And hear the voice of mirth and song rebound,| Flocks, herds, and waterfalls, along the hoar profound!

XXII.

In truth he was a strange and wayward wight, Fond of each gentle, and each dreadful scene: In darkness, and in storm, he found delight; Nor less, than when on ocean-wave serene The southern sun diffused his dazzling shene. E'en sad vicissitude amused his soul: And if a sigh would sometimes intervene, And down his cheek a tear of pity roll, A sigh, a tear, so sweet, he wished not to control.

XXIII.

"O ye wild groves, O where is now your bloom?" (The Muse interprets thus his tender thought)| "Your flowers, your verdure, and your balmy gloom,

Of late so grateful in the hour of drought? Why do the birds, that song and rapture brought To all your bowers, their mansions now forsake? Ah! why has fickle chance this ruin wrought? For now the storm howls mournful through the brake,

And the dead foliage flies in many a shapeless flake.

XXIV.

"Where now the rill, melodious, pure, and cool, And meads, with life, and mirth, and beauty crowned!

Ah! see, the' unsightly slime, and sluggish pool, Have all the solitary vale imbrowned;

Fled each fair form, and mute each melting sound,

The raven croaks forlorn on naked spray:
And, hark! the river, bursting every mound,
Down the vale thunders; and with wasteful
sway,

Shall spring to these sad scenes no more return! Is yonder wave the sun's eternal bed ?— Soon shall the orient with new lustre burn, And spring shall soor her vital influence shed, Again attune the grove, again adorn the mead. XXVII.

"Shall I be left abandoned in the dust, When Fate, relenting, lets the flower revive Shall Nature's voice, to man alone unjust, Bid him, though doomed to perish, hope to live It is for this fair Virtue oft must strive With disappointment, penury, and pain?— No: Heaven's immortal spring shall yet arrive And man's majestic beauty bloom again,⚫ Bright through the' eternal year of Love's triumphant reign."

XXVIII.

This truth sublime his simple sire had taught, In sooth, 'twas almost all the shepherd knew, No subtle nor superfluous lore he sought, Nor ever wished his Edwin to pursue:"Let man's own sphere," (quoth he) "confine his view;

Be man's peculiar work his sole delight." And much, and oft, he warned him to eschew Falsehood and guile, and aye maintain the right, By pleasure unseduced, unawed by lawless might.

XXIX.

"And from the prayer of Want, and plaint of Wo,
O never, never turn away thine ear;
Forlorn in this bleak wilderness below,
Ah! what were man, should Heaven refuse to
hear!

To others do (the law is not severe)
What to thyself thou wishest to be done:
Forgive thy foes; and love thy parents dear,
And friends, and native land; nor those alone;

XXXIII.

Or, when the setting moon, in crimson dyed, Hung o'er the dark and melancholy deep, To haunted stream, remote from man he hied, Where fays of yore their revels wont to keep; And there let Fancy roam at large, till sleep A vision brought to his intranced sight: And first, a wildly-murmuring wind 'gan creep Shrill to his ringing ear; then tapers bright, With instantaneous gleam, illumed the vault of Night.

XXXIV.

Anon, in view a portal's blazoned arch
Arose; the trumpet bids the valves unfold;
And forth an host of little warriors march,
Grasping the diamond lance, and targe of gold:
Their look was gentle, their demeanor bold,
And green their helms, and green their silk attire;
And here and there, right venerably old,
The long robed minstrels wake the warbling
wire,

And some with mellow breath the martial pipe inspire.

XXXV.

With merriment, and song, and timbrels clear, A troop of dames from myrtle-bowers advance; The little warriors doff the targe and spear, And loud enlivening strains provoke the dance: They meet, they dart away, they wheel askance; To right, to left, they thrid the flying maze; Now bound aloft with vigorous spring, then glance

Rapid along: with many-coloured rays

Of tapers, gems, and gold, the echoing forests blaze.

XXXVIII.

But who the melodies of morn can tell?

The wild brook babbling down the mountain side;

The lowing herd; the sheepfold's simple bell; The pipe of early shepherd dim descried In the lone valley; echoing far and wide The clamorous horn along the cliffs above; The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide; The hum of bees, and linnet's lay of love, And the full choir that wakes the universal grove. XXXIX.

The cottage-curs at early pilgrim bark; Crowned with her pail the tripping milkmaid sings;

The whistling ploughman stalks afield; and, hark!

Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon rings;

Through rustling corn the hare astonished springs;

Slow tolls the village clock the drowsy hour; The partridge bursts away on whirring wings; Deep mourns the turtle in sequestered bower, And shrill lark carols clear from her aërial tcur.

XL.

O Nature, how in every charm supreme! Whose votaries feast on raptures ever new! O for the voice and fire of seraphim, To sing thy glories with devotion due! Bless'd be the day I 'scaped the wrangling crew, From Pyrrho's maze, and Epicurus' sty; And held high converse with the godlike few, Who to th' enraptured heart, and ear, and eye, Teach beauty, virtue, truth, and love, and melody.

XLI.

Hence! ye, who snare and stupefy the mind, Sophists, of beauty, virtue, joy, the bane! Greedy and fell, though impotent and blind, Who spread your filthy nets in Truth's fair fane, And ever ply your venomed fangs amain! Hence to dark Error's den, whose rankling slime

First gave you form, hence! lest the muse should deign,

(Though loth on theme so mean to waste a rhyme)

With vengeance to pursue your sacrilegious crime.
XLII.

But hail, ye mighty masters of the lay,
Nature's true sons, the friends of man and truth!
Whose song, sublimely sweet, serenely gay,
Amused my childhood, and informed my youth.
O let your spirit still my bosom sooth;
Inspire my dreams, and my wild wanderings
guide!

Your voice each rugged path of life can smooth;
For well I know, wherever ye reside,
There harmony and peace and innocence abide.

XLIII.

Ah me! abandoned on the lonesome plain, As yet poor Edwin never knew your lore, Save when against the winter's drenching rain, And driving snow, the cottage shut the door: Then, as instructed by tradition hoar, Her legends when the Beldam 'gan impart, Or chaunt the old heroic ditty o'er, Wonder and joy ran thrilling to his heart; Much he the tale admired, but more the tuneful

art.

XLIV.

Various and strange was the long-winded tale; And halls, and knights, and feats of arms, displayed;

Or merry swains, who quaff the nut-brown ale,
And sing, enamoured of the nut-brown maid;
The moonlight revel of the fairy glade;
Or hags, that suckle an infernal brood,
And ply in caves the' unutterable_trade,*
Midst fiends and sceptres, queench the moon in
blood,

Yell in the midnight storm, or ride the infuriate flood.

XLV.

But when to horror his amazement rose,
A gentler strain the Beldam would rehearse,
A tale of rural life, a tale of woes,

Allusion to Shakspeare: "A deed without a name." Macbeth, Act 4, Scene 1.