On he goes ! ----resistless Fate SUSANNA'S VIGIL. Twelve times the slow-voiced village clock From moss-grown turret sounded deep; The guardian dogs, the folded flock, And toil-spent hinds, were sunk in sleep. Alone Susanna wak'd: her arm, Tear-moisten'd, propt her languid head; Full on her heart she felt th' alarm, And sudden started froin her bed. On this sad night a year had rollid, A year of sorrow's darkest shade, Since low beneath the hallow'd mould Her William's clay-cold corse was laid. Too well her memory kept the date Of woes that knew but one relief; ' And forih she went, with tottering gait, To taste the luxury of grief. Across the green, the church-yard way She scarce discern'd anid the gloom, Till from the noon a friendly ray Burst thro' and glean'd on William's tomb. With throbbing breast she sought the place, And knelt beside the sacred stone ; To heav'n she turn'd her pallid face, And clasp'd her hands in speechless moan. At length she cried (her hollow voice Broke awful thro' the shades of night), « Dear object of my earliest choice, Once my heart's joy, my eyes' delight; If yet, a spirit clad in air, Thou hoverest round these cold remains; If earthly things be yet thy care, Thy once-lov'd friends, and native plains; Oh turn thy pitying looks of love Onlier, thy own bethrouled maid ; Brood o'er her like the tender dove, And fly to thy Susanna's aid ! Twelve dismal months this tortur'd breast Nor joy nor soft repose has felt; Oh enter thou, a sainted guest, And grief in holy fervours melt! So shall these poor remains of breath No more in sighs accuse my fate; But for the welcome stroke of death In peace my patient soul shall wait.” This said, she rose: and now she hears (With Fancy's fond illusions warm) Sweet music trilling in her ears, And sees her William's glittring form. The vision ceas'd.- She slow returns, With backward look and falt'ring pace; With rapture's fire her bosom burns, While feverish lustre lights her face. Now faint, exhausted, on her bed Her limbs the lovely mourner throws; Kind sleep around his poppies shed, And Nature sinks in calm repose. But deep within her aching breast Lurks the keen foe that saps her life; And soon in one eternal rest Must close the sorrowing ling'ring strife, THE HAMLET. Written in Whichwood Forest. The hinds how blest, who ne'er beguild When morning's twilight-tinctur'd beam Strikes their low thatch with slanting gleam, They rove abroad in æther blue, To dip the scythe in fragrant dew: The sheaf to bind, the beech to fell, That nodding shades a craggy dell. Midst gloomy glades, in warbles clear, Wild Nature's sweetest notes they hear: On green untrodden banks they view The hyacinth's neglected hue : In their lone haunts, and woodland rounds, They spy the squirrel's airy bounds: And startle from her ashen spray, Across the glen, the screaming jay: Each native charm their steps explore Of Solitude's sequester'd store. For them the moon, with cloudless tay, Mounts, to illume their homeward way: Their wears spirits to relieve, The meadows incense breathe at eve : No riot mars the simple fare That o'er a glimmering hearth they share: But when the curfeu's measur'd roar Duly, the darkening vallies v'er, Has echoed from the distant town, They wish no beds of cygnet-down, No trophied canopy to close Their drooping eyes in quick repose. Their little sons, who spread the bloom Of health around the clay-built room, Or through the primros'd coppice stray, Or ga nbol in the new-mown lay: Or quaintly braid the cowslip twine, Or drive afield the tardy kine; Or hasten from the sultry hill To loiter at the shady rill; Or climb the tall pine's gloomy crest To rob the raven's ancient nest. Their humble porch with honied flowers The curling woodbine's shade embowers : From the trim garden's thymy mound Their bees in busy swarms resound: Nor sell Diseasė, before his time, Hastes to consume life's golden prime: |