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Where the weary rustic nigh Shall whistle his wild melody, And the croaking wicket oft Shall echo from the neighbouring croft And as we trace the green path lone, With moss and rank weeds overgrown, We will muse on pensive lore, Till the full soul brimming o'er, Shall in our upturn'd eyes appear, Embodied in a quivering tear. Or else, serenely silent, sit By the brawling rivulet, Which on its calm unruffled breast, Bears the old mossy arch impress'd, That clasps its secret stream of glass Half hid in shrubs and waving grass, The wood-nymph's lone secure retreat, Unpress'd by fawn or sylvan's feet, We'll watch in eve's ethereal braid, The rich vermillion slowly fade; Or catch, faint twinkling from afar, The first glimpse of the eastern star. Fair Vesper, mildest lamp of light, That heralds in imperial night; Meanwhile, upon our wandering ear, Shall rise, though low, yet sweetly clear, The distant sounds of pastoral lute, Invoking soft the sober suit Of dimmest darkness—fitting well With love, or sorrow's pensive spell, (So erst did music's silver tone Wake slumbering Chaos on his throne,) And baply then, with sudden swell, Shall roar the distant curfew bell, While in the castle's mouldering tower, The hooting owl is heard to pour Her melancholy song, and scare Dull Silence brooding in the air. Meanwhile her dusk and slumbering car Black-suited Night drives on from far, And Cynthia, 'merging from her rear, Arrests the waxing darkness drear. And summons to her silent call, Sweeping, in their airy pall, The unshriv'd ghosts, in fairy trance, To join her moonshine morrice-dance.
While around the mystic ring
Then, hermit, let us turn our feet To the low abbey's still retreat, Embower'd in the distant glen, Far from the haunts of busy men, Where as we sit upon the tomb, The glow-worm's light may gild the gloom, And show to fancy's saddest eye, Where some lost hero's ashes lie. And oh, as through the mouldering arch, With ivy fill'd and weeping larch, The night-gale whispers sadly clear, Speaking drear things to Fancy's ear, We'll hold communion with the shade Of some deep-wailing, ruin'd maidOr call the ghost of Spenser down, To tell of woe or Fortune's frown; And bid us cast the eye of hope Beyond this bad world's narrow scope. Or if these joys, to us denied, To linger by the forest's side; Or in the meadow, or the wood, Or by the lone, romantic flood; Let us in the busy town, When sleep's dull streams the people drown, Far from drowsy pillows flee, And turn the church's massy key; Then, as through the painted glass The moon's faint beams obscurely pass And darkly on the tropied wall, Her faint ambiguous shadows fall ; Let us, while the faint winds wail, Through the long reluctant aisle, As we pace with reverence meet, Count the echoings of our feet; While from the tombs, with confess'd breath, Distinct responds the voice of death. If thou, mild sage, wilt condescend, Thus on my footsteps to attend,
To thee my lonely lamp shall burn
THE WIDOW TO HER HOUR GLASS,
COME, friend, I'll turn thee up again :
Since thou hast stood
In frame of wood,
And, when my husband died.
I've often watch'd thy streaming sand,
Its conic crown
Still sliding down,
And mingling joy with pain.
While thus I spin and sometimes sing,
Though silent thou,
Still shalt thou flow,
Thou get'st a holiday.
Steady as truth, on either end
Come, lovely May !
Thy lengthen'd day Shall gild once more my native plain ; Curl inward here, sweet woodbine flower ;Companion of the lonely hour,
I'll turn thee up again.
• O WINDS! howl not so long and loud;
• Now sweeping floods rush down the slope, • While scattering ruin-Stars, shine soon ; • No other light my love can hope : Midnight will want the joyous moon.
• O guardian spirits !-Ye that dwell
• Press round him,-guide his willing steed * Through darkness, dangers, currents, snows; • Wait where, from shelt'ring thickets freed, • The dreary heath's rude whirlwind blows;
• That o'er the bill with furious sweep • Now writhes, now rends the shiv'ring tree, · Sure-footed beast, thy road thou'lt keep : • Nor storm nor darkness startless thee !'
O blest assurance, (trusty steed,)