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Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale, May not unseemly with its stillness suit;
As musing slow, I hail
Thy genial lov'd return!
The fragrant Hours, and Elves
Who slept in buds the day, And many a Nymph who wreaths her brows with
sedge, And sheds with fresh’ning dew, and, lovelier still,
The pensive Pleasures sweet,
Prepare thy shadowy car. Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene; Or find some ruin, 'midst its dreary dells,
Whose walls more awful nod
By thy religious gleams.
That, from the mountain's side,
Views wilds, and swelling floods, And hamlets brown, and dim discover'd spires ; And hears their simple bell ; and marks o'er all
Thy dewy fingers draw
The gradual dusky veil. While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve!
While Summer loves to sport
Beneath thy ling’ring light;
'Affrights thy shrinking train,
And rudely rends thy robes ;
Thy gentlest influence own,
DIRGE IN CYMBELINE. Sung by Gaiderus and Arviragus over Fidele, supposed
to be dead. To fair Fidele's grassy tomb
Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Each opening sweet of earliest bloom,
And rifle all the breathing spring. No wailing ghost shall dare appear
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove; But shepherd lads assemble here,
And melting virgins own their love. No wither'd witch shall here be seen;
No goblins lead their nightly crew : The female fays shall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew!
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
To deck the ground where thou art laid.
In tempests shake thy sylvan cell ; Or, 'midst the chase, on every plain,
The tender thought on thee shall dwell; Each lonely scene shall thee restore;
For thee the tear be duly shed; Belov'd, till life can charm no more,
And mourn'd till Pity's self be dead.
In Imitation of Spenser.
Auditæ voces, vagitus & ingens,
H me! full sorely is my heart forlord,
To think how modest worth neglected lies, While partial Fame doth with her blast adorn, Such deeds alone as pride and pomp disguise, Deeds of ill sort, and mischievous emprize: Lend me thy clarion, Goddess ! let me try To sound the praise of Merit, ere it dies, Such as I oft have chaunced to espy Lost in the dreary shades of dull obscurity. In ev'ry village mark'd with little spire, Embower'd in trees, and hardly known to fame, There dwells, in lowly shed and mean attire, A matron old, whom we school-mistress name, Who boasts unruly brats with birch to tame; They grieven sore, in piteous durance pent, Aw'd by the pow'r of this relentless dame, And oft times, on vagaries idly bent, For unkempt hair, or task unconn'd, are sorely shent. And all in sight doth rise a birchen tree, Which Learning near her little dome did stove, Whillow a twig of small regard to see, Tho' now so wide its waving branches flow, And work the simple vassal's mickle woe; For not a wind might curl the leaves that blow, But their limbs shudder'd, and their pulse beat low, And as they look'd, they found their borror grew, And shap'd it into rods, and tingled at the view.
So have I seen (who has not may conceive)
Near to this dome is found a patch so green,
Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow,
Few but have kenn'd, in semblance meet pourtray'd
A russet stole was o'er her shoulders thrown,' A russet kirtle fenc'd the nipping air ; 'Twas simple russet, but it was her own; 'Twas her own country bred the flock so fair: 'Twas her own labor did the fleece prepare; And, sooth, to say, her pupils, rang'd around, Thro' pious awe did term it passing rare, For they in gaping wonderment abound, And think, no doubt, she been the greatest wight on
ground. Albeit ne flatt'ry did corrupt her truth, Ne pompous title did debauch her ear, Goody, good woman, gossip, n'aunt, forsooth, Or dame, the sole additions she did hear; Yet these she challeng'd, these she held right dear Ne would esteem him act as mought behove Who should not honor'd eld with these revere; For never title yet so mean could prove, But there was eke a mind which did that title love. One ancient hen she took delight to feed, The plodding pattern of the busy dame, Which, ever and anon, impelld by need, Into her school, begirt with chickens, came; Such favor did her past deportment claim: And if neglect had lavish'd on the ground Fragment of bread, she would collect the same; For well she knew, and quaintly could expound, What sin it were to waste the smallest crum she found. Herbs, too, she knew, and well of each could speak, That in her garden sipp'd the silv'ry dew, Where no vain flow'r disclos'd a gaudy streak, But herbs for use, and physic, not a few, Of grey renown, within those borders grew; The tufted basil, pun provoking thyme, Fresh baum, and marygold of cheerful hue, The lowly gill, that never dares to climb, And more Ifain would sing,disdaining here to rhyme.