Remember still, 'tis Nature's plan
Religion in your love to find;
And know, for this, she first in man
Inspir'd the imitative mind.
As conscious that affection grows,
Pleas'd with the pencil's mimic power;*
That power with leading hand she shows,
And paints a Bee upon a flower.
Mark, how that rooted mandrake wears
His human feet, his human hands!
Oft, as his shapely form he tears,
Aghast the frighted ploughman stands.
See where, in yonder orient stone,
She seams e'en with herself at strife,
While fairer from her hand is shown
The pictur'd, than the native life.
Helvetia's rocks, Sabrina's waves,
Still many a shining pebble bear,
Where oft her studious hand engraves
The perfect form, and leaves it there.
O long, my Paxton,† boast her art;
And long her laws of love fulfil :
To thee she gave her hand and heart,
To thee, her kindness and her skill!
* The well-known fables of the Painter and the Statuary that fell in love with objects of their own creation, plainly arose from the idea of that attachment, which follows the imitation of agreeable objects, to the objects imitated.
+ An ingenious portrait-painter.
THE WILDING AND THE BROOM.
IN yonder green wood blows the Broom; Shepherds, we'll trust our flocks to stray, Court Nature in her sweetest bloom,
And steal from care one summer-day.
From him whose gay and graceful brow
Fair-handed Hume with roses binds,
We'll learn to breathe the tender vow,
Where slow the fairy Fortha winds.
And oh! that het whose gentle breast
In Nature's softest mould was made,
Who left her smiling works imprest
In characters that cannot fade;
That he might leave his lowly shrine,
Though softer there the Seasons fall-
They come, the sons of verse divine,
They come to Fancy's magic call.
What airy sounds invite My steps not unreluctant, from the depth
Of Shene's delightful groves? Reposing there
No more I hear the busy voice of men
Far-toiling o'er the globe :-save to the call
Of soul-exalting Poetry, the ear
Of Death denies attention. Rous'd by her,
The genius of sepulchral Silence opes
William Hamilton of Bangour.
His drowsy cells, and yields us to the day.
For thee, whose hand, whatever paints the Spring,
Or swells on Summer's breast, or loads the lap
Of Autumn, gathers heedful-Thee, whose rites
At Nature's shrine with holy care are paid
Daily and nightly, boughs of brightest green,
And every fairest rose, the god of groves,
The queen of flowers, shall sweeter save for thee.
Yet not if beauty only claim thy lay,
Tunefully trifling. Fair Philosophy,
And Nature's love, and every moral charm
That leads in sweet captivity the mind
To virtue-ever in thy nearest cares
Be these, and animate thy living page
With truth resistless, beaming from the source
Of perfect light immortal-Vainly boasts
That golden Broom its sunny robe of flowers:
Fair are the sunny flowers; but, fading soon
And fruitless, yield the forester's regard
To the well-loaded Wilding-Shepherd, there
Behold the fate of song, and lightly deem
Of all but moral beauty.'
I hear my Hamilton reply
(The torch of fancy in his eye)
"Tis not in vain, (I hear him say)
That Nature paints her works so gay;
For, fruitless though that fairy Broom,
Yet still we love her lavish bloom.
Cheer'd with that bloom, yon desert wild
Its native horrors, lost, and smil❜d,
And oft we mark her golden ray
Along the dark wood scatter day.
Of moral uses take the strife;
Leave me the elegance of life.
Whatever charms the ear or eye,
All beauty and all harmony;
If sweet sensations these produce,
I know they have their moral use.
I know that Nature's charms can move
The springs that strike to Virtue's love.'
THE MISLETOE AND THE PASSIONFLOWER.
In this dim cave a druid sleeps,
Where stops the passing gale to moan;
The rock he hollow'd o'er him weeps,
And cold drops wear the fretted stone.
In this dim cave, of different creed,
An hermit's holy ashes rest;
The school-boy finds the frequent bead,
Which many a formal matin blest.
That truant-time full well I know
When here I brought in stolen hour,
The druid's magic Misletoe,
The holy hermit's Passion-flower.
The offerings on the mystic stone
Pensive I laid, in thought profound,
When from the cave a deepening groan
Issued, and froze me to the ground.
I hear it still-Dost thou not hear?
Does not thy haunted fancy start?
The sound still vibrates through mine ear-
The horror rushes on my heart.
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