glide onAlong the summer plain,’Ere thou canst say, “They’re gone!”And measure beauty’s reign.
Look on the brightest eye,Nor teach it to be proud,But view the clearest sky,And thou shalt find a cloud;Nor call each face you meetAn angel’s, ’cause it’s fair,But look beneath your feet,And think of what they are.
Who thinks that love doth liveIn beauty’s tempting show,Shall find his hopes misgive,And melt in reason’s thaw;Who thinks that pleasure liesIn every fairy bower,Shall oft, to his surprise,Find poison in the flower.
Dost lawless passions grasp?—Judge not thou deal’st in joy;Its flowers but hide the asp,Thy revels to destroy.Who trusts a harlot’s smile,And by her wiles is led,Plays with a sword the while,Hung dropping o’er his head.
Dost doubt my warning song?—Then doubt the sun gives light;Doubt truth to teach the wrong,And wrong alone as right;And live as lives the knave,Intrigue’s deceiving guest;Be tyrant or be slave,As suits thy ends the best.
Or pause amid thy toilsFor visions won and lost,And count the fancied spoils,If ’ere they quit the cost;And if they still possess,Thy mind as worthy things;Plat straws with bedlam Bess,And call them diamond rings.
Thy folly’s past advice,Thy heart’s already won,Thy fall’s above all price,So go and be undone:For all who thus preferThe seeming great for small,Shall make wine vinegar,And sweetest honey gall.
Would’st heed the truths I sing,To profit wherewithal?Clip Folly’s wanton wing,And keep her within call.I’ve little else to give,What thou canst easy try;The lesson how to live,Is but to learn to die.
AH! happy spot, how still it seemsWhere crowds of buried memories sleep;How quiet Nature o’er them dreams,’Tis but our troubled thoughts that weep.Life’s book shuts here—its page is lostWith them, and all its busy claims,The poor are from its memory crost,The rich leave nothing but their names.There rest the weary from their toil;There lie the troubled, free from care;Who through the strife of life’s turmoilSought rest, and only found it there.With none to fear his scornful brow,There sleeps the master with the slave;And heedless of all titles now,Repose the honoured and the brave.There rest the miser and the heir,Both careless who their wealth shall reap;E’en love finds cure for heart-aches here,And none enjoy a sounder sleep.The fair one far from folly’s freaks,As quiet as her neighbour seems,Unconscious now of rosy cheeks,Without a rival in her dreams.Strangers alike to joy and strife,Heedless of all its past affairs.They’re blotted from the list of life,And absent from its teazing cares.Grief, joy, hope, fear, and all their crewThat haunt the memory’s living mind,Ceased, when they could no more pursue,And left a painless blank behind.Life’signis fatuuslight is gone,No more to lead their hopes astray;Care’s poisoned cup is drain’d and done,And all its follies past away.The bill’s made out, the reck’ning paid,The book is cross’d, the business done;On them the last demand is made,And heaven’s eternal peace is won.
AH! happy spot, how still it seemsWhere crowds of buried memories sleep;How quiet Nature o’er them dreams,’Tis but our troubled thoughts that weep.Life’s book shuts here—its page is lostWith them, and all its busy claims,The poor are from its memory crost,The rich leave nothing but their names.There rest the weary from their toil;There lie the troubled, free from care;Who through the strife of life’s turmoilSought rest, and only found it there.With none to fear his scornful brow,There sleeps the master with the slave;And heedless of all titles now,Repose the honoured and the brave.There rest the miser and the heir,Both careless who their wealth shall reap;E’en love finds cure for heart-aches here,And none enjoy a sounder sleep.The fair one far from folly’s freaks,As quiet as her neighbour seems,Unconscious now of rosy cheeks,Without a rival in her dreams.Strangers alike to joy and strife,Heedless of all its past affairs.They’re blotted from the list of life,And absent from its teazing cares.Grief, joy, hope, fear, and all their crewThat haunt the memory’s living mind,Ceased, when they could no more pursue,And left a painless blank behind.Life’signis fatuuslight is gone,No more to lead their hopes astray;Care’s poisoned cup is drain’d and done,And all its follies past away.The bill’s made out, the reck’ning paid,The book is cross’d, the business done;On them the last demand is made,And heaven’s eternal peace is won.
AH! happy spot, how still it seemsWhere crowds of buried memories sleep;How quiet Nature o’er them dreams,’Tis but our troubled thoughts that weep.Life’s book shuts here—its page is lostWith them, and all its busy claims,The poor are from its memory crost,The rich leave nothing but their names.
There rest the weary from their toil;There lie the troubled, free from care;Who through the strife of life’s turmoilSought rest, and only found it there.With none to fear his scornful brow,There sleeps the master with the slave;And heedless of all titles now,Repose the honoured and the brave.
There rest the miser and the heir,Both careless who their wealth shall reap;E’en love finds cure for heart-aches here,And none enjoy a sounder sleep.The fair one far from folly’s freaks,As quiet as her neighbour seems,Unconscious now of rosy cheeks,Without a rival in her dreams.
Strangers alike to joy and strife,Heedless of all its past affairs.They’re blotted from the list of life,And absent from its teazing cares.Grief, joy, hope, fear, and all their crewThat haunt the memory’s living mind,Ceased, when they could no more pursue,And left a painless blank behind.
