And lightly o'er the living scene
Scatters his freshest, tenderest green.
New-born flocks, in rustic dance,
Frisking ply their feeble feet;
Forgetful of their wintry trance,
The birds his presence greet:
But chief, the sky-lark warbles high
His trembling thrilling ecstacy;
And, lessening from the dazzled sight,
Melts into air and liquid light.
Rise, my soul! on wings of fire,
Rise the rapturous choir among; Hark! 't is nature strikes the lyre,
And leads the general song.
Yesterday the sullen year
Saw the snowy whirlwind fly;
Mute was the music of the air,
The herd stood drooping by:
Their raptures now that wildly flow,
No yesterday nor morrow know;
'T is man alone that joy descries,
With forward, and reverted eyes.
Smiles on past misfortune's brow
Soft reflection's hand can trace; And o'er the cheek of sorrow throw
A melancholy grace;
While hope prolongs our happier hour,
Or deepest sbades, that dimly lower
And blacken round our weary way,
Gilds with a gleam of distant day.
Still, where rosy pleasure leads,
See a kindred grief pursue;
Behind the steps that misery treads,
Approaching comfort view:
The hues of bliss more brightly glow,
Chastised by sabler tints of woe;
And blended, form with artful strife
The strength and harmony of life.
See the wretch, that long has tost
On the thorny bed of pain,
At length repair his vigour lost,
And breathe and walk again :
The meanest floweret of the vale,
The simplest note that swells the gale,
The common sun, the air, the skies,
To him are opening paradise.
Humble quiet builds her cell,
Near the source whence pleasnre flows; She
”T is long since we were forced to part, at least it seems so to my
grief, For sorrow wearies us like time, but ah ! it brings not time's relief; As in our days of tenderness, before me still she seems to glide; And though my arms are wide as then, yet she will not abide. The day-light and the star light shine, as if her eyes were in their
light, And whispering in the panting breeze, her love-songs come at
lonely night; While, far away with those less dear, she tries to hide her grief in
vain, For, kind to all while true to me, it pains her to give pain.
I know she never spoke her love, she never breathed a single vow, And yet I'm sure she loved me then, and still doats on me now; For, when we met, her eyes grew glad, and heavy when I left her
side, And oft she said she'd be most happy as a poor man's bride, I toiled to win a pleasant home, and make it ready by the spring; The spring is past—what season now my girl unto our home will
bring? I'm sick and weary, very weary-watching, morning, night, and
noon; How long you 're coming—I am dying—will you not come soon ?
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love,
Which alters when it alteration finds;
Or bends with the remover to remove :
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth 's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love 's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error, and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds,
Exhilarate the spirit, and restore
The tone of languid Nature. Mighty winds,
That sweep the skirt of some far-spreading wood
Of ancient growth, make music not unlike
The dash of Ocean on his winding shore,
And lull the spirit while they fill the mind :
Unnumbered branches waving in the blast,
And all their leaves fast futtering, all at once.
Nor less composure waits upon the roar
Of distant floods, or on the softer voice
Of neighbouring fountain, or of rills that slip
Through the cleft rock, and chiming as they fall
Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length
In matted grass, that with a livelier green
Betrays the secret of their silent course.
Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds,
But animated nature sweeter still,
To soothe and satisfy the human ear.
Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one
The live-long night: nor these alone, whose notes
Nice-fingered art must emulate in vain,
But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime
In still repeated circles, screaming loud,
|