AT the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove: THE HERMIT. "Ah! why thus abandon'd to darkness and woe? Why thus, lonely Philomel, flows thy sad strain? For Spring shall return, and a lover bestow, And thy bosom no trace of misfortune retain. Yet, if pity inspire thee, oh! cease not thy lay; Mourn, sweetest companion! man calls thee to mourn: Oh! soothe him, whose pleasures, like thine, pass away; Full quickly they pass--but they never return! 'Now, gliding remote on the verge of the sky, She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. ""Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more: I mourn; but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you; For morn is approaching, your charms to restore, Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glitt'ring with dew. Nor yet for the ravage of Winter I mourn; Kind Nature the embryo blossom shall save: But when shall Spring visit the mouldering urn? Oh! when shall it dawn on the night of the grave?" THE shades of night were falling fast, As through an Alpine village pass'd A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, A banner with the strange device, His brow was sad; his eye beneath Flash'd like a falchion from its sheath; Aud like a silver clarion rung The accents of that unknown tongue, In happy homes he saw the light Of household fires gleam warm and bright; Above, the spectral glaciers shone, And from his lips escaped a groan, "Try not the Pass!" the old man said: "Dark lowers the tempest overhead; The roaring torrent is deep and wide!" And loud that clarion voice replied, Excelsior! |