« AnteriorContinuar »
But spring-tide blossoms on thy lips,
S. T. COLERIDGE.
But who the melodies of morn can tell ?
The lowing herd'; the sheepfold's simple bell;
The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love,
The cottage curs at early pilgrim bark;
sings; The whistling ploughman stalks afield; and
hark ! Down the rough slope the ponderous waggon
rings; Through rustling corn the hare astonish'd
springs; Slow tells the village-clock the drowsy hour; The partridge bursts away on whirring wings;
THE POET'S PRAYER.
Deep mourns the turtle in sequester'd bower, And shrill lark carols clear from her aerial tour.
THE POET'S PRAYER. Hail to the crown by freedom shap'd, to gird An English sovereign’s brow! and to the throne Whereon he sits ! whose deep foundations lie In veneration and the people's love; Whose steps are equity, whose seat is law.
Hail to the state of England! And conjoin With this a salutation as devout Made to the spiritual fabric of her Church; Founded in truth, by blood of martyrdom Cemented, by the hands of wisdom rear'd In beauty of holiness, with order'd pomp, Decent and unreprov'd. The voice that greets The majesty of both shall pray for both, That, mutually protected and sustain'd, They may endure long as the sea surrounds This favour'd land, or sunshine warms her soil.
And oh, ye swelling hills and spacious plains, Besprent from shore to shore with steeple-towers, And spires whose “silent finger points to heaven;" Nor wanting, at wide intervals, the bulk Of ancient minster, lifted above the cloud Of the dense air which town or city breeds, To intercept the sun's glad beams! may ne'er That true succession fail of English hearts,
THE POET'S PRAYER.
Thus never shall the indignities of time
The poet, fostering for his native land
abound Of those pure altars worthy; ministers Detach'd from pleasure ; to the love of gain Superior ; unsusceptible of pride, And by ambitious longings undisturb'd : Men whose delight is where their duty leads Or fixes them ; whose least distinguish'd day Shines with some portion of that heav'nly lustre Which makes the Sabbath lovely in the sight Of blessed angels, pitying human cares.
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o’er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds ; Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign. Hark! how the sacred calm that breathes around
Bids ev'ry fierce tumultuous passion cease, In still small accents whisp'ring from the ground
A grateful earnest of eternal peace. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring
heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; No children run to lisp their sire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; How jocund did they drive their team a-field ! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy
Let not ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp
power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike th' inevitable hour;
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long - drawn aisle and fretted
vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
Can storied urn, or animated bust,
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of death?