Life’signis fatuuslight is gone,No more to lead their hopes astray;Care’s poisoned cup is drain’d and done,And all its follies past away.The bill’s made out, the reck’ning paid,The book is cross’d, the business done;On them the last demand is made,And heaven’s eternal peace is won.
UPthis green woodland-ride let’s softly rove,And list the nightingale—she dwells just here.Hush! let the wood-gate softly clap, for fearThe noise might drive her from her home of love;For here I’ve heard her many a merry year—At morn, at eve, nay, all the live-long day,As though she lived on song. This very spot,Just where that old-man’s-beard all wildly trailsRude arbours o’er the road, and stops the way—And where that child its blue-bell flowers hath got,Laughing and creeping through the mossy rails—There have I hunted like a very boy,Creeping on hands and knees through matted thornTo find her nest, and see her feed her young.And vainly did I many hours employ:All seemed as hidden as a thought unborn.And where those crimping fern-leaves ramp amongThe hazel’s under boughs, I’ve nestled down,And watched her while she sung; and her renownHath made me marvel that so famed a birdShould have no better dress than russet brown.Her wings would tremble in her ecstasy,And feathers stand on end, as ’twere with joy,And mouth wide open to release her heartOf its out-sobbing songs. The happiest partOf summer’s fame she shared, for so to meDid happy fancies shapen her employ;But if I touched a bush, or scarcely stirred,All in a moment stopt. I watched in vain;The timid bird had left the hazel bush,And at a distance hid to sing again.Lost in a wilderness of listening leaves,Rich Ecstasy would pour its luscious strain,Till envy spurred the emulating thrushTo start less wild and scarce inferior songs;For while of half the year Care him bereaves,To damp the ardour of his speckled breast;The nightingale to summer’s life belongs,And naked trees, and winter’s nipping wrongs,Are strangers to her music and her rest.Her joys are evergreen, her world is wide—Hark! there she is as usual—let’s be hush—For in this black-thorn clump, if rightly guest,Her curious house is hidden. Part asideThese hazel branches in a gentle way,And stoop right cautious ’neath the rustling boughs,For we will have another search to-day,And hunt this fern-strewn thorn-clump round and round;And where this reeded wood-grass idly bows,We’ll wade right through, it is a likely nook:In such like spots, and often on the ground,They’ll build, where rude boys never think to look—Aye, as I live! her secret nest is here,Upon this white-thorn stump! I’ve searched aboutFor hours in vain. There! put that bramble by—Nay, trample on its branches and get near.How subtle is the bird! she started out,And raised a plaintive note of danger nigh,Ere we were past the brambles; and now, nearHer nest, she sudden stops—as choking fear,That might betray her home. So even nowWe’ll leave it as we found it; safety’s guardOf pathless solitude shall keep it still.See there; she’s sitting on the old oak bough,Mute in her fears; our presence doth retardHer joys, and doubt turns every rapture chill.Sing on, sweet bird! may no worse hap befallThy visions, than the fear that now deceives.We will not plunder music of its dower,Nor turn this spot of happiness to thrall;For melody seems hid in every flower,That blossoms near thy home. These harebells allSeem bowing with the beautiful in song;And gaping cuckoo-flowers, with spotted leaves,Seems blushing of the singing it has heard.How curious is the nest; no other birdUses such loose materials, or weavesIts dwelling in such spots: dead open leavesAre placed without, and velvet moss within,And little scraps of grass, and, scant and spare,What scarcely seem materials, down and hair;For from men’s haunts she nothing seems to win.Yet Nature is the builder, and contrivesHomes for her children’s comfort, even here;Where Solitude’s disciples spend their livesUnseen, save when a wanderer passes nearThat loves such pleasant places. Deep adown,The nest is made a hermit’s mossy cell.Snug lie her curious eggs in number five,Of deadened green, or rather olive brown;And the old prickly thorn-bush guards them well.So here we’ll leave them, still unknown to wrong,As the old woodland’s legacy of song.
