BEATTIE. Slow tolls the village clock the drowsy hour; The partridge bursts away on whirring wings; Deep mourns the turtle in sequester'd bower, And shrill lark carols clear from her aërial tower. CALM AND STORM. OFT when the winter storm had ceas'd to rave, He roam'd the snowy waste at even, to view The cloud stupendous, from th' Atlantic wave High towering, sail along th' horizon blue: Where, 'midst the changeful scenery ever new, Fancy a thousand wondrous forms descries, More wildly great than ever pencil drewRocks, torrents, gulfs, and shapes of giant size, And glitt'ring cliffs on cliffs, and fiery ramparts rise. Thence musing onward to the sounding shore, Listening, with pleasing dread, to the deep roar Of the wide-weltering waves. When sulphurous clouds roll'd on th' autumnal day; E'en then he hasten'd from the haunt of man, Along the trembling wilderness to stray, What time the lightning's fierce career began, And o'er heaven's rending arch the rattling thunder ran. THITHER he hied, enamour'd of the scene; For rocks on rocks pil'd, as by magic spell, Here scorch'd with lightning, there with ivy green, Fenc'd from the north and east this savage dell. Southward a mountain rose with easy swell, Whose long, long groves eternal murmur made: And toward the western sun a streamlet fell, Where, through the cliffs, the eye remote survey'd Blue hills, and glittering waves, and skies in gold array'd. BEATTIE. Along this narrow valley you might see Or mossy stone, or rock with woodbine crown'd. Of parted fragments tumbling from on high; One cultivated spot there was, that spread "Hail, awful scenes, that calm the troubled breast. Shall never know the source whence real grandeur springs." WHEN in the crimson cloud of even, A pensive youth, of placid mien, "Ye cliffs, in hoary grandeur pil'd, Where Melancholy strays forlorn, And Woe retires to weep, What time the wan moon's yellow horn Gleams on the western deep: BEATTIE. To you, ye wastes, whose artless charms Scap'd a tumultuous world's alarms, Deep in your most sequester'd bower Where Solitude, mild, modest Power, Leans on her ivied shrine. "How shall I woo thee, matchless Fair? Thy heavenly smile how win? Thy smile that smooths the brow of Care, And stills the storm within? O, wilt thou to thy favourite grove Thine ardent votary bring, And bless his hours, and bid them move Serene, on silent wing? "Oft let Remembrance sooth his mind Nor Envy with malignant glare His simple youth had harm'd. ""Twas then, O Solitude! to thee His early vows were paid, From heart sincere, and warm, and free, Devoted to the shade. Ah! why did Fate his steps decoy In stormy paths to roam, Remote from all congenial joy ?— O, take the Wanderer home! |