ON RURAL SOLITUDE.

WHEN wandering, thoughtful, my stray steps at eve
(Releas'd from toil and careless of their way),
Have reach'd, unwillingly, some rural spot
Where quiet dwells in cluster'd cottages,
Fast by a wood, or on the river's marge,
I have sat down upon the shady stile

Half wearied with the long and lonesome walk,

And felt strange sadness steal upon the heart,
The rural smells

And unaccountable.

And sounds spake all of peacefulness and home;

The lazy mastiff, who my coming eyed,

Half balancing 'twixt fondness and distrust,

Recall'd some images, now half forgot,

Of the warın hearth at eve, when flocks are penn'd
And cattle hous'd, and every labour done.

And as the twilight's peaceful hour clos'd in,
The spiral smoke ascending from the thatch,
And the eve sparrow's last retiring chirp,

Have brought a busy train of hov'ring thoughts
To recollection, rural offices

In younger days, and happier times perform❜d.
And rural friends, now with their grave-stones carv'd,
And tales which wore away the winter's night
Yet fresh in memory. Then my thoughts assume
A different turn, and I am e'en at home.
That hut is mine; that cottage half-embower'd
With modest jessamine, and that sweet spot
Of garden-ground, where, rang'd in meet array,
Grow countless sweets, the wall-flower and the pink,
And the thick thyme-bush even that is mine:

And that old mulberry that shades the court,

Has been my joy from very childhood up.

In hollow music, sighing through the glade,
The breeze of autumn strikes the startled ear,
And fancy, pacing through the woodland shade,
Hears in the gust the requiem of the year.

As with lone tread along the whisp❜ring grove
I list the moan of the capricious wind,
I, too, o'er fancy's milky way would rove,
But sadness chains to earth my pensive mind.

When by the huddling brooklet's secret brim
I pause, and woo the dreams of Helicon,
Sudden my saddest thoughts revert to him
Who taught that brook to wind, and now is gone.

When by the poet's sacred urns I kneel,

And rapture springs exultant to my reed, The pæan dies, and sadder measures steal,

And grief and Montague demand the meed.

THOU mongrel, who dost show thy teeth, and yelp,
And bay the harmless stranger on his way,
Yet, when the wolf appears, dost roar for help,
And scamperest quickly from the bloody fray;
Dare but on my fair fame to cast a slur,
And I will make thee know, unto thy pain,
Thou vile old good-for-nothing cur!

I, a Laconian dog, can bite again :
Yes, I can make the Daunian tiger flee,

Much more a bragging, foul-mouthed whelp like thee. Beware Lycambes,' or Bupalus' fate

The wicked still shall meet my deadly hate;

And know, when once I seize upon my prey,

I do not languidly my wrongs bemoan;

I do not whine and cant the time away,

But, with revengeful gripe, I bite him to the bone.

ODE

TO THE MORNING STAR.

MANY invoke pale Hesper's pensive sway,
When rest supine leans o'er the pillowing clouds,
And the last tinklings come

From the safe folded flock.

But me, bright harbinger of coming day,
Who shone the first on the primæval morn;
Me, thou delightest more-
Chastely luxuriant.

Let the poor silken sons of slothful pride

Press now their downy couch in languid ease,
While visions of dismay

Flit o'er their troubled brain.

Be mine to view; awake to nature's charms,

Thy paly flame evanish from the sky,

As gradual day usurps

The welkin's glowing bounds.