UPthis green woodland-ride let’s softly rove,And list the nightingale—she dwells just here.Hush! let the wood-gate softly clap, for fearThe noise might drive her from her home of love;For here I’ve heard her many a merry year—At morn, at eve, nay, all the live-long day,As though she lived on song. This very spot,Just where that old-man’s-beard all wildly trailsRude arbours o’er the road, and stops the way—And where that child its blue-bell flowers hath got,Laughing and creeping through the mossy rails—There have I hunted like a very boy,Creeping on hands and knees through matted thornTo find her nest, and see her feed her young.And vainly did I many hours employ:All seemed as hidden as a thought unborn.And where those crimping fern-leaves ramp amongThe hazel’s under boughs, I’ve nestled down,And watched her while she sung; and her renownHath made me marvel that so famed a birdShould have no better dress than russet brown.Her wings would tremble in her ecstasy,And feathers stand on end, as ’twere with joy,And mouth wide open to release her heartOf its out-sobbing songs. The happiest partOf summer’s fame she shared, for so to meDid happy fancies shapen her employ;But if I touched a bush, or scarcely stirred,All in a moment stopt. I watched in vain;The timid bird had left the hazel bush,And at a distance hid to sing again.Lost in a wilderness of listening leaves,Rich Ecstasy would pour its luscious strain,Till envy spurred the emulating thrushTo start less wild and scarce inferior songs;For while of half the year Care him bereaves,To damp the ardour of his speckled breast;The nightingale to summer’s life belongs,And naked trees, and winter’s nipping wrongs,Are strangers to her music and her rest.Her joys are evergreen, her world is wide—Hark! there she is as usual—let’s be hush—For in this black-thorn clump, if rightly guest,Her curious house is hidden. Part asideThese hazel branches in a gentle way,And stoop right cautious ’neath the rustling boughs,For we will have another search to-day,And hunt this fern-strewn thorn-clump round and round;And where this reeded wood-grass idly bows,We’ll wade right through, it is a likely nook:In such like spots, and often on the ground,They’ll build, where rude boys never think to look—Aye, as I live! her secret nest is here,Upon this white-thorn stump! I’ve searched aboutFor hours in vain. There! put that bramble by—Nay, trample on its branches and get near.How subtle is the bird! she started out,And raised a plaintive note of danger nigh,Ere we were past the brambles; and now, nearHer nest, she sudden stops—as choking fear,That might betray her home. So even nowWe’ll leave it as we found it; safety’s guardOf pathless solitude shall keep it still.See there; she’s sitting on the old oak bough,Mute in her fears; our presence doth retardHer joys, and doubt turns every rapture chill.Sing on, sweet bird! may no worse hap befallThy visions, than the fear that now deceives.We will not plunder music of its dower,Nor turn this spot of happiness to thrall;For melody seems hid in every flower,That blossoms near thy home. These harebells allSeem bowing with the beautiful in song;And gaping cuckoo-flowers, with spotted leaves,Seems blushing of the singing it has heard.How curious is the nest; no other birdUses such loose materials, or weavesIts dwelling in such spots: dead open leavesAre placed without, and velvet moss within,And little scraps of grass, and, scant and spare,What scarcely seem materials, down and hair;For from men’s haunts she nothing seems to win.Yet Nature is the builder, and contrivesHomes for her children’s comfort, even here;Where Solitude’s disciples spend their livesUnseen, save when a wanderer passes nearThat loves such pleasant places. Deep adown,The nest is made a hermit’s mossy cell.Snug lie her curious eggs in number five,Of deadened green, or rather olive brown;And the old prickly thorn-bush guards them well.So here we’ll leave them, still unknown to wrong,As the old woodland’s legacy of song.
UPthis green woodland-ride let’s softly rove,And list the nightingale—she dwells just here.Hush! let the wood-gate softly clap, for fearThe noise might drive her from her home of love;For here I’ve heard her many a merry year—At morn, at eve, nay, all the live-long day,As though she lived on song. This very spot,Just where that old-man’s-beard all wildly trailsRude arbours o’er the road, and stops the way—And where that child its blue-bell flowers hath got,Laughing and creeping through the mossy rails—There have I hunted like a very boy,Creeping on hands and knees through matted thornTo find her nest, and see her feed her young.And vainly did I many hours employ:All seemed as hidden as a thought unborn.And where those crimping fern-leaves ramp amongThe hazel’s under boughs, I’ve nestled down,And watched her while she sung; and her renownHath made me marvel that so famed a birdShould have no better dress than russet brown.Her wings would tremble in her ecstasy,And feathers stand on end, as ’twere with joy,And mouth wide open to release her heartOf its out-sobbing songs. The happiest partOf summer’s fame she shared, for so to meDid happy fancies shapen her employ;But if I touched a bush, or scarcely stirred,All in a moment stopt. I watched in vain;The timid bird had left the hazel bush,And at a distance hid to sing again.Lost in a wilderness of listening leaves,Rich Ecstasy would pour its luscious strain,Till envy spurred the emulating thrushTo start less wild and scarce inferior songs;For while of half the year Care him bereaves,To damp the ardour of his speckled breast;The nightingale to summer’s life belongs,And naked trees, and winter’s nipping wrongs,Are strangers to her music and her rest.Her joys are evergreen, her world is wide—Hark! there she is as usual—let’s be hush—For in this black-thorn clump, if rightly guest,Her curious house is hidden. Part asideThese hazel branches in a gentle way,And stoop right cautious ’neath the rustling boughs,For we will have another search to-day,And hunt this fern-strewn thorn-clump round and round;And where this reeded wood-grass idly bows,We’ll wade right through, it is a likely nook:In such like spots, and often on the ground,They’ll build, where rude boys never think to look—Aye, as I live! her secret nest is here,Upon this white-thorn stump! I’ve searched aboutFor hours in vain. There! put that bramble by—Nay, trample on its branches and get near.How subtle is the bird! she started out,And raised a plaintive note of danger nigh,Ere we were past the brambles; and now, nearHer nest, she sudden stops—as choking fear,That might betray her home. So even nowWe’ll leave it as we found it; safety’s guardOf pathless solitude shall keep it still.See there; she’s sitting on the old oak bough,Mute in her fears; our presence doth retardHer joys, and doubt turns every rapture chill.Sing on, sweet bird! may no worse hap befallThy visions, than the fear that now deceives.We will not plunder music of its dower,Nor turn this spot of happiness to thrall;For melody seems hid in every flower,That blossoms near thy home. These harebells allSeem bowing with the beautiful in song;And gaping cuckoo-flowers, with spotted leaves,Seems blushing of the singing it has heard.How curious is the nest; no other birdUses such loose materials, or weavesIts dwelling in such spots: dead open leavesAre placed without, and velvet moss within,And little scraps of grass, and, scant and spare,What scarcely seem materials, down and hair;For from men’s haunts she nothing seems to win.Yet Nature is the builder, and contrivesHomes for her children’s comfort, even here;Where Solitude’s disciples spend their livesUnseen, save when a wanderer passes nearThat loves such pleasant places. Deep adown,The nest is made a hermit’s mossy cell.Snug lie her curious eggs in number five,Of deadened green, or rather olive brown;And the old prickly thorn-bush guards them well.So here we’ll leave them, still unknown to wrong,As the old woodland’s legacy of song.
