« הקודםהמשך »
Sons of honour, fed on praises,
Lo the fickle air, that raises,
Learned sophs, in systems jaded,
Cease, at length, by us persuaded,
Youths, tho' yet no losses grieve you,
Let not cloudless skies deceive you,
Venerable sires, grown hoary,
Think, amidst your falling glory,
Yearly in our course returning,
Thus we preach this truth concerning,
On the tree of life eternal, a.
Which alone, for ever vernal,
WRITTEN In the Porch of Binstead Church, in the Isle
- of Wight.
FAREwell, sweet Binstead take a long farewell
No longer lies Nature asleep in the root;
She blooms in yon bough, lo! she sets in yon fruit;
Too soon from the bough if the blossom should fall,
No fruit will succeed,—the gay blossom is all :
Think, think, O my soul, what a lesson for thee!
The bough may bloom fair, but quite barren the tree,
While planted I am in this garden below,
ON VISITING THE RUINS OF DUNKSWELL ABBEY.
BLEST be the power, by Heaven's own flame inspired, That first through shades monastic poured the light; Where, with unsocial Indolence retired, Fell Superstition reigned in tenfold night; Where, long sequestered from the vulgar sight, Religion fettered lay, her form unknown, "Mid direful gloom and many a secret rite; Till now released, she claims her native throne, And gilds th’ awakening world with radiance all her own.
O sacred source of sweet celestial peace | From age to age in darksome cells confined Blest be the voice that bade thy bondage cease, And sent thee forth to illuminate the blind, Support the weak, and raise the sinking mind: By thee the soul her native strength explores, Pursues the plan by favouring Heaven assigned, Through Truth's fair path th' enlightened spirit SOars, And the Great Cause of all with purer rites adores.
How oft, confined within this narrow grate, With souls aspiring to a world's applause, Have free-born spirits mourned their hapless fate Some hero, ardent in his country's cause, Some patriot, formed to give a nation laws, Or in life's milder scenes with honour share; When each fond hope a father's hand withdraws, And dooms his child, from ev’ry prospect fair, To long unvarying years of lonely deep despair.
When darkness now with silence reigns around, As the faint sun withdraws his glimm'ring beams, (Save when, to render horror more profound, On the rough grate the pale moon quiv'ring gleams, And thro' the length'ning aisle the owlet screams) Then, lulled by Fancy's visionary train, His long lost friends frequent his blissful dreams; He spends his days of childhood o'er again, Till sounds the midnight bell, and proves the VISIOn Waln.
Yet let the hand of desolating Time
Though now in ruined majesty they lie,
WAGEs of sin is death : The day is come,