Графични страници
PDF файл

While riding near her home one st onu y night
A single Glow-worm did I chance to espy;
I gave a fervent welcome to the sight,
And from my horse I leapt; great joy had I.

Upon a leaf the Glow-worm did I lay,
To bear it with me through the stormy night:
And, as before, it shone without dismay;
Albeit putting forth a fainter light.

When to the dwelling of my Love I cnme,
I went into the Orchard quietly;
And left the Glow-worm, blessing it by name,
Laid safely by itself, beneath a Tree.

The whole next day, I hoped, and hoped with fear;

At night the Glow-worm shone beneath the Tree:

I led my Lucy to the spot: Look here!

Oh! joy it was for her, and joy for me!

INCIDENT,

Characteristic Of A Favourite Dog, Which Belonged To A Friend Of The Author.

On his morning-rounds the Master

Goes to learn how all things fare;

Searches pasture after pasture.

Sheep and Cattle eyes with care;

And, for silence or for talk,

He hath Comrades in his walk;

Four Dogs, each pair of different breed,

Distinguished two for scent and two for speed.

See, a Hare before him started!

— Off they fly in earnest cha.ee;

Every Dog is eager-hearted,

All the four are in the race!

And the Hare whom they pursue

Hath an instinct what to do;

Her hope is near: no turn she makes;

But, like an arrow, to the River takes.

Deep the River was, and crusted
Thinly by a one-night's frost;
But the nimble Hare hath trusted
To the ice, and safely crust;
She hath crost, and without heed
All arc following at full speed,
When, Io! the ice, so thinly spread,
Breaks—and the Greyhound, Dart, is over
head!

Better fate have Prince and Swallow
See them cleaving to the sport!
Mimic has no heart to follow,
Little Music she stops short.

She hath neither wish nor heart.
Hers is now another part:
A loving Creature she, and brave!
And fondly strives her struggling Friend la
save.

From the brink her paws she stretches.
Very hands as you would say!
And afflicting moans she fetches,
As he breaks the ice away.
For herself she hath no fears.
Him alone she sees and hears,
Makes efforts and complainings; nor gi vet o'er
Until her Fellow sunk, and reappear'd no
more.

TRIBUTE

TO THB .MEMORY OF THE SAME DOG.

Lie here sequestered:—be this little mound
For ever thine, and be it holy ground!
Lie here, without a record of thy worth.
Beneath the covering of the common earth!
It is not from unwillingness to praise.
Or want of love, that here no Stone ire

raise: More thou deserv'st; but this Man gives to

Man, Brother to Brother, this is all we can. Yet they to whom thy virtues made thee

dear Shall find thee through all changes of the

year: This Oak points out thy grave; the silent

Tree
Will gladly stand a monument of thee.

I prayed for thee, and that thy end were

past; And willingly have laid thee here at last: For thou hiidst lived, till every thing that

cheers In tbee had yielded to the weight of years; Extreme old age had wasted thee away. And left thee but a glimmering of the Hay; Thy ears were deaf; and feeble were thy

knees,— I saw thee stagger in the summer-breeze. Too weak to stand against its sportive breath. And ready for the gentlest stroke of death. It came, and we were glad; yet tears w ere

shed; Both Man and Woman wept when Thou

wert dead; Not only for a thousand thoughts that wore. Old household-thoughts, in which thou hudst

thy share; But for some precious boons vouchsafed to

thee. Found scarcely any where in like degree!

For love, that comes to all; the holy tense,
Best gift of God, in thee was most intense;
A rhain of heart, a feeling of the mind,
A tender sympathy, which did thee bind
Not only to us Men, but to thy Kind:
Yea,for thy Fellow-brutes in thee we saw
The soul of Love, Love's intellectual law :—
Hence, if we wept, it was not done in shame;
Our tears from passion and from reason came.
And, therefore, shall thou be an honoured
name!

FIDELITY.

A Barking sound the Shepherd hears,
A cry as of a Dog or Fox;
lie halts, and searches with his eyes
Among the scattered rocks:
And now at distance can discern
A stirring in a brake of fern;
And instantly a Dog is seen
Glancing from that covert green.