FAIRwas thy bloom, when first I metThy summer’s maiden-blossom;And thou art fair and lovely yet,And dearer to my bosom.O thou wert once a wilding flower,All garden flowers excelling,And still I bless the happy hourThat led me to thy dwelling.Though nursed by field, and brook, and wood,And wild in every feature,Spring ne’er unsealed a fairer bud,Nor found a blossom sweeter.Of all the flowers the Spring hath met,And it has met with many,Thou art to me the fairest yet,And loveliest, of any.Though ripening summers round thee bringBuds to thy swelling bosom,That wait the cheering smiles of springTo ripen into blossom;These buds shall added blessings be,To make our loves sincerer:For as their flowers resemble thee,They’ll make thy memory dearer.And though thy bloom shall pass away,By winter overtaken,Thoughts of the past will charms display,And many joys awaken.When time shall every sweet remove,And blight thee on my bosom—Let beauty fade—to me, my love,Thou’lt ne’er be out of blossom!
FAIRwas thy bloom, when first I metThy summer’s maiden-blossom;And thou art fair and lovely yet,And dearer to my bosom.O thou wert once a wilding flower,All garden flowers excelling,And still I bless the happy hourThat led me to thy dwelling.Though nursed by field, and brook, and wood,And wild in every feature,Spring ne’er unsealed a fairer bud,Nor found a blossom sweeter.Of all the flowers the Spring hath met,And it has met with many,Thou art to me the fairest yet,And loveliest, of any.Though ripening summers round thee bringBuds to thy swelling bosom,That wait the cheering smiles of springTo ripen into blossom;These buds shall added blessings be,To make our loves sincerer:For as their flowers resemble thee,They’ll make thy memory dearer.And though thy bloom shall pass away,By winter overtaken,Thoughts of the past will charms display,And many joys awaken.When time shall every sweet remove,And blight thee on my bosom—Let beauty fade—to me, my love,Thou’lt ne’er be out of blossom!
FAIRwas thy bloom, when first I metThy summer’s maiden-blossom;And thou art fair and lovely yet,And dearer to my bosom.O thou wert once a wilding flower,All garden flowers excelling,And still I bless the happy hourThat led me to thy dwelling.
Though nursed by field, and brook, and wood,And wild in every feature,Spring ne’er unsealed a fairer bud,Nor found a blossom sweeter.Of all the flowers the Spring hath met,And it has met with many,Thou art to me the fairest yet,And loveliest, of any.
Though ripening summers round thee bringBuds to thy swelling bosom,That wait the cheering smiles of springTo ripen into blossom;These buds shall added blessings be,To make our loves sincerer:For as their flowers resemble thee,They’ll make thy memory dearer.
And though thy bloom shall pass away,By winter overtaken,Thoughts of the past will charms display,And many joys awaken.When time shall every sweet remove,And blight thee on my bosom—Let beauty fade—to me, my love,Thou’lt ne’er be out of blossom!
OH, the world is all too rude for thee, with much ado and care;Oh, this world is but a rude world, and hurts a thing so fair;Was there a nook in which the world had never been to sear,That place would prove a paradise when thou and Love were near.And there to pluck the blackberry, and there to reach the sloe,How joyously and happily would Love thy partner go;Then rest when weary on a bank, where not a grassy bladeHad e’er been bent by Trouble’s feet, and Love thy pillow made.For Summer would be ever green, though sloes were in their prime,And Winter smile his frowns to Spring, in beauty’s happy clime;And months would come, and months would go, and all in sunny mood,And everything inspired by thee grow beautifully good.And there to make a cot unknown to any care and pain,And there to shut the door alone on singing wind and rain—Far, far away from all the world, more rude than rain or wind,Oh who could wish a sweeter home, or better place to find?Than thus to love and live with thee, thou beautiful delight!Than thus to live and love with thee the summer day and night!The Earth itself, where thou hadst rest, would surely smile to seeHerself grow Eden once again, possest of Love and thee.
OH, the world is all too rude for thee, with much ado and care;Oh, this world is but a rude world, and hurts a thing so fair;Was there a nook in which the world had never been to sear,That place would prove a paradise when thou and Love were near.And there to pluck the blackberry, and there to reach the sloe,How joyously and happily would Love thy partner go;Then rest when weary on a bank, where not a grassy bladeHad e’er been bent by Trouble’s feet, and Love thy pillow made.For Summer would be ever green, though sloes were in their prime,And Winter smile his frowns to Spring, in beauty’s happy clime;And months would come, and months would go, and all in sunny mood,And everything inspired by thee grow beautifully good.And there to make a cot unknown to any care and pain,And there to shut the door alone on singing wind and rain—Far, far away from all the world, more rude than rain or wind,Oh who could wish a sweeter home, or better place to find?Than thus to love and live with thee, thou beautiful delight!Than thus to live and love with thee the summer day and night!The Earth itself, where thou hadst rest, would surely smile to seeHerself grow Eden once again, possest of Love and thee.
