There pity's lute arrests his ear, Where sleeps the silent beam of night, Taste lastly comes and smooths the whole, The Poet dreams: -The shadow flies, And fainting fast its image dies. And as he sees the shadow rise, Sublime before his wandering eyes, Starts at the image his own mind conceiv'd. ODE, ADDRESSED TO THE EARL OF CARLISLE, K.G. RETIRED, remote from human noise, A humble Poet dwelt serene, His lot was lowly, yet his joys Were manifold I ween. He laid him by the brawling brook At eventide to ruminate, He watched the swallow swimming round, And mused, in reverie profound, On wayward man's unhappy state, And pondered much, and paused on deeds of antient date. II. 1. "Oh, 'twas not always thus," he cried, Nor hung her head ashamed: But now to wealth alone we bow, The titled, and the rich alone, Are honoured, while meek merit pines, Unheeded in his dying moan, As overwhelmed with want and woe, he sinks unknown. III. 1. Yet was the muse not always seen In poverty's dejected mien, Not always did repining rue, And misery her steps pursue, Time was, when nobles thought their titles graced, When Sidney sung his melting song, When Sheffield joined the harmonious throng, Their brows with anadems, by genius won, How differently thought the sires of this degenerate race!" I. 2. Thus sang the minstrel :-still at eve And still his shame was aye the same, Neglect had stung him to the core; And muse on all his sorrows o'er, And vow that he would join the abjured world no more. II. 2. But human vows, how frail they be! Fame brought Carlisle unto his view, And all amaz'd, he thought to see The Augustan age anew. Filled with wild rapture, up he rose, And hails the ideal day of virtuous eminence. III. 2. Ah! silly man, yet smarting sore, An unsubstantial prop at best, And not to know one swallow makes no summer! Was but a simple solitary beam, Still leaden ignorance reigns serene, In the false court's delusive height, And only our Carlisle is seen, To illume the heavy gloom with pure and steady light. DESCRIPTION OF A SUMMER'S EVE. DOWN the sultry arc of day, The burning wheels have urged their way, And Eve along the western skies Sheds her intermingling dyes. Down the deep, the miry lane, The barn is still, the master's gone, supper messes in the cans; In the hovel carts are wheeled, And both the colts are drove a-field; And the ewe is with the tup. Now on the settle all, but Bess, |