Yet even these, though feigning sickness oft They swathe the forehead, drag the limping limb, Can change their whine into a mirthful note, When safe occasion offers; and with dance And music of the bladder and the bag, Beguile their woes, and make the woods resound. Such health and gaiety of heart enjoy The houseless rovers of the sylvan world; And, breathing wholesome air, and wandering much, Of loathsome diet, penury, and cold. W. Cowper. FLOW, river, flow! ANGLING. Where the alders grow; Where the mosses rest On the bank's high breast; Flow on, and make sweet music ever, Thou joyous and beloved river. Such peace upon the landscape broods, There is such beauty in the woods; Such notes of joy come from the copse, And from the swinging oak-tree tops; There are such sounds of life, and health, and pleasure Abroad upon the breeze, And on the river rippling at sweet leisure, Beneath its banks of fringing trees,— That to my mind a thought of death or pain Death is the rule of life: the hawk in air The blackbird and the linnet rove On a death-errand through the grove; The mighty lion hunts his destined prey; Devours the tinier tribes that live unseen In littleness sublime and infinite, That whirl in drops of water from the fen- Or float in air upon invisible wings, They feel no joy in stopping meaner breath, Where the pine-tree rears its crest, The lurking angler dream, Of hooking fishes with his treacherous flies, So that the innocent fish may see, Flow, river, flow, Where the violets grow, Where the bank is steep, And the mosses sleep, And the green trees nod to thy waves below: Flow on and make sweet music ever, Thou joyous and beloved river! C. Mackay. THE DESOLATE VILLAGE. I WALKED by mysel' ower the sweet braes o' Yarrow, I look'd through the lift o' the blue smiling morning, On its way up to heaven, the cottage adorning, Hanging white ower the green o' its sheltering tree. |