OH, the world is all too rude for thee, with much ado and care;Oh, this world is but a rude world, and hurts a thing so fair;Was there a nook in which the world had never been to sear,That place would prove a paradise when thou and Love were near.
And there to pluck the blackberry, and there to reach the sloe,How joyously and happily would Love thy partner go;Then rest when weary on a bank, where not a grassy bladeHad e’er been bent by Trouble’s feet, and Love thy pillow made.
For Summer would be ever green, though sloes were in their prime,And Winter smile his frowns to Spring, in beauty’s happy clime;And months would come, and months would go, and all in sunny mood,And everything inspired by thee grow beautifully good.
And there to make a cot unknown to any care and pain,And there to shut the door alone on singing wind and rain—Far, far away from all the world, more rude than rain or wind,Oh who could wish a sweeter home, or better place to find?
Than thus to love and live with thee, thou beautiful delight!Than thus to live and love with thee the summer day and night!The Earth itself, where thou hadst rest, would surely smile to seeHerself grow Eden once again, possest of Love and thee.
OTHEvoice of woman’s love!What a bosom-stirring word!Was a sweeter ever uttered,Was a dearer ever heard,Than woman’s love?How it melts upon the ear,How it nourishes the heart!Cold, ah! cold, must his appear,Who hath never shared a partOf woman’s love.’Tis pleasure to the mourner,’Tis freedom to the thrall;The pilgrimage of many,And resting place of all,Is woman’s love.’Tis the gem of beauty’s birth,It competes with joys above;What were angels upon earth,If without a woman’s love—A woman’s love?
OTHEvoice of woman’s love!What a bosom-stirring word!Was a sweeter ever uttered,Was a dearer ever heard,Than woman’s love?How it melts upon the ear,How it nourishes the heart!Cold, ah! cold, must his appear,Who hath never shared a partOf woman’s love.’Tis pleasure to the mourner,’Tis freedom to the thrall;The pilgrimage of many,And resting place of all,Is woman’s love.’Tis the gem of beauty’s birth,It competes with joys above;What were angels upon earth,If without a woman’s love—A woman’s love?
OTHEvoice of woman’s love!What a bosom-stirring word!Was a sweeter ever uttered,Was a dearer ever heard,Than woman’s love?
How it melts upon the ear,How it nourishes the heart!Cold, ah! cold, must his appear,Who hath never shared a partOf woman’s love.
’Tis pleasure to the mourner,’Tis freedom to the thrall;The pilgrimage of many,And resting place of all,Is woman’s love.
’Tis the gem of beauty’s birth,It competes with joys above;What were angels upon earth,If without a woman’s love—A woman’s love?
LOVE, though it is not chill and cold,But burning like eternal fire,Is yet not of approaches bold,Which gay dramatic tastes admire.Oh! timid love, more fond than free,In daring song is ill pourtrayed,Where, as in war, the devoteeBy valour wins each captive maid;—Where hearts are prest to hearts in glee,As they could tell each other’s mind;Where ruby lips are kissed as free,As flowers are by the summer wind.No! gentle love, that timid dream,With hopes and fears at foil and play,Works like a skiff against the stream,And thinking most finds least to say.It lives in blushes and in sighs,In hopes for which no words are found;Thoughts dare not speak but in the eyes,The tongue is left without a sound.The pert and forward things that dareTheir talk in every maiden’s ear,Feel no more than their shadows there—Mere things of form, with nought of fear.True passion, that so burns to plead,Is timid as the dove’s disguise;’Tis for the murder-aiming gleedTo dart at every thing that flies.True love, it is no daring bird,But like the little timid wren,That in the new-leaved thorns of springShrinks farther from the sight of men.The idol of his musing mind,The worship of his lonely hour,Love woos her in the summer wind,And tells her name to every flower;But in her sight, no open wordEscapes, his fondness to declare;The sighs, by beauty’s magic stirred,Are all that speak his passion there.
LOVE, though it is not chill and cold,But burning like eternal fire,Is yet not of approaches bold,Which gay dramatic tastes admire.Oh! timid love, more fond than free,In daring song is ill pourtrayed,Where, as in war, the devoteeBy valour wins each captive maid;—Where hearts are prest to hearts in glee,As they could tell each other’s mind;Where ruby lips are kissed as free,As flowers are by the summer wind.No! gentle love, that timid dream,With hopes and fears at foil and play,Works like a skiff against the stream,And thinking most finds least to say.It lives in blushes and in sighs,In hopes for which no words are found;Thoughts dare not speak but in the eyes,The tongue is left without a sound.The pert and forward things that dareTheir talk in every maiden’s ear,Feel no more than their shadows there—Mere things of form, with nought of fear.True passion, that so burns to plead,Is timid as the dove’s disguise;’Tis for the murder-aiming gleedTo dart at every thing that flies.True love, it is no daring bird,But like the little timid wren,That in the new-leaved thorns of springShrinks farther from the sight of men.The idol of his musing mind,The worship of his lonely hour,Love woos her in the summer wind,And tells her name to every flower;But in her sight, no open wordEscapes, his fondness to declare;The sighs, by beauty’s magic stirred,Are all that speak his passion there.
