The wren its crest of fibred fire With his rich bronze compared, While many a youngling's songful sire His acorn'd twiglets shared. The lark, above, sweet tribute paid, E'en when his stormy voice was loud, Dead Oak, thou liv'st! Thy smitten hands, The thunder of thy brow, Speak, with strange tongues, in many lands; And tyrants hear thee NOW! Beneath the shadow of thy name, Shall future patriots rise to fame, And many a sun go down. LINES ON SEEING UNEXPECTEDLY A NEW CHURCH, WHILE WALKING, ON THE SABBATH, IN OLD-PARK WOOD, NEAR SHEFFIELD. FROM Shirecliffe, o'er a silent sea of trees, A golden spire, that glow'd o'er fields of gold. That brings the tempest's accents from afar, * The unequalled lecturer on the drama. Yet deem not that Affection can expire, Though earth and skies shall melt in fervent fire; RIBBLEDIN; OR THE CHRISTENING. No name hast thou! lone streamlet That lovest Rivilin. Here, if a bard may christen thee, I'll call thee "Ribbledin;" Here, where first murmuring from thine urn, And down the rock, like music, flows Here, while beneath the umbrage Bridged o'er by many a fallen birch, And watch'd by many a flower, To meet thy cloud-descended love, Dim world of weeping mosses! Beheld thy streamlet flow: See how he bends him down to hear Old as the rocks, wild stream, he seems, Wildest and lonest streamlet ! Whose snaked roots twist above me! O for the tongue or pen of Burns, Would that I were a river, To wander all alone Through some sweet Eden of the wild, In music of my own; And bathed in bliss, and fed with dew, Return unto my home in heav'n Or that I were the lichen, That, in this roofless cave, (The dim geranium's lone boudoir,) And hears the breeze-bow'd tree-tops sigh, O that I were a primrose, To bask in sunny air! Far, far from all the plagues that make Then would I watch the building-birds, Or that I were a skylark, To soar and sing above, Filling all hearts with joyful sounds, And my own soul with love! |