Imagini ale paginilor
PDF
ePub

THE PROSPECT.

Does the face of nature shew
In all the hues of heaven's bow,
And, swelling to embrace the light,
Spreads around beneath the sight.
Old castles on the cliffs arise,
Proudly tow'ring in the skies;
Rushing from the woods, the spires
Seem from hence ascending fires ;
Half his beams Apollo sheds
On the yellow mountain-heads,
Gilds the fleeces of the flocks,
And glitters on the broken rocks.

Below me trees unnumber'd rise, Beautiful in various dyes;

45

The gloomy pine, the poplar blue,
The yellow beech, the sable yew,
The slender fir, that taper grows,
The sturdy oak, with broad-spread boughs;
And beyond, the purple grove,
Haunt of Phyllis, queen of love,
Gaudy as th' op'ning dawn,
Lies along a level lawn ;

On which a dark hill, steep and high,
Holds and charms the wand'ring eye :
Deep are his feet in Towy's flood;
His sides are cloth'd with flowing wood;
And ancient towers crown his brow,
That cast an awful look below;
Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps,
And with her arms from falling keeps :

46

THE PROSPECT.

So both a safety from the wind
On mutual dependence find!

'Tis now the raven's bleak abode;
'Tis now th' apartment of the toad;
And there the fox securely feeds;
And there the pois'nous adder breeds,
Conceal'd in ruins, moss, and weeds;
While, ever and anon, there fall
Huge heaps of hoary, moulder'd wall.
Yet time has seen-that lifts the low,
And level lays the lofty brow-
Has seen this broken pile complete,
Big with the vanity of state:
But transient is the smile of fate!
A little rule, a little sway,
A sunbeam in a winter's day,
Is all the proud and mighty have
Between the cradle and the grave.

And see the rivers, how they run
Through woods and meads, in shade and sun!
Sometimes swift, sometimes slow,
Wave succeeding wave, they go
A various journey to the deep-
Like human life to endless sleep!
Thus is Nature's vesture wrought,
To instruct our wand'ring thought;
Thus she dresses green and
To disperse our cares away.

gay,

DYER.

VILLAGE BELLS.

Он, merry are the village bells that sound with soothing chime

From the dim old tower, grown grey beneath the shadowy touch of time; [air,

And gaily are they borne along upon the summer Telling of bridal happiness to the youthful and the fair;

They give a murmur of delight to earth, and sky, and seas,

That mingles with the running streams, and floats upon the breeze.

'Tis past, the bridal glee is past, those echoing peals are o'er;

But the sweet, the holy Sabbath comes-we hear them now once more,

With a message from the heavens of love, a voice that speaks to all;

Unto the temple of our God, unto His shrine they call.

Whether your home's in halls of state, or by the lowly dells,

Come forth and listen to the sounds of the hallowed Sabbath bells!

Ye tuneful records, yours it is to watch the pace of time,

And mark the footfalls of each year with deep and soothing chime ;

48

VILLAGE BELLS.

Coming at midnight's silent hour, when all is dim and drear,

'Tis yours to breathe the last farewell of the sad expiring year;

And while we bid its hopes and fears, its fleeting hours adieu,

'Tis yours to hail with cheerful voice the birthday of the new.

And yet once more your music breaks upon my listening ear,

Though not the gaily sounding notes we love so well to hear;

Changed is your message to the heart, your joyous tone is fled;

Ye speak to us of buried hopes, a requiem for the dead!

Some home to-day is desolate, a soul from earth is free.

Mortal, the knell thou hearest now full soon may toll for thee!

O changeful bells, that swell'd but now the tide of human bliss,

What ministers of grief ye seem, in such an hour as this!

Say, is your knell a sorrowing one, for the lovely doomed to die,

Youth's early blush upon their cheek, its radiance in their eye?

THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.

49

Or do ye mourn in mockery for the beings frail as fair,

Whose lives, like golden evening clouds, have melted into air?

Yet such, alas, is human life; woe for the haughty breath!

To-day in health and power 'tis raised, to-morrow stilled in death.

One voice proclaims our joy and grief, our wishes, hopes, and fears;

The eye that brightly beams to-day, to-morrow dims with tears.

A few short years, a few brief suns, in earthly homes we dwell,

Then life with all its dreams shall be but as that passing bell.

THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.

THE melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,

E. CARRINGTON.

Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere;

Heap'd in the hollows of the grove the wither'd leaves lie dead;

They rustle to the eddying gust and to the rabbits' tread.

« ÎnapoiContinuați »