Still we tread the same coarse way: O may I with myself agree, And never covet what I see! And in the vale perfumes his wings; While the waters murmur deep; While the shepherd charms his sheep; And with music fill the sky, Now, e'en now, my joys run high. Be full, ye courts! be great who will; Search for Peace with all your skill; Open wide the lofty door, Seek her on the marble floor: In vain ye search, she is not there; In vain ye search the domes of Care! On the meads and mountain heads, And often, by the murmuring rill, Hears the thrush, while all is still, Within the groves of Grongar Hill. DYER. GERTRUDE'S RETREAT. APART there was a deep untrodden grot, Where oft the reading hours sweet Gertrude wore; But here (methinks) might India's sons explore Their voice to the great Spirit :-rocks sublime And yellow lichens colored all the clime, Like moonlight battlements, and towers decayed by time. But high in amphitheatre above, Gay-tinted woods their massy foliage threw; Rolling its verdant gulfs of every hue; It was in this lone valley she would charm. The lingering noon, where flowers a couch had strown; Her cheek reclining, and her snowy arm On hillock by the pine-tree half o'ergrown; Which every heart of human mould endears; With Shakspeare's self she speaks and smiles alone, And no intruding visitation fears, To shame the unconscious laugh, or stop her sweetest tears. And nought within the grove was heard or seen But stock-doves plaining through its gloom pro found, Or winglet of the fairy humming-bird, Like atoms of the rainbow fluttering round. CAMPBELL. 'POLLIO. AN ELEGIAC ODE; WRITTEN TO THE WOOD NEAR R―― CASTLE, 1762. THE peaceful evening breathes her balmy store, The playful schoolboys wanton o'er the green; Where spreading poplars shade the cottage door, The villagers in rustic joy convene. Amid the secret windings of the wood, This is the hour when to the wise and good The river murmurs, and the breathing gale How bright, emerging o'er yon broom-clad height, The silver empress of the night appears! Yon limpid pool reflects a stream of light, And faintly in its breast the woodland bears. The waters tumbling o'er their rocky bed, Solemn and constant from yon dell resound; The lonely hearths blaze o'er the distant glade; The bat, low-wheeling, skims the dusky ground. August and hoary o'er the sloping dale, The Gothic abbey rears its sculptured towers; Dull through the roofs resounds the whistling gale, Dark solitude among the pillars lowers. Where yon old trees bend o'er a place of graves, Where yon scathed poplar through the windows waves, And, twining round, the hoary arch sustains; There oft, at dawn, as one forgot behind, Who longs to follow, yet unknowing where, Some hoary shepherd, o'er his staff reclined, Pours on the graves, and sighs a broken prayer. High o'er the pines, that with their dark'ning shade Surround yon craggy bank, the castle rears. |