MICHAEL BRUCE. ELEGY: Written in Spring. "TIS past: the iron North has spent his rage; Far to the north grim Winter draws his train roar.. Loos'd from the bands of frost, the verdant ground Behold! the trees new deck their wither'd boughs; The blooming hawthorn variegates the scene, The lily of the vale, of flowers the queen, Soon as o'er eastern hills the morning peers, And cheerful singing, up the air she steers; Still high she mounts, still loud and sweet she sings. On the green furze, clothed o'er with golden blooms Beneath the blithsome shepherd's watchful eye, Thus Socrates, the wisest of mankind; Thus gentle Thomson, as the Seasons roll, Taught them to sing the great Creator's praise, And bear their poet's name from pole to pole. Thus have I walk'd along the dewy lawn; My frequent foot the blooming wild hath worn; Before the lark I've sung the beauteous dawn, And gather'd health from all the gales of morn. And, ev'n when Winter chill'd the aged year, I wander'd lonely o'er the hoary plain : Though frosty Boreas warn'd me to forbear, Boreas, with all his tempests, warn'd in vain. Then, sleep my nights, and quiet bless'd my days; I fear'd no loss, my Mind was all my store; No anxious wishes e'er disturb'd my ease; Heav'n gave contept and health-I ask'd no more. Now, Spring returns: but not to me returns The vernal joy my better years have known; Dim in my breast life's dying taper burns, And all the joys of life with health are flown. Starting and shivering in the' inconstant wind, The winged moments, whose unstaying speed Farewell, ye blooming fields! ye cheerful plains! And the rank grass waves o'er the cheerless ground. There let me wander at the shut of eve, When sleep sits dewy on the labourer's eyes; The world and all its busy follies leave, And talk with Wisdom where my Daphnis lies. There let me sleep forgotten in the clay, When death shall shut these weary aching eyes; Rest in the hopes of an eternal day, Till the long night is gone, and the last morn arise. BE THOMAS WARTON. THE SUICIDE. ENEATH the beech, whose branches bare, Smit with the lightning's livid glare, O'erhang the craggy road, And whistle hollow as the wave; Within a solitary grave, A Slayer of himself holds his accurs'd abode. Lour'd the grim morn, in murky dies As by the brook, that lingering laves I mark'd his desultory pace, His gestures strange, and varying face, With many a mutter'd sound; And ah! too late aghast I view'd The reeking blade, the hand embrued; He fell, and groaning grasp'd in agony the ground. Full many a melancholy night And sought the powers of sleep, To spread a momentary calm O'er his sad couch, and in the balm Of bland oblivion's dews his burning eyes to steep. Full oft, unknowing and unknown, Abrupt the social board to quit, And gaze with eager glance upon the tumbling flood. Beckoning the wretch to torments new, A spectre pale, appear'd; While, as the shades of eve arose, And brought the day's unwelcome close, More horrible and huge her giant-shape she rear'd. 'Is this,' mistaken Scorn will cry, Ah! from the Muse that bosom mild And rous'd to livelier pangs his wakeful sense of woe. Though doom'd hard penury to prove, More wounds than nature gave he knew, Then wish not o'er his earthly tomb Nor oh! forbid the twisted thorn, That rudely binds his turf forlorn, With Spring's green-swelling buds to vegetate anew. What though no marble-piled bust With speaking sculpture wrought? Hung with unfading flowers, from fairy regions brought. |