LOVE, though it is not chill and cold,But burning like eternal fire,Is yet not of approaches bold,Which gay dramatic tastes admire.Oh! timid love, more fond than free,In daring song is ill pourtrayed,Where, as in war, the devoteeBy valour wins each captive maid;—
Where hearts are prest to hearts in glee,As they could tell each other’s mind;Where ruby lips are kissed as free,As flowers are by the summer wind.No! gentle love, that timid dream,With hopes and fears at foil and play,Works like a skiff against the stream,And thinking most finds least to say.
It lives in blushes and in sighs,In hopes for which no words are found;Thoughts dare not speak but in the eyes,The tongue is left without a sound.The pert and forward things that dareTheir talk in every maiden’s ear,Feel no more than their shadows there—Mere things of form, with nought of fear.
True passion, that so burns to plead,Is timid as the dove’s disguise;’Tis for the murder-aiming gleedTo dart at every thing that flies.True love, it is no daring bird,But like the little timid wren,That in the new-leaved thorns of springShrinks farther from the sight of men.
The idol of his musing mind,The worship of his lonely hour,Love woos her in the summer wind,And tells her name to every flower;But in her sight, no open wordEscapes, his fondness to declare;The sighs, by beauty’s magic stirred,Are all that speak his passion there.
OPOESYis on the wane,For Fancy’s visions all unfitting;I hardly knew her face again,Nature herself seems on the flitting.The fields grow old and common things,The grass, the sky, the winds a-blowing;And spots, where still a beauty clings,Are sighing “going! all a-going!”O Poesy in on the wane,I hardly know her face again.The bank with brambles overspread,And little molehills round about it,Was more to me than laurel shades,With paths of gravel finely clouted;And streaking here and streaking there,Through shaven grass and many a border,With rutty lanes had no compare,And heaths were in a richer order.But Poesy is on the wane,I hardly know her face again.I sat beside the pasture stream,When Beauty’s self was sitting byThe fields did more than Eden seem,Nor could I tell the reason why.I often drank when not a-dry,To pledge her health in draughts divine;Smiles made it nectar from the sky,Love turned e’en water into wine.O Poesy is on the wane,I cannot find her face again.The sun those mornings used to find,Its clouds were other-country mountains,And heaven looked downward on the mind,Like groves, and rocks, and mottled fountains.Those heavens are gone, the mountains greyTurned mist—the sun, a homeless ranger,Pursues alone his naked way,Unnoticed like a very stranger.O Poesy is on the wane,Nor love nor joy is mine again.Love’s sun went down without a frown,For very joy it used to grieve us;I often think the West is gone,Ah, cruel Time, to undeceive us.The stream it is a common stream,Where we on Sundays used to ramble,The sky hangs o’er a broken dream,The bramble’s dwindled to a bramble!O Poesy is on the wane,I cannot find her haunts again.Mere withered stalks and fading trees,And pastures spread with hills and rushes,Are all my fading vision sees;Gone, gone are rapture’s flooding gushes!When mushrooms they were fairy bowers,Their marble pillars over-swelling,And Danger paused to pluck the flowers,That in their swarthy rings were dwelling.Yes, Poesy is on the wane,Nor joy, nor fear is mine again.Aye, Poesy hath passed away,And Fancy’s visions undeceive us;The night hath ta’en the place of day,And why should passing shadows grieve us?I thought the flowers upon the hillWere flowers from Adam’s open gardens;But I have had my summer thrills,And I have had my heart’s rewardings.So Poesy is on the wane,I hardly know her face again.And Friendship it hath burned away,Like to a very ember cooling,A make-believe on April day,That sent the simple heart a fooling;Mere jesting in an earnest way,Deceiving on and still deceiving;And Hope is but a fancy-play,And Joy the art of true believing;For Poesy is on the wane,O could I feel her faith again!
OPOESYis on the wane,For Fancy’s visions all unfitting;I hardly knew her face again,Nature herself seems on the flitting.The fields grow old and common things,The grass, the sky, the winds a-blowing;And spots, where still a beauty clings,Are sighing “going! all a-going!”O Poesy in on the wane,I hardly know her face again.The bank with brambles overspread,And little molehills round about it,Was more to me than laurel shades,With paths of gravel finely clouted;And streaking here and streaking there,Through shaven grass and many a border,With rutty lanes had no compare,And heaths were in a richer order.But Poesy is on the wane,I hardly know her face again.I sat beside the pasture stream,When Beauty’s self was sitting byThe fields did more than Eden seem,Nor could I tell the reason why.I often drank when not a-dry,To pledge her health in draughts divine;Smiles made it nectar from the sky,Love turned e’en water into wine.O Poesy is on the wane,I cannot find her face again.The sun those mornings used to find,Its clouds were other-country mountains,And heaven looked downward on the mind,Like groves, and rocks, and mottled fountains.Those heavens are gone, the mountains greyTurned mist—the sun, a homeless ranger,Pursues alone his naked way,Unnoticed like a very stranger.O Poesy is on the wane,Nor love nor joy is mine again.Love’s sun went down without a frown,For very joy it used to grieve us;I often think the West is gone,Ah, cruel Time, to undeceive us.The stream it is a common stream,Where we on Sundays used to ramble,The sky hangs o’er a broken dream,The bramble’s dwindled to a bramble!O Poesy is on the wane,I cannot find her haunts again.Mere withered stalks and fading trees,And pastures spread with hills and rushes,Are all my fading vision sees;Gone, gone are rapture’s flooding gushes!When mushrooms they were fairy bowers,Their marble pillars over-swelling,And Danger paused to pluck the flowers,That in their swarthy rings were dwelling.Yes, Poesy is on the wane,Nor joy, nor fear is mine again.Aye, Poesy hath passed away,And Fancy’s visions undeceive us;The night hath ta’en the place of day,And why should passing shadows grieve us?I thought the flowers upon the hillWere flowers from Adam’s open gardens;But I have had my summer thrills,And I have had my heart’s rewardings.So Poesy is on the wane,I hardly know her face again.And Friendship it hath burned away,Like to a very ember cooling,A make-believe on April day,That sent the simple heart a fooling;Mere jesting in an earnest way,Deceiving on and still deceiving;And Hope is but a fancy-play,And Joy the art of true believing;For Poesy is on the wane,O could I feel her faith again!
