Feels, too, a joy relieve his aching breast,
When the spent storm has howl'd itself to rest;
Still, welcome beats the long continued shower,
And deep protracted, comes with double power.
Calm dreams of bliss bring on the morning sun,
When labours are renew'd, fresh tasks begun..
SWEET was the sound, when oft, at evening's close,
Up yonder hill, the village murmur rose.
There, as I pass'd, with careless steps and slow,
The mingling notes came soften'd from below;
The swain responsive, as the milk-maid sung,
The sober herd that low'd to meet their young;
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool,
The playful children just let loose from school;.
The watch-dog's voice which bay'd the whispering
wind;
And the loud laugh that spake the vacant mind;
These, all in sweet confusion, sought the shade,
And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made.
How blest is he who crowns in shades, like these,
A youth of labour, with an age of ease!
Who quits a world, where strong temptations try,
And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly.
For him, no wretches born to work and weep,
Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep;
No surly porter stands in haughty state
To spurn imploring famine from the gate;
But on he moves to meet his latter end,
Angels around, befriending virtue's friend;
Sinks to the grave with unperceiv'd decay,
While resignation gently slopes the way;
And, all his prospects brightening to the last,
His heaven commences ere the world be past.
Ir aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,
May hope, O pensive Eve, to soothe thy ear,
Like thy own brawling springs,
Thy springs and dying gales,
O Nymph reserv'd, while now the bright-hair'd sun
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,
With brede etherial wove,
Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed bat, With short, shrill shriek, flits bye on leathern wing; Or where the beetle winds
His small and sullen horn,
As oft he rises midst the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum:
Now teach me, maid compos'd,
To breathe some soften'd strain,
Whose numbers, stealing through the darkening vale,
May not unseemly with its stillness suit:
As musing slow, I hail
Thy genial, lov'd, return!
For when thy holding star, arising, shows
His paly circlet; at his warning lamp,
The fragrant hours and elves
That slept in buds, the day;
And many a nymph who wreathes her brow with sedge,
And sheds the freshening dew; and lovelier still, The pensive pleasures sweet,
Prepare thy shadowy car.
Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene;
Or find some ruin midst its dreary dells,
Whose walls more awful nod
By thy religious gleams.
Or if chill blustering winds, or driving rain
Prevent my willing feet; be mine the hut,
That from the mountain's side
Views wilds and swelling floods,
And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires;
And hears their simple bell; and marks o'er all
Thy dewy fingers draw
While spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont,
And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve!
While summer loves to sport
Beneath thy lingering light;
While sallow autumn fills thy lap with leaves,
Or winter, yelling through the troublous air,
Affrights thy shrinking train,
And rudely rends thy robes:
So long, regardful of thy quiet rule,
Shall fancy, friendship, science, smiling peace,
Thy gentlest influence own,
And love thy favourite name.
But first, and chiefest, with thee bring,
Him that yon soars on golden wing,
Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne,
The cherub contemplation :
And the mute silence hist along,
Less Philomel will deign a song,
In her sweetest, saddest plight,
Soothing the rugged brow of night.
While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke,
Gently o'er the accustom'd oak;
Sweet bird that shunn'st the noise of folly,
Most musical, most melancholy!
Thee chauntress, oft, the woods among
I woo to hear thy evening song;
And missing thee, I walk unseen
On the dry, smooth-shaven green,
To behold the wandering moon
Riding near her highest noon;
And oft, as if her head she bow'd,
"Stooping through a fleecy cloud.
Oft on a plat of rising ground,
I hear the far-off curfew sound,
Over some wide water'd shore,
Swinging slow, with sullen roar.
Or if the air will not permit,
Some still, removed place will fit,
Where glowing embers, through the room,
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom; .
Far from all resort of mirth,
Save the cricket on the hearth ;
Or the bellman's drowsy charm,
To bless the doors from nightly harm.
NIGHT, sable goddess! from her ebon throne,
In rayless majesty now stretches forth
Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumb'ring world.
Silence, how dead! and darkness, how profound!
Nor eye, nor listening ear, an object finds.
Creation sleeps. 'Tis as the general pulse
Of life stood still, and nature made a pause;
An awful pause, prophetic of her end.
Silence and Darkness, solemn sisters! twins
From ancient Night, who nurse the tender thought
|