O, give me thus the rural scenes to rove!
And visit Nature in her native grove!
May thus in easy flow my minutes glide;
No stormy passion toss the tranquil tide;
No vain ambition swell my lonely breast,
Content with Virtue humbly to be bless'd.
Her blossoms wither or to wildness run,
Too near the blaze of Fortune's scorching sun;
Too far removed they languish, pine, and die
Beneath the rigour of too cold a sky;
But in her milder zone and temperate air [fair.
They breathe and bloom, more fragrant and more
When the Sun, sunk beneath his watery bed,
Yet gilds with dying gleams the mountain head,
And yet the clouds retain a crimson glow,
That faintly blushes on the lake below,
While sober Cynthia lifts her solemn beam,
With lustre quivering on the sparkling stream,
And with a radiant band of silver light
Inwreathes the jetty tresses of the night;
Then Contemplation, sweet ecstatic maid!
I seek thy mild, thy care-composing aid
Amid the moss-clad walls and roofless aisle
Of yon lone abbey's venerable pile, [thrown,
Whose towers, by Time's relentless hand o'er-
Lie low with ivy and with thorn o'ergrown,
Where Superstition, Ignorance's child,
Once dream'd her dreams and saw her visions wild,
Her aves muttered and her beads retold,
And bow'd to silver saints and shrines of gold,
With holy dread the darksome cloisters trod,
And offer'd living victims to her God:
There by the glimmering lamp the pale-eyed maid
Sobb'd as she sung, and trembled as she pray'd,
Severe religion, passion unrepress'd,
Like meeting currents, struggling in her breast:
In youth's enlivening warmth, in beauty's bloom,
Betray'd to ceaseless solitude and gloom,
She bade the world adieu-ah, vows how vain!
While stubborn Nature still maintain'd her reign.
Still fond affection heaved the hopeless sigh,
And tears too tender glisten'd in her eye.
No more are heard the vocal walls along,
The deep-toned organ or the matin song,
Nor midnight bell, whose slow and solemn toll
Sent a chill horror through the shuddering soul;
All silent now-save when through ruins hoar
And hollow-sounding cells the rude winds roar;
Save the lone owl that hoots her dirges shrill,
And the hoarse music of the murmuring rill.
There moping Melancholy loves to come,
And sadly pore upon the time-worn tomb;
Brooding on grief, she sits in trance profound.
Nor Superstition yet has left the ground;
Strange shapes, 'tis said, the village maid affright,
And doleful sounds are heard at dead of night;
Pale ghosts amid the nodding piles are seen,
Flit o'er the walls and gleam athwart the green;
There hags, 'tis thought, their works of horror ply,
And the swain trembles as he hastens by.
Among the mouldering aisles I musing go, Wandering with solitary steps and slow; Far from the senseless clamours of the crowd, Far from the insulting splendour of the proud;' No smile of friendship feign'd, no gilded care, No lip of scorn, no laugh of folly there : The solemn scenes around and silent hour Calm the wild passions with mysterious power,
Mild awe diffusing, and the heart impress
With a soft, sad, but pleasing pensiveness:
Sublimely painting to the mental eye
The wreck of time and man's mortality.
At once the world's delusive spell is o'er,
Her glittering vanities can charm no more:
Far nobler themes invite, enlarged, refined,
That suit the' immortal dignity of mind,
Powerful the stubborn passions to control,
And give new strength and energy to soul.
Above all sublunary scenes I rise,
With ardent hope high-soaring to the skies;
With Conscience now, my guardian Genius, talk,
And meet my God along the lonely walk;
To the first Beauty bid my thoughts aspire,
And from his glories catch a kindred fire.
O, come, mild Wisdom, come, celestial guest!
And shed thy sacred beam upon my breast;
Bid there each pure, each kind affection roll,
And with the joys of reason feast my soul!
Come, to this lowly grassy couch repair!
Let Zephyr's gentle breath invite thee there;
No pompous trifles here profane the shade,
No spouting fountain and no forced cascade:
Here rove the rills at will, their woods between,
Dash down the vale, and glitter o'er the green;
The vine and winding woodbine arching o'er
From sultry rays defend the cooling bower:
Here bring the tuneful Muses' raptured choir;
Each Muse for thee shall touch the charming lyre:
Bring Truth and Sciences' instructive band;
The Grecian Graces dancing hand in hand;
Content with plain attire and cheerful air;
Friendship exalting joy and soothing care;
With Piety, that waits on wings to rise,
Her looks for ever lifted to the skies;
O, come with all thy mental moral train,
And in this peaceful rural kingdom reign!
Heaven meant immortals for sublimer things
Than wealth's gay glitter and the pomp of kings;
For pleasures, grace, and dignity, denied
To the vain sons of Folly and of Pride: -
Yet frantic man, rebellious to his will,
His gifts abusing, turns his good to ill:
Some dear ideal bliss is still pursued ;
But still his Juno proves a painted cloud:
Reason, his better Genius, warns in vain;
Passion persuades, and he believes again;
Ardent he runs to seize the fairy prize,
Till fainting in the fruitless race he dies.
Smile ye not, angels? when in scorn ye scan
The various follies of your mimic, man;
His boasted reason, dupe to every lust;
His high ambition, groveling in the dust;
A fool with knowledge and with foresight blind;
Perplex'd between his matter and his mind,
Where great and mean, where mortal and divine,
Heaven, earth, brute, angel in confusion join;
Like jarring atoms in one chaos hurl'd,
Which well arranged would form a beauteous
Ye smile to see the puny godhead rave; [world.
Great lord of earth, his meanest passion's slave!
Drunk at the banquet, glorious on the throne,
And now an Ammon's, now a Philip's son!
Nor ye, the great, like erring mortals, name
Ambition's madmen or the fools of fame;
Nor those court pageants, starr'd and titled things,
The gilded tools of ministers and kings;
Nor those, the wolves and harpies of their race,
Who rise by wicked arts to power and place :
But mark, where poor, unnoticed, or unknown,
Neglected Virtue smiles at Fortune's frown;
Or bless'd by Fortune in a private state,
By worth ennobled, and by goodness great;
Bright on whose generous breast those splendours
Of sacred honour, kings could ne'er bestow;
The friend of man! who can in life confess
No joy worth living but the joy to bless.
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