The Dog is not of mountain-breed;

Its motions, ton, are wild and shy;

With something, as the Shepherd thinks,

Unusual in its cry:

Nor is there any one in sight

All round, in Hollow or on Height;

Nor shout, nor whistle strikes his ear;

What is the Creature doing here?

It was a cove, a huge recess,

That keeps till June December's snow;

A lofty precipice in front,

A silent tarn below!

Far in the bosom of Hclvellyn,

Remote from public road or dwelling,

Pathway, or cultivated land,

From trace of human foot or hand.

There, sometimes does a leaping Fish
Send through the tarn a lonely cheer;
The Crags repeat the Raven's croak,
In symphony austere;
Thither the Rainbow comes—the Cloud-
And Mists that spread the flying shroud;
And Sun-beams; and the sounding blast,
That, if it could, would hurry past,
But that enormous Barrier binds it fast.

Not free from boding thoughts, awhile
The Shepherd stood: then makes his way
Towards the Dog, o'er rocks and stones,
As quickly as he may;
Nor far had gone before he found
A human skeleton on the ground,
The appaled discoverer with a sigh
Look* round, to learn the history.

From those abrupt and perilous rocks,

The Man had fallen, that place of fear!

At length upon the Shepherd's mind

It breaks, and all is clear:

He instantly recalled the Name,

And who he was, and whence he came;

Remembered, too, the very day

On which the Traveller passed this way.

But hear a wonder, for whose sake

This lamentable Talc I tell!

A lasting monument of words

This wonder merits well.

The Dog, which still was hovering nigh,

Repeating the same timid cry.

This Dog had been through three months'

space A Dweller in that savage place.

Yes, proof was plain that since the day
On which the Traveller thus had died
The Dog had watched about the spot,
Or by his Master's side:
How nourished here through such long time
He knows, who gave that love sublime,
And gave that strength of feeling, great
Above all human estimate.

ODE TO DUTY.

Stern Daughter of the Voice of God!

O Duty! if that name thou love

Who art a Light to guide, a Rod

To check the erring, and reprove;

Thou who art victory and law

When empty terrors overawe;

From vain temptations dost set free;

And calmstthe weary strife of frail humanity!

There are who ask not if thine eye
Be on them; who, in love and truth,
Where no misgiving is, rely
Upon the genial sense of youth:
Glad Hcnrts! without reproach or blot;
Who do thy work, and know it not:
May joy be theirs while life shall last!
And Thou, if they should totter, teach them
to stand fast!

Serene will be our days and bright,
And happy will our nature be.
When love is an unerring light,
And joy its own security.
And blest arc they who in the main
This faith, even now, do entertain:
Live in the spirit of this creed,
Yet find that other strength, according to
their need.

I, loving freedom, and untried;
No sport of every random gust,
Yet being to myself a guide,
Too blindly have reposed my trust:
Full oft, when in my heart was heard
Thy timely mandate, I deferred
The task imposed, from day to day,
But thee I now would serve more strictly,
if I may.

Though no disturbance of my soul.

Or strong compunction in me wrought,

I supplicate for thy control;

But in the quietness of thought,

Me this unchartered freedom tires;

I feel the weight of chance-desires •,

My hopes no more must change their name,

I long for a repose which ever is the same.

Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear
The Godhead's most benignant grace;
Nor know we any thing so fair
As is the smile upon thy face;
Flowers laugh before thee on their beds;
And Fragrance in thy footing treads;
Thou dost preserve the Stars from wrong;
And the most ancient Heavens through Thee
are fresh and strong.

To humbler functions, awful Power!
I call thee: I myself commend
Unto thy guidance from this hour;
Oh! let my weakness have an end!
Give unto me, made lowly wise,
The spirit of self-sacrifice;
The confidence of reason give;
And in the light of truth thy Bondman let
me live!

SIMON LEE

THE OLD HUNTSMAN.

