I wish nor seek for vain and fruitless pleasures;
No riches are, but what the mind intreasures.
Thus am I solitary, live alone,
Yet better loved, the more that I am known;
And though my face ill-favored at first sight,
After acquaintance it will give delight.
Refuse me not, for I shall constant be;
Maintain your credit and your dignity.
A RURAL MEDITATION.
HERE in the tuneful groves and flowery fields,
Nature a thousand various beauties yields:
The daisy and tall cowslip we behold
Arrayed in snowy white, or freckled gold.
The verdant prospect cherishes our sight,
Affording joy unmixed, and calm delight;
The forest walks and venerable shade,
Wide-spreading lawns, bright rills, and silent glade,
With a religious awe our souls inspire,
And to the heavens our raptured thoughts aspire,
To Him who sits in majesty on high,
Who turned the starry arches of the sky;
Whose word ordained the silver Thames to flow,
Raised all the hills, and laid the valleys low;
Who taught the nightingale in shades to sing,
And bid the skylark warble on the wing;
Makes the young steer, obedient, till the land,
And lowing heifers own the milker's hand;
Calms the rough sea, and stills the raging wind,
And rules the passions of the human mind.
THE garlands fade that Spring so lately wove,
Each simple flower which she had nursed in dew,
Anemones, that spangled every grove,
The primrose wan, and hare-bell mildly blue.
No more shall violets linger in the dell,
Or purple orchis variegate the plain,
Till Spring again shall call forth every bell,
And dress with humid hands her wreaths again,
Ah! poor humanity! so frail, so fair,
Are the fond visions of thy early day,
Till tyrant passion and corrosive care
Bid all thy fairy colors fade away!
Another May new buds and flowers shall bring; Ah! why has happiness-no second Spring?
(FROM "BEACHY HEAD.”)
HAUNTS of my youth!
Scenes of fond day-dreams, I behold ye yet!
Where 'twas so pleasant by thy northern slopes,
To climb the winding sheep-path, aided oft
By scattered thorns, whose spiny branches bore
Small woolly tufts, spoils of the vagrant lamb,
There seeking shelter from the noonday sun:
And pleasant, seated on the short soft turf,
To look beneath upon the hollow way,
While heavily upward moved the laboring wain,
And stalking slowly by, the sturdy hind,
To ease his panting team, stopped with a stone
The grating wheel.
Advancing higher still
The prospect widens, and the village church
But little o'er the lowly roofs around
Rears its gray belfry and its simple vane:
Those lowly roofs of thatch are half concealed
By the rude arms of trees, lovely in spring;
When on each bough the rosy tinctured bloom
Sits thick, and promises autumnal plenty.
For even those orchards round the Norman farms,
Which as their owners marked the promised fruit,
Console them, for the vineyards of the South
Surpass not these.
Where woods of ash and beech,
And partial copses fringe the green hill foot,
The upland shepherd rears his modest home;
There wanders by a little nameless stream,
That from the hill wells forth, bright now, and clear,
Or after rain with chalky mixture gray,
But still refreshing in its shallow course
The cottage garden; most for use designed,
Yet not of beauty destitute. The vine
Mantles the little casement: yet the brier
Drops fragrant dew among the July flowers;
And pansies rayed and freaked, and mottled pinks,
Grow among balm and rosemary and rue;
There honeysuckles flaunt, and roses blow
Almost uncultured; some with dark green leaves
ODE TO THE MISSEL THRUSH.
Contrast their flowers of pure unsullied white;
Others like velvet robes of regal state
Of richest crimson; while, in thorny moss
Enshrined and cradled, the most lovely wear
The hues of youthful beauty's glowing cheek.
With fond regret I recollect e'en now
In spring and summer, what delight I felt
Among these cottage gardens, and how much
Such artless nosegays, knotted with a rush.
By village housewife or her ruddy maid,
Were welcome to me; soon and simply pleased.
An early worshipper at Nature's shrine,
I loved her rudest scenes-warrens, and heaths,
And yellow commons, and birch-shaded hollows,
And hedgerows bordering unfrequented lanes,
Bowered with wild roses and the clasping woodbine.
ODE TO THE MISSEL THRUSH.
THE winter solstice scarce is past,
Loud is the wind, and hoarsely sound
The mill-streams in the swelling blast,
And cold and humid is the ground:
|