Along the road, To see the load, The last dear load of harvest home. Storms and tempests, floods and rains, Stern despoilers of the plains, Hence away, the season flee, Foes to light-heart jollity; May no winds careering high, Drive the clouds along the sky; But may all nature smile with aspect boon, When in the heavens thou show'st thy face, oh, Harvest Moon! 'Neath yon lowly roof he lies, The husbandman, with sleep-seal'd eyes; He dreams of crowded barns, and round The yard he hears the flail resound; Oh! may no hurricane destroy His visionary views of joy : God of the winds! oh, hear his humble prayer, And while the moon of harvest shines, thy blust'ring whirlwind spare. Sons of luxury to you Leave I sleep's dull power to woo: Press ye still the downy bed, While fev'rish dreams surround your head; Wrapt in contemplation's dreams, Shall softly sail The nightingale's enchanting tune, And oft my eyes Shall grateful rise To thee, the modest Harvest Moon! HENRY KIRKE WHITE. SONNET TO THE NIGHTINGALE. O NIGHTINGALE, that on yon bloomy spray First heard before the shallow cuckow's bill, Foretell my hopeless doom in some grove nigh; As thou from year to year hast sung too late For my relief, yet hadst no reason why: Whether the Muse or Love call thee his mate, Both them I serve, and of their train am I. MILTON. SONNET ON HIS BLINDNESS. WHEN I consider how my light is spent Ere half my days in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide, Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest He returning chide; "Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?" I fondly ask but Patience to prevent That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts; who best Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best: His state, Is kingly; thousands at His bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest; They also serve who only stand and wait."-MILTON. ODE TO EVENING. Ir aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song Thy springs, and dying gales, O nymph reserved! while now the bright-hair'd sun O'erhang his wavy bed: Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed bat With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing, Or where the beetle winds His small but sullen horn, As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path, Now teach me, maid composed, To breathe some soften'd strain, Whose numbers stealing through thy dark'ning vale, May not unseemly with its stillness suit, As, musing slow, I hail Thy genial loved return! |