In the sweet shire of Cardigan,
Not far from the pleasant Ivor-hall,
An Old Man dwells, a little man,
I've heard he once was tall.
Of years he has upon his back,
No doubt, a burthen weighty;
He says he is threee score and ten,
But others say he's eighty.

A long blue liveTy-coat has he,

That's fair behind, and fair before;

Yet, meet him where you will, you see

At once that he is poor.

Full five-and-twenty years he lived

A running Huntsman merry;

And, though he has but one eye left,

His cheek is like a cherry.

No man like him the horn could sound,

And no man was so full of glee;

To Bay the least, four Counties round

Had heard of Simon Lee;

His Master's dead, and no one now

Dwells in the hall of Ivor;

Men, Dogs, and Horses, all arc dead;

He is the sole survivor.

And he is lean and he is sick,

His dwindled body's half awry;

His ancles, too, are swoln and thick;

His legs are thin and dry.

When he was young he little knew

Of husbandry or tillage;

And now is forced to work, though weak,

—The weakest in the village.

He all the country could outrun,

Could leave both man and horse behind;

And often, ere the race was done,

He reeled and was stone-blind.

And still there's something in the world

At which his heart rejoices;

For when the chiming hounds are out,

He dearly loves their voices!

His hunting feats have him bereft

Of his right eye, as you may see:

And then, what limbs those feats have left

To poor old Simon Lee!

He has no son, he has no child

His Wife, an aged woman,

Lives with him, near the waterfall,

Upon the village Common.

Old Ruth works out of doors with him,

And does what Simon cannot do;

For she, not over stout of limb,

Is stouter of the two.

And, though you with your utmost skill

From labour could not wean them,

Alas! 'tis very little, all

Which they can do between them.

Beside their moss-grown hut of clay,
Not twenty paces from the door,
A scrap of land they have, but they
Are poorest of the poor.
This scrap of land he from the heath
Enclosed when he was stronger;
But what avails the land to them,
Which they can till no longer?

Few months of life hog he in store,
As he to you will tell.
For still, the more he works, the more
Do his weak ancles swcl'

My gentle Deader, I perceive How patiently you've waited. And I'm afraid that you expect Some talc will be related.

O Reader! had you in your mind
Such stored as silent thought can hring,

0 gentle Reader! you would find
A tale in every thing.

What more I have to say is short,

1 hope you'll kindly take it:

It is no tale; hut, should you think,
Perhaps a tale you'll make it

One summer-day I chanced to sec
This Old Man doing all he could
To unearth the root of an old tree,
A stump of rotten wood.
The mattock tottered in his hand;
So vain was his endeavour
That at the root of the old tree
He might have worked for ever.

You're overtasked, good Simon Lee,

Give me your tool,—to him I said;

And at the word right gladly he

Received my proffered aid.

1 struck, and with a single blow

The tangled root I severed,

At which the poor Old Man so long

And vainly had endeavoured.

The tears into his eyes were brought,
And thanks and praises seemed to run
So fast out of his heart, I thought
They never would have done.
—I've heard of hearts.unkind, kind deeds
'With coldness still returning.
Alas! the gratitude of men
Has oftener left me mourning.

THE FARMER OF TILSBURY-VALE.

"Tis not for the unfeeling, the falsely refined, The squeamish in taste, and the narrow of

mind, And the small critic wielding his delicate pen, That I sing of old Adam, the pride of old men.

He dwells in the centre of London's wide

Town,' His staff is a sceptre—his gray hairs a crown; Erect as a sunflower he stands, and the

streak, Of the unfaded rose is expressed on his cheek.

'Mid the dews, in the sunshine of morn—

'mid the joy Of the fields, he collected that bloom, when

a boy; There fashioned that countenance, which, in

spite of a stain That his life hath received, to the lost will

remain.

A Farmer he was ; and his house far and near Was the boast of the Country for excellent

cheer: How oft have I heard in sweet Tilsbury-Yale Of the silver-rimmed horn whence he dealt

his good ale.