OPOESYis on the wane,For Fancy’s visions all unfitting;I hardly knew her face again,Nature herself seems on the flitting.The fields grow old and common things,The grass, the sky, the winds a-blowing;And spots, where still a beauty clings,Are sighing “going! all a-going!”O Poesy in on the wane,I hardly know her face again.
The bank with brambles overspread,And little molehills round about it,Was more to me than laurel shades,With paths of gravel finely clouted;And streaking here and streaking there,Through shaven grass and many a border,With rutty lanes had no compare,And heaths were in a richer order.But Poesy is on the wane,I hardly know her face again.
I sat beside the pasture stream,When Beauty’s self was sitting byThe fields did more than Eden seem,Nor could I tell the reason why.I often drank when not a-dry,To pledge her health in draughts divine;Smiles made it nectar from the sky,Love turned e’en water into wine.O Poesy is on the wane,I cannot find her face again.
The sun those mornings used to find,Its clouds were other-country mountains,And heaven looked downward on the mind,Like groves, and rocks, and mottled fountains.Those heavens are gone, the mountains greyTurned mist—the sun, a homeless ranger,Pursues alone his naked way,Unnoticed like a very stranger.O Poesy is on the wane,Nor love nor joy is mine again.
Love’s sun went down without a frown,For very joy it used to grieve us;I often think the West is gone,Ah, cruel Time, to undeceive us.The stream it is a common stream,Where we on Sundays used to ramble,The sky hangs o’er a broken dream,The bramble’s dwindled to a bramble!O Poesy is on the wane,I cannot find her haunts again.
Mere withered stalks and fading trees,And pastures spread with hills and rushes,Are all my fading vision sees;Gone, gone are rapture’s flooding gushes!When mushrooms they were fairy bowers,Their marble pillars over-swelling,And Danger paused to pluck the flowers,That in their swarthy rings were dwelling.Yes, Poesy is on the wane,Nor joy, nor fear is mine again.
Aye, Poesy hath passed away,And Fancy’s visions undeceive us;The night hath ta’en the place of day,And why should passing shadows grieve us?I thought the flowers upon the hillWere flowers from Adam’s open gardens;But I have had my summer thrills,And I have had my heart’s rewardings.So Poesy is on the wane,I hardly know her face again.
And Friendship it hath burned away,Like to a very ember cooling,A make-believe on April day,That sent the simple heart a fooling;Mere jesting in an earnest way,Deceiving on and still deceiving;And Hope is but a fancy-play,And Joy the art of true believing;For Poesy is on the wane,O could I feel her faith again!
SWEETpastime here my mind so entertains,Abiding pleasaunce, and heart-feeding joys,To meet this blithsome day these painted plains,These singing maids, and chubby laughing boys,Which hay-time and the summer here employs,—My rod and line doth all neglected lie;A higher joy my former sport destroys:Nature this day doth bait the hook, and IThe glad fish am, that’s to be caught thereby.This silken grass, these pleasant flowers in bloom,Among these tasty molehills that do lieLike summer cushions, for all guests that come;Those little feathered folk, that sing and flyAbove these trees, in that so gentle sky,Where not a cloud dares soil its heavenly light;And this smooth river softly grieving bye—All fill mine eyes with so divine a sight,As makes me sigh that it should e’er be night.In sooth, methinks the choice I most should prizeWere in these meadows of delight to dwell,To share the joyaunce heaven elsewhere denies,The calmness that doth relish passing well,The quiet conscience, that aye bears the bell,And happy musing Nature would supply,Leaving no room for troubles to rebel:Here would I think all day, at night would lie,The hay my bed, my coverlid the sky.So would I live, as nature might command,Taking with Providence my wholesome meals;Plucking the savory peascod from the land,Where rustic lad oft dainty dinner steals.For drink, I’d his me where the moss concealsThe little spring so chary from the sun,Then lie, and listen to the merry pealsOf distant bells—all other noises shun;Then court the Muses till the day be done.Here would high joys my lowly choice requite;For garden plot, I’d choose this flow’ry lea;Here I in culling nosegays would delight,The lambtoe tuft, the paler culverkey:The cricket’s mirth were talk enough for me,When talk I needed; and when warmed to pray,The little birds my choristers should be,Who wear one suit for worship and for play,And make the whole year long one sabbath-day.A thymy hill should be my cushioned seat;An aged thorn, with wild hops intertwined,My bower, where I from noontide might retreat;A hollow oak would shield me from the wind,Or, as might hap, I better shed might findIn gentle spot, where fewer paths intrude,The hut of shepherd swain, with rushes lined:There would I tenant be to Solitude,Seeking life’s gentlest joys, to shun the rude.Bidding a long farewell to every trouble,The envy and the hate of evil men;Feeling cares lessen, happiness redouble,And all I lost as if ’twere found again.Vain life unseen; the past alone known then:No worldly intercourse my mind should haveTo lure me backward to its crowded den;Here would I live and die, and only craveThe home I chose might also be my grave.
