« AnteriorContinuar »
Oil Time beheld its silvery head
Its pensile boughs profusely spread,
Till, arch'd around, there seem'd to shoot
A grove of scions from one root.
Thither, at summer noon, he view'd
The lovely Nine retreating,
With songs their Poet greeting;
By harvest moonlight there he spied
The fairy bands advancing;
Around the willow dancing;
And glowworms glitter'd in the shade.
One morn, while Time thus mark'd the tree,
In beauty green and glorious,
O'er mine was oft victorious;
lie spake, and struck a silent blow
Lays cedars, thrones, and temples low,
The unremitting axe of doom,
That fells the forest of the tomb.
Deep to the Willow's root it went,
Ami cleft the core asunder,
Without recording thunder:
From that sad moment, slow away
In vain did Spring those bowers restore,
Autumn's wild gales the branches tore,
And every wasting winter found
The willow nearer to the ground.
Hoary, and weak, and bent with age,
At length the axe assail'd it:
The swans of Thames bewail'd it,
O Pope! hadst thou, whose lyre so long
Amidst thy paradise of song
Among thy loftiest laurels seen,
In deathless verse for ever green,—
Thy chosen Tree had stood sublime,
The storms of ages braving,
Its verdant banner waving,
An humbler lot, O Tree! was thine; —
Gone down in all thy glory,
To sing thy simple story;
Yet, fallen Willow! if to me
My lips should breathe a soul through thee,
And call down fire from heaven,
A WALK IN SPRING.
A little mountain stream
Beneath the morning beam.
Light o'er the woods of dark brown oak
From cottage roofs conceal'd,
In rosy light reveal'd.
'Twas in the infancy of May,
While from the ranging eye,
To meet the bending sky.
'Tis sweet in solitude to hear
The blackbird's loud wild note,
The thrush's stammering throat.
In rustic solitude 'tis sweet
The earliest flowers of spring to greet.
The violet from its tomb,
The sorrel's simple bloom.
Fresh-opening bells I seb;
Hope buds on every tree.
That morn I look'd and listen'd long,
As yet unheard, unseen,
Of days that once had been ;—
When gathering flowers, an eager child,
Or, on more curious quest,
To see the linnet's nest.
Already had I watch'd the flight
Of swallow* darting through the light,
And mock'd the cuckoo's call; Already view'd, o'er meadows bright,
The evening rainbow fall.
Now in my walk, with sweet surprise,
The plant whose pensile flowers
In sunshine as in showers.
Lone on a mossy bank it grew,
Among the verdure crept;
The breezes lightly swept.
A bee had nestled on its blooms,
Then fled in airy rings;
Glancing his glorious wings.
O welcome, as a friend! I cried;
A friend through many a season tried,
Nor ever sought in vain,
Is dancing on the plain.
Sure as the Pleiades adorn
In calm delicious hours,
'Midst love-awakening showers.
Scatter' d by Nature's graceful hand,
Thy fairy tribes we meet;
They kiss her tripping feet.
From winter's farmyard bondage freed,
Where green the herbage grows,
Upon thy tufts repose.
Tossing his forelock o'er his mane,
Sports with thy flexile stalk,
To crop it in his walk.
Where thick thy primrose blossoms play, Lovely and innocent as they, ,"4E O'er coppice lawns and dells,
In bands the rural children stray,
Whose simple sweets, with curious skill.
Nor envy France the vine,
With Britain's homely wine.
Unchanging still from year to year,
With undiminish'd rays,
The dawn of lengthening days.