Go! then, and seek her humble grave,
All ye who sport in folly's ray,
And, as the gale the grass shall wave,
List to a voice that seems to say-
"Tis not the measure of thy powers
To which the' eternal meed is given;
"Tis wasted or improved hours
That forfeit or secure thy heaven !'
O THAMES with crystal face,
Whose waters visit as they stray
The hamlets where the shepherds play,
And seats that princes grace ;
O Thames, still let me by thy stream
Waste life away in pleasing dream.
Not where thy wave beside
The city rears her turrets proud,
And the mad tumult of the crowd
Resounds along thy tide,
O! let not there my youth pursue
False joys that sober age will rue.
Nor where thy bank along
Some princely villa crowns the plain,
Whose gilded halls the glittering train
Of courtly flatterers throng,
O, see me not there by the wave,
Of show and idle state the slave.
But where thy silver springs
Through nameless vales their smooth way take, Ere yet the shepherd they forsake,
To seek the seats of kings;
O Thames, there let me rear my bower,
And deck it round with many a flower.
There like thy noiseless tide,
Which steals so softly through the vale
That on the bank the poplar pale
Hears not the current glide,
So noiseless let my secret day
Among the green woods slide away.
And as thy waters flow,
Not to annoy the simple swain,
His cot, his fold, or ripening grain,
But blessings to bestow,
So may I mark my silent way,
By scattering blessings where I stray.
Smoothly the years shall pass,
Nor shall I know that envious Time
Has stolen away my youthful prime,
Till taught by thy clear glass;
Till in thy crystal wave I trace
The roses withering on my face.
Along thy margent green, The gentle Muses oft at morn, In garb by rural virgin worn,
Shall round my bower be seen;
Then shall they place me in their ranks,
And lead me to their favourite banks.
Let not the Muses crown
With laurel wreath my tender head,
Nor round my humble temples spread
The palm that yields renown;
But round my brow a garland twine
Of roses by thy stream that shine.
Nor let the Muses bring
To grace my hand the sounding shell,
Nor bid me with loud measures swell
The trumpet by thy spring;
But let them bear to me at morn
The reed that on thy bank is born.
Softly the reed shall blow,
And thy clear springs shall love the strain, And waft it to the simple swain
Who haunts the vales below;
But O! beyond the shepherd's bounds, O! waft not, Thames, its artless sounds.
Oft by thy watery glass,
With sober looks and pensive eye,
Beneath the poplars will I lie,
Along the smooth green grass,
Wrapt in soft thought and musing deep,
While on thy waves my eye I keep.
There if I chance to mark
The downward sky in thy clear stream,
Now bright with many a golden gleam,
With sudden shades now dark,
O! life, then will I say, and sigh,
Thy face is likest to that sky.
If, bending o'er the brink,
Within thy wave fair flowers I spy,
Reflecting the gay bank, which fly
Our grasp, then will I think,
O Hope! thy glass still cheats our sight
With flowers so faithless and so bright.
Or if some alder tall
I mark, that shades thee on the steep,
Beneath whose root thy waters creep,
And silent urge its fall;
O Greatness! I will weep for thee,
For thou must fall like that fair tree.
Thus will I musing lie,
Till the bright sun withdraws his beam,
Till in thy wave the moonlight gleam
And glittering stars I spy,
Then rise and woo the birds that steep
Their song in tears, to soothe my sleep.
Long in the secret grove,
Where thus the breath of morn I taste,
Where thus the evening hour I waste,
O Thames, long winding rove,
To mark the soft and smooth delights
Of rural days and rural nights.
Then gently take thy way,
And as thy silver waters glide
Where stately cities crown thy side,
Or courts their pride display,
Mark if a man more bless'd than me
Thy banks amid these bright scenes see.
WRITTEN AFTER A PERUSAL OF
THE EIGHTH SERMON OF BARROW.
As meadows parch'd, brown groves, and withering flowers
Imbibe the sparkling dew and genial showers;
As chill dark air inhales the morning beam;
As thirsty harts enjoy the gelid stream;
Thus to man's grateful soul from heaven descend,
The mercies of his Father, Lord, and Friend!
SIR W. JONES.
THERE is a wisdom man may learn at home,
In his own breast, even in the privacy
Of solitude and self-communion:
Instructions, which the workings of his heart
Midst daily scenes, or in the silent hour,
When musing on his bed, will better teach
Than schools or books or learned seminaries,
Of ancient or of modern fame! No need
That such a one should traverse half the globe
To know what's call'd the world; with curious eye
To mark its customs, manners, toils, pursuits,
Its frauds, conventions, broils, and jealousies;
Its selfishness and pride, which have no bounds,
That, worse than famine, pestilence, or sword,
Desolate earth, and of this garden of God
Make a bare waste and barren wilderness!
|