→ HERE Dart romantic winds its mazy course, And mossy rocks adhere to woody hills, From whence each creeping rill its store distils,
And wandering waters join with rapid force;
There Nature's hand has wildly strown her flowers,
And varying prospects strike the roving eyes;
Rough-hanging woods o'er cultured hills arise;
Thick ivy spreads around huge antique towers;
And fruitful
Scatter their blossoms fast as falling showers,
Perfuming every stream which o'er the landscape pours.
Along the grassy banks how sweet to stray,
When the mild eve smiles in the glowing west,
And lengthen'd shades proclaim departing day,
And fainting sunbeams in the waters play,
When every bird seeks its accustom'd rest!
How grand to see the burning orb descend,
And the grave sky wrapp'd in its nightly robes,
Whether resplendent with the starry globes,
Or silver'd by the mildly-solemn moon;
When nightingales their lonely songs resume,
And folly's sons their babbling noise suspend!
Or when the darkening clouds fly o'er the sea,
And early morning beams a cheerful ray,
Waking melodious songsters from each tree;
How sweet beneath each dewy hill
Amid the pleasing shades to stray,
Where nectar'd flowers their sweets distil,
Whose watery pearls reflect the day!
To scent the jonquil's rich perfume,
To pluck the hawthorn's tender briers,
As wild beneath each flowery hedge
Fair strawberries with violets bloom,
And every joy of Spring conspires!
Nature's wild songsters from each bush and tree
Invite the early walk, and breathe delight:
What bosom heaves not with warm sympathy,
When the gay lark salutes the new-born light?
Hark! where the shrill-toned thrush,
Sweet whistling, carols the wild harmony!
The linnet warbles, and from yonder bush
The robin pours soft streams of melody!
I love, when seated on its brow,
To look o'er all the world below,
And eye the distant vale;
From thence to see the waving corn
With yellow hue the hills adorn,
And bend before the gale.
I love far downward to behold
The shepherd with his bleating fold,
And hear the tinkling sound
Of little bell and mellow flute,
Wafted on zephyrs soft, now mute,
Then swell in echoes round.
I love to see, at close of day,
Spread o'er the hills the sun's broad ray,
While rolling down the west;
When every cloud in rich attire,
And half the sky, that seems on fire,
In purple robes is dress'd.
I love, when evening veils the day,
And Luna shines with silver ray,
To cast a glance around,
And see ten thousand worlds of light
Shine, ever new, and ever bright,
O'er the vast vault profound.
I love from thence to take my flight,
Far downward on the beams of light,
And reach my native plain,
Just as the flaming orb of day
Drives night and mists and shades away,
And cheers the world again.
Where are the songs of Summer? With the sun,
Oping the dusky eyelids of the South,
Till shade and silence waken up as one,
And Morning sings with a warm, odorous mouth.
Where are the merry birds ?-away, away,
On panting wings, through the inclement skies,
Lest owls should prey,
Undazzled at noon-day,
And tear with horny beak their lustrous eyes.
Where are the blooms of Summer? In the West,
Blushing their last to the last sunny hours,
When the mild Eve by sudden Night is prest,
Like tearful Proserpine, snatch'd from her flow'rs
To a most gloomy breast.
Where is the pride of Summer-the green prime-
The merry, merry leaves all twinkling? There
On the moss'd elm; there on the naked lime
Trembling-and one upon the old oak-tree!
Where is the Dryad's immortality?
Gone into mournful cypress and dark yew,
Or wearing the long, gloomy Winter through,
In the smooth holly's green eternity.
The squirrel gloats on his accomplish'd hoard;
The ants have cramm'd their garners with ripe grain,
And honey-bees have stored
The sweets of Summer in their luscious cells;
The swallows all have wing'd across the main ;
But here the Autumn melancholy dwells,
And sighs her tearful spells
Among the sunless shadows of the plain:
Alone, alone,
She sits and reckons up the dead and gone
With the last leaves for a lone rosary,
While all the wither'd world looks drearily,
Like a dim picture of the drowned past
In the hush'd mind's mysterious far away,
|