So stout and hardy were the band That scraped the chords with strenuous hand! And who but listened?- till was paid Respect to every Inmate's claim : The greeting given, the music played, And "Merry Christmas" wished to all! O Brother! I revere the choice Yet, would that Thou, with me and mine, And seen on other faces shine A true revival of the light 20 Which Nature and these rustic Powers, In simple childhood, spread through ours! 30 For pleasure hath not ceased to wait On these expected annual rounds; That guards the lowliest of the poor. How touching, when, at midnight, sweep To hear – and sink again to sleep! Or, at an earlier call, to mark, By blazing fire, the still suspense The mutual nod, - the grave disguise Of hearts with gladness brimming o'er ; And some unbidden tears that rise For names once heard, and heard no more; For infant in the cradle laid. Ah! not for emerald fields alone, 40 With ambient streams more pure and bright Glittering before the Thunderer's sight, Is to my heart of hearts endeared The ground where we were born and reared! Hail, ancient Manners! sure defence, And ye that guard them, Mountains old! Bear with me, Brother! quench the thought From the proud margin of the Thames, 50 60 And Lambeth's venerable towers, To humbler streams, and greener bowers. Yes, they can make, who fail to find, That through the clouds do sometimes steal, As aptly, also, might be given A Pencil to her hand; That, softening objects, sometimes even 70 That smooths foregone distress, the lines Long-vanished happiness refines, ΙΟ And clothes in brighter hues; Yet, like a tool of Fancy, works Those Spectres to dilate That startle Conscience, as she lurks O that our lives, which flee so fast, That not an image of the past Should fear that pencil's touch! Retirement then might hourly look Age steal to his allotted nook With heart as calm as lakes that sleep, In frosty moonlight glistening; 20 TO THE LADY FLEMING, ON SEEING THE FOUNDATION PREPARING FOR THE ERECTION OF RYDAL CHAPEL, WESTMORELAND. 1823. — 1827. I. BLEST is this Isle, our native Land; Of hoary Time to decorate; Where shady hamlet, town that breathes II. O Lady! from a noble line Of chieftains sprung, who stoutly bore |