Графични страници
PDF файл
ePub

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bower,
Moleft her ancient, folitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever. laid,
The rude Forefathers of the hamlet fleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,
The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built fhed,
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

returns an echo. The four stanzas beginning, Yet ev'n these bores are, says he, original: I have never seen the sentiments in any other place;. yet he that reads them here, persuades himself that he has always felo: them.

IMITATION.

[quilla di lontano
Che paia 'l giorno pianger, che si muore.

Dante Purg. 1. 8. G.

For

For them no more the blazing hearth shall buin,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care ;
No children run to lisp their fire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their fickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy kroke!
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,
The lhort and simple annals of the poor,
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await alike th' inevitable hour;
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Nor you, ye Proud, impute to There the fault,
If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where through the long-drawn ille and fretted vault
The pealiag anthem swells the note of praite.

Can storied urn, or animated bust,
Back to its manfion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour's voice provoke the filent-dust,
Or Flatt'ry footh the dull cold ear of Death?

[blocks in formation]

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the fight,
And all the air a folemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bower,
Moleft her ancient, solitary reign..
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever. laid,
The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

[ocr errors]

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,
The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

returns an echo. The four stanzas beginning, Yet ev’n these bores are, says he, original: I have never seen the sentiments in any other place;. yet he that reads them here, persuades himself that he has always felt them.

IMITATION.

- squilla di fontano
Che paia 'l giorno pianger, che si muorc.

Dante Purg. 1. 8. G..

For

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care;
No children run to lisp their fire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their fickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy kroke!
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and deftiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,
The thort and simple annals of the poor.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await alike th' inevitable hour;
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Nor you, ye Proud, impute to These the fault,
If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where through the long-drawn ille and fretted vault
The pealing anthem swells the note of praile.

Can storied urn, or animated bust,
Back to its mantion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour's voice provoke the filent dust,
Or Flact'ry footh the dull cold ear of Death ?

[blocks in formation]

. Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart, once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have fway'd,
Or wak'd to extafy the living lyre.
But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of Time, did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.
Full many a gem, of pureit ray serene,
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear;
Full many a floxer is born to bluíh unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast
The little Tyrant of his fields withstood,
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.

Th’applause of liit’ning senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their hiltry in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbad: nor circumscrib'd alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;
Forbad to wade through flaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,

The

« ПредишнаНапред »