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GIVE ME A COTTAGE ON SOME
Give me a cottage on some Cambrian wild,
Where, far from cities, I may spend my days, And, by the beauties of the scene beguiled,
May pity man's pursuits, and shun his ways. While on the rock / mark the browsing goat,
List to the mountain torrent's distant noise, Or the hoarse bittern's solitary nole,
I shall not want the world's delusive joys; But with my little scrip, my book, my lyre,
Shall think my lot complete, nor covet more, And when, with time, shall wane the vital fire,
I'll raise my pillar on the desert shore, And lay me down to rest where the wild wave Shall make sweet music o'er my lonely grave.
Unfit for greatness, I her snares defy,
And look on riches with untainted eye.
To others let the glitt'ring baubles fall,
Content shall place us far above them all.
When, musing on companions gone, We doubly feel ourselves alone, Something, my friend, we yet may gain, There is a pleasure in this pain: It soothes the love of lonely rest, Deep in each gentler heart impressed. 'Tis silent amid worldly toils, And stified soon by mental broils; But, in a bosom thus prepared, Its still small voice is often heard, Whispering a mingled sentiment, 'T'wixt resignation and content. Oft in my mind such thoughts awake, By lone St. Mary's silent lake; Thou know'st it well,-nor fen, nor sedge, Pollute the pure lake's crystal edge; Abrupt and sheer, the mountains sink At once upon the level brink; And just a trace of silver sard Marks where the water meets the land. Far in the mirror, bright and blue, Each hills huge outline you may view; Shaggy with heath, but lonely bare, Nor tree, nor bush, nor brake is there,
Save where, of land, yon slender line
Bears thwart the lake the scattered pine.
Yet even this nakedness has power,
And aids the feeling of the hour :
Nor thicket, dell, nor copse you spy,
Where living thing concealed might lie;
Nor point, retiring, hides a dell,
Where swaim, or woodman lone, might dwell;
There's nothing left to fancy's guess,
You see that all is loneliness;
And silence aids—though these steep hills
Send to the lake a thousand rills;
In summer side, so soft they weep,
The sound but lulls the ear asleep;
Your horse's hoof-tread sounds too rude,
So stilly is the solitude.
Nought living meets the eye or ear
But well I ween the dead are near;
For though, in feudal strife, a foe
Hath laid Our Lady's chapel low,
Yet still, beneath the hallowed soil,
The peasant rests him from his toil,
And dying bids his bones be laid,
Where erst his simple fathers prayed.
If age had tamed the passions' strife, And fate had cut my ties to life, Here, have I thought, 'twere sweet to dwell, And rear again the chaplain's cell, Like that same peaceful hermitage, Where Milton longed to spend his age.
'Twere sweet to mark the setting day,
On Bourhope's lonely top decay ;
And, as it faint and feeble died,
On the broad lake, and mountain's side,
“ Thus pleasures fade away ;
Youth, talents, beauty, thus decay,
And leave us dark, forlorn, and grey;”.
Then gaze on Dryhope's ruined tower,
And think on Yarrow's faded Flower:
And when that mountain-sound I heard,
Which bids us be for storm prepared,
The distant rustling of his wings,
As up his force the Tempest brings,
'Twere sweet, ere yet his terrors rave,
To sit upon the Wizard's grave;
That Wizard Priest's, whose bones are thrust
From company of holy dust;
On which no sun-beam ever shines-
(So superstition's creed divines,)
Thence view the lake, with sullen roar,
Heave her broad billows to the shore;
And mark the wild swans mount the gale,
Spread wide through mist their snowy sail,
And ever stoop again to lave
Their bosoms on the surging wave:
Then, when against the driving hail
No longer might my plaid avail,
Back to my lonely home retire,
And light my lamp, and trim my fire ;
There ponder o'er somc mystic lay,
Till the wild tale had all its sway,
And in the bittern's distant shriek,
I heard unearthly voices speak,
And thought the Wizard Priest was come,
To claim again his ancient home!
And bade my busy fancy range,
To frame him fitting shape and strange,
Till froin the task my brow I cleared,
And smile to think that I had feared.
But chief, 'twere sweet to think such life,
(Though but escape from fortune's strife,)
Something most matchless, good, and wise,
A great and grateful sacrifice;
And deem each hour, to musing given,
A step upon the road to heaven.
Contentment, parent of delight,
So much a stranger to our sight,
Say, goddess, in what happy place,
Mortals behold thy blooming face;
Thy gracious auspices impart,
And for thy temple choose my heart.
They whom thou deignest to inspire,
Thy science learn, to bound desire;
By happy alchymy of mind,
They turn to pleasure all they find.