And pales his beam as Phoebus' car draws nigh. Or ere the crows from wattled sheep-cote veer My daily task, to guide the labouring steer, Plant the low shrub, remove the unsightly mound, Or nurse the flower, or tend the humming swarms. Thus ever with the morn may I be found, Far from the hunter-band's discordant yell; So in my breast Content and Health shall dwell, And conscious Bliss, and love of Nature's charms. BAMPFYLDE. ON THE EVENING. SLOW sinks the glimmering beam from western sky; Now with the flocks and yearlings let me hie Soft twittering, and bids farewell to day; Then, whilst the watchdog barks, and ploughmen lie, Lull'd by the rocking winds, let me unfold And Peace, and love, and heavenly Melancholy. BAMPFYLDE. ODE ON TIME. FLY, envious Time, till thou run out thy race; Whose speed is but the heavy plummet's pace; So little is our loss, So little is thy gain! For when as each thing bad thou hast entomb'd, And, last of all, thy greedy self consumed, Then long eternity shall grect our bliss With an individual kiss; And joy shall overtake us as a flood, When every thing that is sincerely good And perfectly divine, With truth, and peace, and love, shall ever shine About the supreme throne Of Him, to whose happy-making sight alone When once our heavenly-guided soul shall climb, Then, all this earthly grossness quit, Attired with stars we shall for ever sit, Triumphing over death, and chance, and thee, O Time. MILTON. And gilds the straw-thatch'd hamlet wide, "Tis thou that gladd'st with joy the rustic throng, Promptest the tripping dance, th' exhilarating song. Moon of harvest, I do love In the blue vault of the sky, Where no thin vapour intercepts thy ray, But in unclouded majesty thou walkest on thy way. Pleasing 'tis, O modest moon! Fanning soft the sun-tann'd wheat, When boundless plenty greets his eye, And thinking soon, Oh, modest moon! |