« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »
In a garden live like me,
Flowers have sprung for many a year,
O'er the village maiden's grave,
That, one memorial-spring to save,
And homeward walking, wept o'er me
And soon, her cottage-window near,
With care my slender stem she placed,
And fondly thus her grief enıbraced,
For love sincere and friendship freo,
When past was many a painful day,
Slow-pacing o'er the village-green
In white were all its maidens seen, And love
my guardian friend away. Oh, death! what sacrifice to thee The ruins of simplicity.
One generous swain her heart approved,
A youth, whose fond and faithful breast,
With many an artless sigh confest,
But stranger, 'tis no tale for thee,
He died-and soon her lip was cold,
And soon her ro‘y lip was pale,
The village wept to hear the tale
Beneath yon flowery turf they lie,
Yet one boon have I to crave;
Stranger, it' thy pity bleed,
Wilt thou do one lender deed,
So lightly lie the turf on thee.
ON DENNIS HAMPSON,
The blind Bard of Magilligan, in Ireland, who
died at the advanced age of 110.
The fame of the brave shall no longer be sounded, The last of our bards now sleeps cold in his
grare; Magilligan rocks; where his lays have resounded,
Frown dark at the ocean, and spurn at the wave. For Hampson no more shall thy soul-touching finger
Steal sweet o'er the strings, and wild melody pour; No more near thy hut shall the villagers linger, While strains from thy harp warble soft round
No more thy harp swells with enraptured emotion,
Thy wild gleams of fancy for ever are fied, No longer thy minstrelsy charms the rude ocean, That rolls near the green turf that pillows thy
Yet vigour and youth with bright visions had fired
thee, And rose-buds of health have blown deep on
thy cheek; The songs of the sweet bards of Erin inspired thee,
And urged thee to wander like laurels to seek.
Yes, oft has thou sung of our kings crown'd with
glory, Or sighing repeated the lover's fund lay, And oft hast thou sung of the bards famed in story,
Whose wild nutes of rapture have long past away.
Thy grave sha.l be screen'd from the blast and
the billow, Around it a fence shall posterity raise; Erin's children shall wet with their tears thy cold
pillow. Her youths shall lament thee, and carolthy praise.
ON GOD AND NATURE.
All are but parts of one stupendous whole, Whose body Nature is, and God the soul; That chang’d thro' all, and yet in all the same, Great in the earth, as in th’ætherial frame, Warns in the sun, refreshes in the breeze, Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees, Lives thro' all life, extends thro' all extent, Spreads individed, operates unspent, Breathes in our soul, iníorms our mortal part, As fuil, as perfect, in a hair as heart; As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns, As the rapt seraph that adores and burns; To lim, no bigti, no low, no great, no small; He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all.
Cease then, nor order imperfection name : Our proper bliss depends on what we blame. Know thy owo point: this kind, this due degree Of blindness, weakness, heav'n bestuws on thee. Submit in this, or any other sphere, Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear: Sate in the hand of one disposing power, Or in the nalai, on the mortal hour. All Nature is but art, unknown to thee; All chance, direction, which thou canst not see;
All discord, harmony, not understood;
O Happiness ! our being's end and aim! Good, pleasure, ease, content! whate’erthy name: That something, which still prompts th' eternal,
sigh; For which be bear to live, nor fear to die: Which still so near us, yet beyond us lies; O’erlook'd, seen double, by the fool and wise. Plant of celestial seed! if dropt below, Say in what mortal soil thou deign’st to grow? Fair opening to some court's propitious shrine? Or deep with diamonds in the flaming mine? Twin'd with the wreaths Parnassian laurels yield ? Or reapt in iron harvests of the field ?
Ask of the learn’d the way, the learn'd are
blind : This bids to serve, and that to shun mankind. Some place the bliss in action, some in ease; Those call it pleasure, and contentment these :