Yet Adam was for as the farthest from ruin, His fields seemed to know what their Master

was doing; And turnips, and corn-land, and meadow, and

lea, All caught the infection—as generous as he.

Yet Adam prized little the feast and the bowl,—

The fields better suited the ease of his soul:

He strayed through the fields like an indolent wight,

The quiet of nature was Adam's delight.

For Adam was simple in thought, and tho

Poor Familiar with him made an inn of his door; He gave them the best that he had; or to say What less may mislead you, they took it

away.

Thus thirty smooth years did he drive on his farm;

The genius of plenty preserved him from harm:

At length, what to most is a season of sorrow,

His means are run out,—he must beg or must borrow.

To the neighbours he went—all were frco with their money;

For his hive had so long been replenished with honey

That they dreamt not of dearth—He continued his rounds,

Knocked here and knocked there, pounds still adding to pounds.

He paid what he could of his ill-gotten pelf, And something, it might be, reserved for

himself: Then, (what is too true) without hinting a

word, Turned his back on the Country; and off

like a Bird.

You lift up your eyes!—and I guess that you frame

A judgment too harsh of the sin and the shame;

In him it was scarcely a business of art,

For this he did all in the ease of his heart. To London—a sad emigration I ween— With Ills gray hairs he went from the brook

and the green; And there, with small wealth hut his legs

and his hands, As lonely he stood as a Crow on the sands.

All trades, as needs was, did old Adam assume,—

Served as Stable-boy, Errnnd-boy, Porter, and Groom;

But nature is gracious, necessity kind,

And, in spite of the shame that may lurk in his mind,

He seems ten birth-days younger, is green and is stout;

Twice as fast as before does his blood run about;

You would say that each hair of his beard v as alive,

And his fingers arc busy as bees in a hive.

For he's not like an Old Man that leisurely

goes About work that he knows in a track that

he knows; But often his mind is compelled to demur, And you guess that the more then his body

must stir.

In the throng of the Town like a Stranger

is he. Like one whose own Country's far over the

sea, And Nature, while through the great City

he hies, Full ten times a day takes his heart by

surprize.

This gives him the fancy of one that is

young, More of soul in his face than of words on

his tongue; Like a Maiden of twenty he trembles and

sighs, And tears of fifteen have come into his eyes.

What's a tempest to him or the dry parching

heats? Yet he watches the clouds that pass over

the streets; With a look of such earnestness often will

stand You might think he'd twelve Reapers at

work in the Strand.

Where proud Covent- garden, in desolate

hours Of snow and hoar-frost, spreads her fruits

and her flowers,

Old Adam will smile nt the pains that have made

Poor Winter look fine in such strange masquerade.

'Mid coaches and chariots, a Waggon of

Straw Like a magnet the heart of old Adam can

draw; With a thousand soft pictures his memory

will teem. And his hearing is touched with the sounds

of a dream.

Up the Hny-markct-hill he oft whistles hia

way, Thrusts his hands in the Waggon, and smells

at the hay: He thinks of the fields he so often hath

mown, And is happy as if the rich freight were his

own.

But chiefly to Smithficld he loves to

repair— If yon pass by at morning you'll meet with

him there; The breath of the Cows you may sec him

inhale. And his heart all the while is in Tilsbury

Vale.

Now farewell, old Adam, when low thou

art laid May one blade of grass spring up over thy

head; And I hope that thy grave, wheresoever

it be. Will bear the wind sigh through the leaves

of a tree.

INSCRIPTION

FOB, THK SPOT WHEHB THK HFRMITICF STOO>
ON ST. HEHBEHT's ISLAND, IMIinlM »llin

Tins Island, guarded from profane ap-
proach
By mountains high and waters widely spread.
Is that recess to which St. Herbert came
In life's decline; a self-secluded Man,
After long exercise in social cares
And offices humane, intent to adore
The Deity, with undistracted mind.
And meditate on everlasting things.

Stranger! this shapeless heap of stones
and earth
(Long be its mossy covering undisturbed !)
Is reverenced as a vestige of the Abode

« ПредишнаНапред »