This is the hour when to the wise and good
The heavenly maid repays the toils of day.

The river murmurs, and the breathing gale
Whispers the gently-waving boughs among:
The star of evening glimmers o'er the dale,
And leads the silent host of heaven along.

How bright, emerging o'er yon broom-clad height,
The silver empress of the night appears!
Yon limpid pool reflects a stream of light,
And faintly in its breast the woodland bears.

The waters, tumbling o'er their rocky bed,

Solemn and constant from yon dell resound; The lonely hearths blaze o'er the distant glade; The bat, low-wheeling, skims the dusky ground.

August and hoary, o'er the sloping dale,

The Gothic abbey rears its sculptur'd tow'rs; Dull thro' the roofs resounds the whistling gale, Dark solitude among the pillars low'rs.

Where old trees bend o'er a place of graves,

yon

And solemn, shade a chapel's sad remains;

Where yon scath'd poplar through the windows waves, And, twining round, the hoary arch sustains;

There oft, at dawn, as one forgot behind,

Who longs to follow, yet unknowing where, Some hoary shepherd, o'er his staff reclin'd, Pores on

the graves, and sighs a broken pray'r.

High o'er the pines, that with their dark'ning shade
Surround yon craggy bank, the castle rears
Its crumbling torrents; still its tow'ry head
A warlike mien, a sullen grandeur wears.

So, 'midst the snow of age, a boastful air

*

Still on the war-worn veteran's brow attends; Still his big bones his youthful prime declare, Tho' trembling o'er the feeble crutch he bends.

Wild round the gates the dusky wall-flow'rs creep, Where oft the knights the beauteous dames have led; Gone is the bow'r, the grot a ruin'd heap,

Where bays and ivy o'er the fragments spread.

'Twas here our sires, exulting from the fight,

Great in their bloody arms, march'd o'er the lea, Eyeing their rescued fields with proud delight!

Now lost to them! and, ah! how chang'd to me!

This bank, the river, and the fanning breeze,
The dear idea of my Pollio bring;

So shone the moon thro' these soft-nodding trees,
When here we wander'd in the eves of spring.

When April's smiles the flow'ry lawn adorn,
And modest cowslips deck the streamlet's side;
When fragrant orchards to the roseate morn
Unfold their bloom, in heav'n's own colours dyed :

So fair a blossom gentle Pollio wore,

These were the emblems of his healthful mind;
To him the letter'd page display'd its lore,
To him bright Fancy all her wealth resign'd;

Him with her purest flames the Muse endow'd,
Flames never to th' illiberal thought allied:
The sacred sisters led where Virtue glow'd
In all her charms; he saw, he felt, and died.

O partner of my infant griefs and joys!

Big with the scenes now past, my heart o'erflows; Bids each endearment, fair as once, to rise,

And dwells luxurious on her melting woes.

Oft with the rising sun, when life was new,
Along the woodland have I roam'd with thee;
Oft by the moon have brush'd the evening dew,
When all was fearless innocence and glee.

The sainted well, where yon bleak hill declines,
Has oft been conscious of those happy hours;
But now the hill, the river crown'd with pines,

And sainted well have lost their cheering pow'rs:

For thou art gone. My guide, my friend! oh where,
Where hast thou fled, and left me here behind?
My tend❜rest wish, my heart to thee was bare;
Oh now cut off each passage to my mind!

How dreary is the gulph! how dark, how void
The trackless shores that never were repass'd!
Dread separation! on the depth untried,
Hope falters, and the soul recoils aghast!

Wide round the spacious heavens I cast my eyes:
And shall these stars glow with immortal fire?
Still shine the lifeless glories of the skies?

And could thy bright, thy living soul expire?

*Far be the thought! The pleasures most sublime, The glow of friendship, and the virtuous tear, The tow'ring wish that scorns the bounds of time, Chill'd in this vale of death, but languish here.

So plant the vine on Norway's wintry land,
The languid stranger feebly buds, and dies:

Yet there's a clime where Virtue shall expand

With godlike strength beneath her native skies!

The lonely shepherd on the mountain's side
With patience waits the rosy-opening day;
The mariner at midnight's darksome tide
With cheerful hope expects the morning ray:

Thus I, on life's storm-beaten ocean toss'd,
In mental vision view the happy shore,
Where Pollio beckons to the peaceful coast,

Where fate and death divide the friends no more!

Oh that some kind, some pitying kindred shade,
Who now perhaps frequents this solemn grove,
Would tell the awful secrets of the dead,

And from my eyes the mortal film remove!

Vain is the wish-yet surely not in vain
Man's bosom glows with that celestial fire
Which scorns earth's luxuries, which smiles at pain,
And wings his spirit with sublime desire!

To fan this spark of heaven, this ray divine,
Still, O my soul! still be thy dear employ;
Still thus to wander thro' the shades be thine,

And swell thy breast with visionary joy!