HEARD ye ere while the merry roundelay? How sweet the shepherd's pipe at parting day! But sweeter far resounds the sylvan strain To him who yonder hastens o'er the plain; Weary, yet cheerful: 'tis the soldier, come, Safe from the wars, and journeying to his home: Blithe, blithe is he, when from his native vale, He leaves the echo swelling on the gale, And sees the village smoke, in azure streams, Slow mingling with the sun's declining beams: Then peace to yon low roof, his native cot, And calm contentment be his lasting lot: For many a joyless year is now gone by, Since the poor soldier, (save in fancy's eye) Last viewed it; and full many another scene, In other climes since then have come between; And what though he through other scenes of woe, Again, perchance, ere long, for life must go; Yet 'till his furlough's happy days be past, Light is his heart, and jocund 'till the last. To-morrow, when the village cock at morn, (And not the beating drum, or bugle horn) Breaks his soft slumbers; when Aurora's light, (Not the red beacon's glare) dispels his night, And all is peace around him; say ye Great, Think ye he'll envy then your wealthier state? Of wealth he little dreams, who once has learned That true content is best by labour earned: Earned, and not purchased. When the day shall dawn, And all his dreams of dreary war are flown, Then ye, (who ere these days of hapless strife, So oft have shared with him the toils of life) Shall come to greet your fellow swain of yore, Shall greet the friend ye thought to see no more. And who shall not, with smiles of wonder gaze, To see his mien, how changed from other days? And who shall not with dumb amazement, hear, His tales of varied life this many a year? For many a wondrous tale of wayward fate The war-worn soldier can, I ween, relate;
That strange it seems, how he through countless woes, Still struggling, still has 'scaped, and smiles at foes.
But when he smiles, and after tales of woe,
That waken fears himself would scorn to know,
He next of honour tells; tells how its charms
Fire the full heart when Britons rush to arms;
When as they see the kindling passion rise,
And all the soldier sparkling in his eyes;
What swain who hears him, be he e'er so tame,
But in his heart shall catch the generous flame?
What youth, but conscious manhood tells his breast,
Arms are his calling, victory his crest?
Then soldier rest be thine, for when again,
Thy duty calls thee to the embattled plain,
(And yet must war be ever England's fate?)
When England bids thee arm 'gainst foreign hate,
Howe'er these peaceful scenes may charm thy heart,
Blithe as it came to day, as blithe 'twill part.
Liverpool.
THROUGH frozen climes, or burning deserts roving, My thoughts are all on thee;
My mind and heart's best actions fixed on proving
How dear thou art to me.
In prosperous breezes, or misfortune's storms,
My only hope is thee;
Thy beauty, my poor anguished bosom warms,
For thou art all to me.
Say, doth thy breast contain a heart so chilling,
It hath no thought for me;
Whilst I, with pain involuntary thrilling,
Can think on nought but thee?
Such pain is pleasure, and I'll fondly cherish
My love for only thee;
And when with life my hopes and thoughts all perish,
Oh give one sigh for me.
In my last moments, when life's taper's trembling,
Čast one sweet smile on me;
And my last sigh, when there is no dissembling,
Shall breathe my love for thee.
UPON thine eyes in secret I have gazed,
And fondly could I languish in their beams;
Thy form my soul enamours, and amazed
I feel thy beauty's force, thou loveliest of themes.
Oh! did I in a higher station move,
With riches blest, I'd lay them at thy shrine;
But cruel fate! although I dearly love,
I am too poor, to ask thee to be mine.
With unrequited love my life must end,
And yet sometimes unseen, I'll gaze on thee;
And as a lover, feast mine eyes---as friend,
Depart---for thou'rt too rich for me.
SONNET STANZAS,
Written in Sickness.
Flower-laden Spring, with a good servant's haste,
Is hurrying about, to make the many ways,
Which summer will pass through, now waste,
Pleasant as high-roads on blithe holidays.
The bees, impatient of their summer-toil,
Are hovering among the unbudded flowers;-
O right industrious they, who whilst they moil
Rejoice---which idleness does not in his happiest hours.
Millions of yellow flowers bestud the hills,
Looking and shining like huge heaps of gold;
And birds, and buds, and leaves, rivers and rills,
Valley and heath, and all things I behold,
Breathe out their voices with a soft, sweet might,
Instructing my dumb heart in their unfeigned delight.
The world-worn, suffering, and sick-hearted quit
The common haunts of life, and wander forth
To where the majesty of day doth sit,
Smiling on industry and patient worth.
Youthful Consumption in the fostering beam
Of the warm sun bathes her wan, icy cheek;
Uneasy-breasted Asthmá drinks the stream
Of air, thin and inhaleable; tottering, weak,
Age is hurrying out, with as much speed
As he can make---serenest smiles of gladness'
Playing the while on his pale, withered lip;
His dim eye brightens, and his heart doth leap,
As it had never known the weight of sadness:---
Ah, may I be like him in life's worst hour of need.
The glory of this day is like a sight
Of the innermost heaven. Lay lighter, heart!
Thought be not dumb and sullen, but take part,
In this one-voiced lay, full with delight,
Which thankful birds upraise!---The whisperings
Of nature's quiet voice come on thine ear,
My soul, oh be not deaf to them! the sphere
Of yon unbased arch above me, rings
With the lark's matin song of praise;---
The face of all the earth, like the bright sky
Is smiling, and brighter than a beauteous eye
When the sun's light is on it. This day's
Sublimity, in less ingrate heart than mine,
Would wake a sudden voice, and praiseful hymn divine.
But when I muse on what is past of life,
And how 'twas past, remembering how I kept
At distance from its field, whilst others rcapt
Its wealthy harvest, gathering in rife,
Glutted garners; how like an idle bubble,
As weak of strength, I've drifted every where ;
Or like a crazy bark on seas of trouble,
Tossed wild about, and helpless from despair;
How I have suffered mind and body's pain,
And loss of love and friends, and health and hope,
And many things I cannot lose again--
Youth, purity, and love of life---what scope,
What cause have I for thought of happiness,
Thus hunted down by Fate, and Memory, and Distress.
ON THE BIRTH OF A CHILD.*
THE rising sun, whose heavenly beam
First gleamed upon thy birth, my child,
Saw tears adown thy features stream,
Whilst all around thee gladly smiled.
Oh! may that sun's declining ray,
When thou shalt sink to death's long sleep,
See smiles upon thy features play,
Whilst all around thee vainly weep. A. R***.
*The thought is from tile Arabic.
END OF VOL. III.
J. Arliss. Printer, London.
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