SWEETpastime here my mind so entertains,Abiding pleasaunce, and heart-feeding joys,To meet this blithsome day these painted plains,These singing maids, and chubby laughing boys,Which hay-time and the summer here employs,—My rod and line doth all neglected lie;A higher joy my former sport destroys:Nature this day doth bait the hook, and IThe glad fish am, that’s to be caught thereby.This silken grass, these pleasant flowers in bloom,Among these tasty molehills that do lieLike summer cushions, for all guests that come;Those little feathered folk, that sing and flyAbove these trees, in that so gentle sky,Where not a cloud dares soil its heavenly light;And this smooth river softly grieving bye—All fill mine eyes with so divine a sight,As makes me sigh that it should e’er be night.In sooth, methinks the choice I most should prizeWere in these meadows of delight to dwell,To share the joyaunce heaven elsewhere denies,The calmness that doth relish passing well,The quiet conscience, that aye bears the bell,And happy musing Nature would supply,Leaving no room for troubles to rebel:Here would I think all day, at night would lie,The hay my bed, my coverlid the sky.So would I live, as nature might command,Taking with Providence my wholesome meals;Plucking the savory peascod from the land,Where rustic lad oft dainty dinner steals.For drink, I’d his me where the moss concealsThe little spring so chary from the sun,Then lie, and listen to the merry pealsOf distant bells—all other noises shun;Then court the Muses till the day be done.Here would high joys my lowly choice requite;For garden plot, I’d choose this flow’ry lea;Here I in culling nosegays would delight,The lambtoe tuft, the paler culverkey:The cricket’s mirth were talk enough for me,When talk I needed; and when warmed to pray,The little birds my choristers should be,Who wear one suit for worship and for play,And make the whole year long one sabbath-day.A thymy hill should be my cushioned seat;An aged thorn, with wild hops intertwined,My bower, where I from noontide might retreat;A hollow oak would shield me from the wind,Or, as might hap, I better shed might findIn gentle spot, where fewer paths intrude,The hut of shepherd swain, with rushes lined:There would I tenant be to Solitude,Seeking life’s gentlest joys, to shun the rude.Bidding a long farewell to every trouble,The envy and the hate of evil men;Feeling cares lessen, happiness redouble,And all I lost as if ’twere found again.Vain life unseen; the past alone known then:No worldly intercourse my mind should haveTo lure me backward to its crowded den;Here would I live and die, and only craveThe home I chose might also be my grave.
SWEETpastime here my mind so entertains,Abiding pleasaunce, and heart-feeding joys,To meet this blithsome day these painted plains,These singing maids, and chubby laughing boys,Which hay-time and the summer here employs,—My rod and line doth all neglected lie;A higher joy my former sport destroys:Nature this day doth bait the hook, and IThe glad fish am, that’s to be caught thereby.
This silken grass, these pleasant flowers in bloom,Among these tasty molehills that do lieLike summer cushions, for all guests that come;Those little feathered folk, that sing and flyAbove these trees, in that so gentle sky,Where not a cloud dares soil its heavenly light;And this smooth river softly grieving bye—All fill mine eyes with so divine a sight,As makes me sigh that it should e’er be night.
In sooth, methinks the choice I most should prizeWere in these meadows of delight to dwell,To share the joyaunce heaven elsewhere denies,The calmness that doth relish passing well,The quiet conscience, that aye bears the bell,And happy musing Nature would supply,Leaving no room for troubles to rebel:Here would I think all day, at night would lie,The hay my bed, my coverlid the sky.
So would I live, as nature might command,Taking with Providence my wholesome meals;Plucking the savory peascod from the land,Where rustic lad oft dainty dinner steals.For drink, I’d his me where the moss concealsThe little spring so chary from the sun,Then lie, and listen to the merry pealsOf distant bells—all other noises shun;Then court the Muses till the day be done.
Here would high joys my lowly choice requite;For garden plot, I’d choose this flow’ry lea;Here I in culling nosegays would delight,The lambtoe tuft, the paler culverkey:The cricket’s mirth were talk enough for me,When talk I needed; and when warmed to pray,The little birds my choristers should be,Who wear one suit for worship and for play,And make the whole year long one sabbath-day.
A thymy hill should be my cushioned seat;An aged thorn, with wild hops intertwined,My bower, where I from noontide might retreat;A hollow oak would shield me from the wind,Or, as might hap, I better shed might findIn gentle spot, where fewer paths intrude,The hut of shepherd swain, with rushes lined:There would I tenant be to Solitude,Seeking life’s gentlest joys, to shun the rude.
Bidding a long farewell to every trouble,The envy and the hate of evil men;Feeling cares lessen, happiness redouble,And all I lost as if ’twere found again.Vain life unseen; the past alone known then:No worldly intercourse my mind should haveTo lure me backward to its crowded den;Here would I live and die, and only craveThe home I chose might also be my grave.