The sturdy swain diminish'd to a boy! 195 Here Ouse, slow winding through a level Of less composure waits upon the roar distant floods, or on the softer voice Of neighb'ring fountain, or of rills that slip Through the cleft rock, and, chiming as they fall Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length In matted grass, that with a livelier green Be rays the secret of their silent course. The livelong night: nor these alone, whose notes Nice-finger'd art must emulate in vain, But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime In still repeated circles, screaming loud, The jay, the pie, and ev'n the boding owl That hails the rising moon, have charms for me. Sounds inharmonious in themselves and harsh, 585 As free to live, and to enjoy that life, As God was free to form them at the first, Who, in his sov 'reign wisdom, made them all. Ye, therefore, who love mercy, teach your sons To love it too. The spring-time of our years 590 Is soon dishonor'd and defil'd in most By budding ills, that ask a prudent hand To check them. But, alas! none sooner shoots, If unrestrain 'd, into luxuriant growth, Than cruelty, most dev'lish of them all. 595 Mercy to him that shows it, is the rule And righteous limitation of its act, 5 Twelve years have elaps'd since I first took a view Of my favorite field and the bank where they grew; And now in the grass behold they are laid, And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade. 10 Where the hazels afford him a screen The blackbird has fled to another retreat, from the heat, And the scene where his melody charm'd me before, Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more. My fugitive years are all hasting away, 15 With a turf on my breast, and a stone And I must ere long lie as lowly as they, at my head, Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead. 5 Men from England bought and sold me, Still in thought as free as ever, 10 What are England's rights, I ask, Me from my delights to sever, Me to torture, me to task? Fleecy locks and black complexion Cannot forfeit nature's claim; 15 Skins may differ, but affection 20 Dwells in white and black the same. Why did all-creating Nature Make the plant for which we toil? Sighs must fan it, tears must water, Sweat of ours must dress the soil. Think, ye masters, iron-hearted, Lolling at your jovial boards, Think how many backs have smarted For the sweets your cane affords. 25 Is there, as ye sometimes tell us, Is there one who reigns on high? Speaking from his throne, the sky? here! Who bidd'st me honor with an artless song, Affectionate, a mother lost so long,1 15 I will obey, not willingly alone, But gladly, as the precept were her own; And, while that face renews my filial grief, Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, 20 A momentary dream, that thou art she. My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. 40 By expectation every day beguil'd, Dupe of tomorrow even from a child. Thus many a sad tomorrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, I learn'd at last submission to my lot; 45 But, though I less deplor'd thee, ne'er forgot. Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nurs'ry floor; And where the gard'ner Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, 50 Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capt, 'Tis now become a history little known, That once we call'd the past'ral house 70 Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay Such honors to thee as my numbers may; Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, Not scorn'd in heav'n, though little notic'd here. Could Time, his flight revers'd, restore the hours, 75 When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flow'rs, The violet, the pink, and jessamine, Would'st softly speak, and stroke my 80 Could those few pleasant hours again 85 90 95 100 appear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? |