Where deep morasses faithful smile, In transient verdure to beguile, This humble fabric stands. Oh! scorn it not, because 'tis poor, But entering in, that Power adore! Where Zephyr breathes in temper'd gales, Thro' wood-crown'd hills, and gentle vales, And peaceful rivers flow; And herbs. and fruits, and fragrant flowers, And flocks, and herds, and shady bowers, Their varied gifts bestow. Let no presumptuous thoughts arise, Who bravely meets the northern wind, Where much is giv'n, more is requir'd; Enjoy thy happier lot With trembling awe and chasten'd fear; INGRATITUDE. BY SHAKSPEARE. BLOW, blow, thou winter-wind; As man's ingratitude : Thy tooth is not so keen, Although thy breath be rude. Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky; Thou, thou the waters warp; As friend remember'd not. TO THE IVY. BY F. HEMANS. Oh! how could fancy crown with thee, Thy home, wild plant, is where each sound The Roman on his battle plains, Where kings before his eagles bent, Yet there, tho' fresh in glossy green, Where sleep the sons of ages flown, Where years are hastening to efface Thou, in thy solitary grace, Wreath of the tomb! art there. Thou o'er the shrines of fallen gods, On classic plains dost mantling spread, And veil the desolate abodes And cities of the dead. Deserted palaces of kings, Arches of triumph long o'erthrown, Oh! many a temple, once sublime, Hath nought of beauty left by Time, Save thy wild tapestry : And, rear'd midst crags and clouds, 'tis thine High from the fields of air look down, Hath pass'd, and left no trace. But thou art there: thy foliage bright, Unchang'd, the mountain-storm can brave; Thou, that wilt climb the loftiest height, And deck the humblest grave. The breathing forms of Parian stone, That rise round grandeur's marble halls; The vivid hues, by painting thrown, Rich o'er the glowing walls; D The acanthus, on Corinthian fanes, 'Tis still the same: where'er we tread, The wrecks of human power we see; The marvels of all ages fled, Left to decay and thee! And still let man his fabrics rear, August in beauty, grace, and strength: Days pass-thou, Ivy, never sere, And all is thine at length! FRAGMENT. ANONYMOUS. How happy could I pass my days And every fickle gale; For there the storms of life sweep by, And break on those who live more high. |