Warbled to pleasure and her syren-train, Above the Aonian mount, send from the stars As Bethlehem-shepherds heard when Christ was born. SONNET. THE EVENING CLOUD. A CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun, LINES WRITTEN ON SEEING A PICTURE BY BERGHEM, OF POOR wretch! that blasted leafless tree, As if thou wert alone the object of the storm. Yet chill'd with cold, and drench'd with rain, By sound or look of these ungracious skies; There stand'st thou, with unmoving head, And a grave, patient meekness in thy half-closed eyes. Long could my thoughtful spirit gaze On thee; nor am I loth to praise Him who in moral mood this image drew; An image different, yet the same, More pleasing to the heart, and yet to Nature true. Behold a lane retired and green, Winding amid a forest-scene, With blooming furze in many a radiant heap; One colt is frisking by her side, And one among her feet is safely stretch'd in sleep. And lo! a little maiden stands, With thistles in her tender hands, Tempting with kindly words the colt to eat ; Or gently down before him lays, With words of solace and of praise, Pluck'd from the untrodden turf the herbage soft and sweet. The summer sun is sinking down, And the peasants from the market town With cheerful hearts are to their homes returning; Groups of gay children too are there, Stirring with mirth the silent air, O'er all their eager eyes the light of laughter burning. The ass hath got his burthen still! The merry elves the panniers fill: Delighted there from side to side they swing. The creature heeds nor shout nor call, But jogs on careless of them all, Whether in harmless sport they gaily strike or sing. A gipsey-group! the secret wood Stirs through its leafy solitude, As wheels the dance to many a jocund tune; Th' unpannier'd ass slowly retires From the brown tents, and sparkling fires, And silently feeds on beneath the silent moon. The Moon sits o'er the huge oak tree, That mocks the hour of beauty and of rest; The soul of all her softest rays On yonder placid creature plays, As if she wish'd to cheer the hardships of the opprest. But now the silver moonbeams fade, And, peeping through a flowery glade, Hush'd as a wild-bird's nest, a cottage lies: An ass stands meek and patient there, And by her side a spectre fair, To drink the balmy cup once more before she dies. With tenderest care the pitying dame And strives with laughing looks her heart to cheer; To catch her eye by smile or sound, Unconscious of the doom that waits their lady dear! I feel this mournful dream impart A holier image to my heart, For oft doth grief to thoughts sublime give birth :- I see thee bath'd in heavenly light, Shed from that wond'rous child-The Saviour of the earth. When, flying Herod's murd'rous rage, When thousands rush'd to Salem's gate, To see mid holy hymns the sinless man pass by. Happy thou wert,-nor low thy praise, In peaceful patriarchal days, When countless tents slow passed from land to land Such quiet scene did meetly grace,- Circling the pastoral camp in many a stately band. Poor wretch!--my musing dream is o'er; Thy shivering form I view once more, And all the pains thy race is doom'd to prove. But they whose thoughtful spirits see The truth of life, will pause with me, And bless thee in a voice of gentleness and love! THE air of death breathes through our souls, The dead all round us lie; By day and night the death-bell tolls, And says, "Prepare to die." The face that in the morning sun I see the old man in his grave, The loving ones we loved the best, And the wan moonlight bathes in rest But not when the death-prayer is said And holy midnight voices sweet We know who sends the visions bright, From whose dear side they came! --We veil our eyes before thy light, We bless our Saviour's name! This frame of dust, this feeble breath The Plague may soon destroy; We think on Thee, and feel in death A deep and awful joy. Dim is the light of vanish'd years Like children for some bauble fair 33* GEORGE CROLY. THE GENIUS OF DEATH. WHAT is Death? "T is to be free! Wraps lord and slave; Nor pride, nor poverty dares come Spirit with the drooping wing, Their multitude Sink, like waves upon the shore; What's the grandeur of the earth To thy kingdom all have gone. The wondrous band; Bards, heroes, sages, side by side, Earth has hosts; but thou canst show No step has come; There fix'd, till the last thunder's sound DOMESTIC LOVE. DOMESTIC Love! not in proud palace halls |