And far withdrawn on yonder coppice green,
Like wood-born regents of the lonely scene,
The sun-brown gypsies o'er their caldron gaze,
And watch the faggots crackle as they blaze;
But lo! a livelier scene,-beside, the wheel
While urchins whirling round from head to heel;
Around, and round, and still around they turn,
Till lip and eye with bright suffusion burn,
Then mildly beg, with upward-looking face,
Some poor reward to crown their wheel-side race.
ON her seven-hill'd throne
Behold her seated, by worn Tiber's banks!
Colossal ruin, like a noble mind,
In desolation, thou art glorious still!
Though Time hath conquer'd, can be equal thee?
Thy temples tow'ring to the blue-domed sky,
The trophied porches, vasty theatres
That heard the beating of ten thousand hearts;
And fane sublime, on that Tarpeian rock,
Where vengeance was eternity!—when Rome
Could trample kingdoms, and o'erawe the world,
What grandeur rivall'd these ?— their very shades
Are solemn but around them, when the rush
Of life was heard; when chariots, bright as those
That wheel the morning sun, victorious came,
Amid the tramp of war-steeds, and the shout
Of millions, swelling with their country's fame,
Thy glory was a terror, and thine arm
Omnipotence! through the wide universe
The throbbing of thy faintest passion thrill'd,
And when thou frown'dst, what nation dared be free?
REFLECTIONS ON A LIFE OF MERITORIOUS
EXERTION.
OH! for a nobler and a deeper sense
Of all that forms our true preeminence;
For high-born energies of heav'nly sway,
And flow'rs of charity to strew the way,-
That Sin no longer may the world defile,
And Nature glory in a good man's smile,
As on we hasten to that dreamless shore
Where Passion sleeps, and Prejudice is o'er!
The days of fever and the nights of fire,
Felt in the blood till health and hope expire;
The ghastly slumber, and the spectral tomb
For ever yawning in the spirit's gloom;
And that most agonizing waste of soul
Where all the billows of excitement roll,
Morn, noon, and night, in one eternal play,—
Are thine, ambition !-till thou wear'st away.
And, mix'd with agonies of outward state,
That inward torment, which thy dreams create
By thirst within for some perfection made
By thought alone, or never yet display'd
Like the pure model which the mind surveys-
'Tis thine to suffer through uncounted days!
Yet, welcome all!-If ever thought of mine
Hath woo'd a spirit into calm divine,
Expanded feelings, purified their flow,
Or shed a sunbeam o'er an hour of woe,-
My soul shall triumph o'er exhaustless pain,
And proudly think it has not lived in vain!
RURAL SCENERY.--MORNING.
A VALE of beauty!-lo! the morn,
In clouds of crimson radiance born,
Hath risen from the couch of night,
And fills the air with fresh delight;
While hues, like harmonies that range
The world of sound with heavenly change,—
In varied lustre o'er the sky
Awaken, mingle, melt, and die;
Till full-orb'd on his flaming throne
The Sun-king is beheld alone!
And, blue as Baltic waves asleep,
Before him lies a dazzling sweep
Of azure, in its deep excess
Of morn-created loveliness!
How exquisite this breathing hour!—
As though awhile some choral bower,
Where cherubim partake repose,
Its crystal gates did half unclose,
Till fragments of delicious sound
Came wafted on the winds around,
And bloom and balm to nature giv'n
Made earth a momentary heaven!
Hark! to the choir of yonder wood,
Where life exults in solitude:
On each unrifled bough is heard
The lay of some melodious bird,
And young-wing'd breezes as they float
From brook and meadow learn a note;
And streams like tides of gladness flow
And in the air there dwells a glow
Of elemental youth and joy,
Unchill'd by one corrupt alloy.-
How dazzlingly with rosy dies
The fairies of the field arise!
And flutter on their insect wings,
As each a song of matin sings;
And where around the glitt'ring blade
A liquid web of dew is laid,
As early peasants' footsteps pass,-
How greenly shines the shaken grass!
While many a lark from off the ground
Is startled, like a magic sound
That ere the sense be half aware
Is kindled by the harp of air!
And list! from out yon village dell, Upon the breeze, in broken swell, The goings-on of life begin To charm the ear of social din. The creak of hill-ascending wain, The shout of some exulting swain, The watch-dog baying far behind, The mill-sounds hoarse upon the wind, With voices from the child of crone,Are all in gay confusion thrown!
And travel on the morning breeze
With notes whose human echoes please.
From the thatch'd chimney now have broke
The tinted wreaths of cottage smoke,—
Ascending delicately bright,
And braided by a golden light,
Like air-wing'd hopes they glide away,
Commingling with the boundless day!
And see, amid the straw-roof'd throng
Of homes that to yon dale belong,
As dwelt the patriarch on the plain,
Surrounded by his pastoral train,—
A mansion smiles; whose neater state,
Though unallied to proud or great,
A central grace around it throws,
And o'er each cot a charm bestows.
Embower'd in laurels, green and calm,—
To view it yields the eye a balm!
But, when at eve its garden hath
A lustre on each lilied path;
When bough, and branch, and grape-hung vine,
In rays of pensive beauty shine,
While gladsome bee, and quiring bird,
And leafy song, are faintly heard,—
More lovely than a dream-built dome
Appears that hush'd and heavenly home!
There often hath the worldling cast
A longing eye, ere on he pass'd,
And while it wander'd o'er the scene,
Mused-Oh! that such my own had been!
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