A tale of rural life, a tale of woes, The orphan babes, and guardian uncle fierce. That heart by lust of lucre sear❜d to stone! To latest times shall tender souls bemoan Those helpless orphan-babes by thy fell arts undone. Behold, with berries smear'd, with brambles torn,* Nor friend, nor stranger, hears their dying cry; "For from the town the man returns no more." But thou, who Heaven's just vengeance dar'st defy, This deed with fruitless tears shall soon deplore, When Death lays waste thy house, and flames consume thy store. A stifled smile of stern vindictive joy * See the fine old ballad, called, The Children in the Wood. Nor be thy generous indignation check'd, But dreadful is their doom, whom doubt has driven But frown on all that pass, a monument of wo. 1 Shall he, whose birth, maturity, and age, If but a momentary shower descend! Or shall frail man Heaven's dread decree gainsay, Which bade the series of events extend Wide thro' unnumber'd worlds, and ages without end! One part, one little part, we dimly scan Thus Heaven enlarg'd his soul in riper years; On Fancy's wing above this vale of tears; This art preposterous renders more unfit ; [wit. Yet deem they darkness light, and their vain blunders Nor was this ancient dame a foe to mirth, Oft cheer'd the shepherds round their social hearth; To purchase chat or laughter, at the price That Nature forms a rustic taste so nice. Oft when the winter-storm had ceas'd to rave, Thence musing onward to the sounding shore, Listening with pleasing dread to the deep roar When sulph'rous clouds roll'd on the vernal day, Along the trembling wilderness to stray, What time the lightning's fierce career began, [ran. And o'er Heaven's rending arch the rattling thunder Responsive to the sprightly pipe when all In sprightly dance the village youth were join'd, From the rude gambol far remote reclin❜d, Sooth'd with the soft notes warbling in the wind. To the pure soul by Fancy's fire refin❜d, Ah what is mirth but turbulence unholy, When with the charm compared of heavenly melancholy! Is there a heart that music cannot melt? Is there, who ne'er those mystic transports felt He needs not woo the Muse: he is her scorn. Mope o'er the schoolman's peevish page; or mourn, Sneak with the scoundrel fox, or grunt with glutton swine. For Edwin, Fate a nobler doom had plann'd; His infant muse, though artless, was not mute; For this of time and culture is the fruit ; Meanwhile, whate'er of beautiful, or new, Thus on the chill Lapponian's dreary land, For many a long month lost in snow profound, When Sol from Cancer sends the season bland, And in their northern cave the storms are bound; From silent mountains, straight, with startling sound, Torrents are hurl'd; green hills emerge; and lo, The trees with foliage, cliffs with flowers are crown'd; Pure rills thro' vales of verdure warbling go; And wonder, love, and joy, the peasant's heart o'erflow.* Spring and Autumn are hardly known to the Laplanders. About the time the sun enters Cancer, their fields, which a week before were covered with snow, appear on a sud ten full of grass and flowers. Scheffer's History of Lapland, p. 16. |