« הקודםהמשך »
While, at the foot of some old tree,
As meditation sooths his mind,
Or rippling stream, or whisp’ring wind,
And Fortune heap the festive board,
And Reason scorn the splendid hoard;
And sweetly calm the darkest glen; While Pomp, and Pride, and Power appear,
At best, the glitt'ring plagues of men;
With Meditation and the Muse!
The glow of temper'd mirth diffuse;
LINES WRITTEN ON THE SEA-SHORE ON
A SUMMER EVENING.
And o'er the world of waters, smooth and wide, My thoughtful eye is cast; no wintry roar
Disturbs the calm expanse. Ah! here abide
Could I for ever. Pleasing to the eye
Is the soft bosom of the silver sea;
With sorrow's tones in moving sympathy.
Dashes the wave :- then silence seems to sleep
A while upon the calm breast of the deep. And now I pause, and turn, and mark the beam
Of the pale moon illume the battlement Of yonder ruin'd Castle ivy-crown'd, And nodding o'er the land. Ab! Time hath
rent, Its dark-grey walls ; and, mould'ring on the
ground, Its antique columns lie. The pensive mind
Sighs o'er its fallen glories. Near the rocki That bares its rugged bosom to the wind,
I linger yet, and see the wheeling flock Of screaming sea-gulls sweep the tranquil tide, Or on the wave in placid triumph ride. All now is fair and silent; summer's eve
Forbids the yelling dreary blast to blow..
Here let the thoughtful bosom overflow, And with meek mind the moral truth receive : I view the unruffled sea; but still conceal'd, What rocks and quicksands lurk beneath the
deep! So the world's smiles (by faithful time reveald)
Allure awhile, yet cause the wretch to weep. Soft now the gales that whisper; yet the breath
Of the loud hurricane will howl along Ere many months be past : so pain and death Close the smooth prospects of the world's gay throng.
LINES WRITTEN ON VISITING A SCENE
CAMPBELL. At the silence of twilight's contemplative hour,
I have mus'd in a sorrowful mood, On the wind-shaken weeds that embosom the
bow'r, Where the home of my forefathers stood. All ruin'd and wild is their roofless abode,
And lonely the dark raven's sheltering tree; And travell’d by few is the grass-cover'd road, Where the hunter of deer and the warrior trode
To his hills that encircle the sea.
Yet, wand'ring, I found on my ruinous walk,
By the dial-stone aged and green,
To mark where a garden had been :
All wild in the silence of Nature, it drew
place, Where the flow'r of my forefathers grew.
Sweet bud of the wilderness ! emblem of all
That remains in this desolate heart! The fabric of bliss to its centre may fall, “ But patience shall never depart ! Though the wilds of enchantment, all vernal and
bright, In the days of delusion by fancy combin'd With the vanishing phantoms of love and delight, Abandon my soul like a dream of the night,
And leave but a desert behind ;
Be hush'd, my dark spirit! for wisdom condemns
When the faint and the feeble deplore;
A thousand wild waves on the shore !
disdain, May thy front be unalter'd, thy courage elate ! Yea! even the name I have worshipp'd in vain Shall awake not the sigh of remembrance again ;
To bear is to conquer our fate.
Who may she be, this beauteous, smiling maid,
Who from the south is this with ling'ring tread
The crystal brooks she seeks, and limpid streams,
Who may he be that next, with sober pace,
Who is he from the north that speeds his way? Thick furs and wool compose his warm array: His cloak is closely folded; bald his head; His beard of clear sharp icicles is made. By blazing fire he loves to stretch his limbs; With skait-bound feet the frozen lakes he skims.