ON HAVING LEFT A PLACE OF RETIREMENT.
Low was our pretty cot! our tallest rose
Peeped at the chamber-window. We could hear
At silent noon, and eve, and early morn,
The sea's faint murmur. In the open air
Our mrytles blossomed; and across the porch
Thick jasmins twined: the little landscape round
Was green and woody, and refreshed the eye.
It was a spot, which you might aptly call
The Valley of Seclusion! Once I saw
(Hallowing his Sabbath-day by quietness)
A wealthy son of commerce saunter by,
Bristowa's citizen: methought, it calmed
His thirst of idle gold, and made him muse
With wiser feelings: for he paused, and looked
With a pleased sadness, and gazed all around,
Then eyed our cottage, and gazed round again,
And sighed, and said, it was a blessed place.
And we were blessed. Oft with patient ear
Long listening to the viewless sky-lark's note
(Viewless, or haply for a moment seen
Gleaming on sunny wing,) "And such," I said,
"The inobtrusive song of happiness-
Unearthly minstrelsy! then only heard
When the soul seeks to hear; when all is hushed
And the heart listens !"
But the time, when firs
From that low dell steep up the stony mount
I climbed with perilous toil and reached the top,
O what a goodly scene! here the bleak mount,
The bare bleak mountain speckled thin with sheep;
Grey clouds, that shadowing spot the sunny fields
And river, now with bushy rocks o'erbrowed,
Now winding bright and full, with naked banks;
And seats, and lawns, the abbey, and the wood,
And cots, and hamlets, and faint city-spire :
The channel there, the islands and white sails,
Dim coasts, and cloud-like hills, and shoreless
It seemed like Omnipresence! God, methought,
Had built him there a temple: the whole world
Seemed imaged in its vast circumference.
No wish profaned my overwhelmed heart.
Blest hour! it was a luxury-to be!
Ah, quiet dell! dear cot! and mount sublime, I was constrained to quit you. Was it right, While my unnumbered brethren toiled and bled, That I should dream away the entrusted hours On rose-leaf beds, pamp'ring the coward heart With feelings all too delicate for use?
Sweet is the tear that from some Howard's eye Drops on the cheek of one he lifts from earth: And he, that works me good with unmoved face,
Does it but half: he chills me while he aids,
My benefactor, not my brother man!
Yet even this, this cold beneficence
Seizes my praise; when I reflect on those,
The sluggard Pity's vision-weaving tribe!
Who sigh for wretchedness, yet shun the wretched,
Nursing in some delicious solitude
Their slothful loves and dainty sympathies!
I therefore go, and join head, heart, and hand,
Active and firm, to fight the bloodless fight
Of science, freedom, and the truth in Christ.
Yet oft when after honourable toil
Rests the tired mind, and waking loves to dream,
My spirit shall revisit thee, dear cot!
Thy jasmin and thy window-peeping rose,
And myrtles fearless of the mild sea air.
And I shall sigh fond wishes-sweet abode !
Ah-had none greater! and that all had such!
Sweetens all suff' rings of th' afflicted sense,
Those that are bred in labour think it sport,
Above the soft delight which wanton appetite
Begets for others, whom indulgent fortune
Prefers in her degrees, though equal nature
Made all alike.
GIVE ME A COTTAGE ON SOME
CAMBRIAN WILD.
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 I mark the browsing goat, List to the mountain torrent's distant noise, Or the hoarse bittern's solitary note,
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.
Churchill.
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 stifled soon by mental broils;
But, in a bosom thus prepared,
Its still small voice is often heard,
Whispering a mingled sentiment,
"Twixt 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 sand
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,
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