66 -Whate'er thy lot,-whoe'er thou be,— Confess thy folly,-kiss the rod, And in thy chastening sorrow see The hand of God. "A bruised reed He will not break; "Humbled beneath his mighty hand, Prostrate his Providence adore : "Tis done!-Arise! He bids thee stand, To fall no more. "Now, Traveller in the vale of tears, To realms of everlasting light, Through Time's dark wilderness of years Pursue thy flight. "There is a calm for those who weep, "The Soul, of origin divine, God's glorious image, freed from clay, "The SUN is but a spark of fire, A transient meteor in the sky; The SOUL, immortal as its Sire, SHALL NEVER DIE. BOLEHILL TREES. A conspicuous plantation, encompassing a school-house and play-ground, on a bleak eminence, at Barlow, in Derbyshire: on the one hand facing the high moors; on the other, overlooking a richly-cultivated, well-wooded, and mountainous country, near the seat of a gentlemen where the writer has spent many happy hours. Now peace to his ashes who planted yon trees, In lofty luxuriance they wave with the breeze, On the brow of the mountain, uncultured and bleak, Like the lock on the forehead of Time. A land-mark they rise;―to the stranger forlorn 'Tis rapture to spy the young beauties of morn The homeward-bound husbandman joys to behold, Their branches yet gleaming with purple and gold, The maidens that gather the fruits of the moor,* Through the blue dazzling distance of noon-light explore The children that range in the valley suspend Their sports and in ecstasy gaze, When they see the broad moon from the summit ascend, Oh! sweet to my soul is that beautiful grove, * Bilberries, cluster-berries, and crane-berries. When lonely in anguish and exile I rove, It gladdens my spirit, it soothes from afar It shines through my heart, like a hope-beaming star, It tells me of moments of innocent bliss, For ever and ever gone o'er; Like the light of a smile, like the balm of a kiss, Though the sun of their sweetness be sunk in the main, Then peace to his ashes who planted those trees! Nor marble, nor brass, could emblazon his fame Ah! thus, when I sleep in the desolate tomb, Then ages unborn shall their verdure admire, And nations sit under their shade, While my spirit, in secret, shall move o'er my lyre, Hence dream of vain glory !—the light drop of dew In the splendour of morn, to a fugitive view, But the violet is pluck'd, and the dew-drop is flown, 1807. VOL II. THE OLD MAN'S SONG. SHALL Man of frail fruition boast? There was a time,-that time is past,― Like me through varying seasons range, In infancy, my vernal prime, When life itself was new, Amusement pluck'd the wings of time, Summer my youth succeeded soon, And pleasure held the reins till noon, Like Autumn, rich in ripening corn, Close follow'd age, infirm old The winter of my year; 32 age, 1804. When shall I fall before his rage, I long to cast the chains away, Life lies in embryo,-never free And Man is born in Death. THE GLOW-WORM. The male of this insect is said to be a fly, which the female caterpillar attracts in the night by the lustre of her train. WHEN Evening closes Nature's eye, The Glow-worm lights her little spark, To captivate her favourite fly, And tempt the rover through the dark. Conducted by a sweeter star, Than all that deck the fields above, He fondly hastens from afar, To soothe her solitude with love. Thus in this wilderness of tears, Amidst the world's perplexing gloom, Unhappy he whose hopeless eye |