While, at the foot of some old tree, Tho' Love a fragrant couch may weave, To him the rushy roof is dear, And sweetly calm the darkest glen; Let me to summer shades retire, The glow of temper'd mirth diffuse; LINES WRITTEN ON THE SEA-SHORE ON A SUMMER EVENING. ANONYMOUS. As now I muse along the winding shore, Could I for ever. Pleasing to the eye Is the soft bosom of the silver sea; And soothing 'tis to hear the Zephyr's sigh, Dashes the wave:-then silence seems to sleep Awhile upon the calm breast of the deep. And now I pause, and turn, and mark the beam Of the pale moon illume the battlement Of yonder ruin'd Castle ivy-crown'd, And nodding o'er the land. Ah! Time hath rent Its dark-grey walls; and, mould'ring on the ground, Its antique columns lie. The pensive mind I linger yet, and see the wheeling flock Forbids the yelling dreary blast to blow. So the world's smiles (by faithful time reveal'd) C 3 LINES WRITTEN ON VISITING A SCENE IN ARGYLESHIRE. CAMPBELL. Ar the silence of twilight's contemplative hour, On the wind-shaken weeds that embosom the bow'r, Where the home of my forefathers stood. All ruin'd and wild is their roofless abode, And lonely the dark raven's sheltering tree; And travell'd by few is the grass-cover'd road, Where the hunter of deer and the warrior trode To his hills that encircle the sea.. Yet, wand'ring, I found on my ruinous walk, One rose of the wilderness left on its stalk, place, Where the flow'r of my forefathers grew. Sweet bud of the wilderness! emblem of all Though the wilds of enchantment, all vernal and bright, In the days of delusion by fancy combin'd With the vanishing phantoms of love and delight, Abandon my soul like a dream of the night, Be hush'd, my dark spirit! for wisdom condemns Be strong as the rock of the ocean that stems Through the perils of chance, and the scowl of disdain, May thy front be unalter'd, thy courage elate! Yea! even the name I have worshipp'd in vain 'Shall awake not the sigh of remembrance again ;To bear is to conquer our fate. THE SEASONS. MRS BARBAULD. WHỌ may she be, this beauteous, smiling maid, And all prepare their mossy nests to build. Who from the south is this with ling'ring tread The crystal brooks she seeks, and limpid streams, To quench the heat that preys upon her limbs. From her the brooks and wand'ring riv'lets fly; At her approach their currents quickly dry. Berries and ev'ry acid fruit she sips, T'allay the fervour of her parching lips; Apples and melons, and the cherry's juice, She loves, which orchards plenteously produce. The sunburnt hay-makers, the swain who shears The flocks, still hail the maid when she appears. At her approach, O be it mine to lie Where spreading beeches cooling shades supply; Or with her let me rove at early morn, When drops of pearly dew the grass adorn ; Or at soft twilight, when the flocks repose, And the bright star of ev'ning mildly glows. Ye Youths and Maidens, if ye know, declare The name and lineage of this blooming fair. Who may he be that next, with sober pace, Comes stealing on us? Sallow is his face; The grape's red blood distains his robes around; His temples with a wheaten sheaf are bound: His hair hath just begun to fall away, The auburn blending with the mournful gray. The ripe brown nuts he scatters to the swain ; He winds the horn, and calls the hunter train. The gun is heard; the trembling partridge bleeds; The beauteous pheasant to his fate succeeds. Who is he with the wheaten sheaf? Declare, If ye can tell, ye Youths and Maidens fair. Who is he from the north that speeds his way? Thick furs and wool compose his warm array: His cloak is closely folded; bald his head; His beard of clear sharp icicles is made. By blazing fire he loves to stretch his limbs ; With skait-bound feet the frozen lakes he skims. |