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Faster come, faster come,
Faster and faster,
Tenant and master.
See how they gather!
Blended with heather.
Forward each man set!
Knell for the onset !
A FAREWELL TO THE HARP. HARP of the North, farewell! The hills grow dark,
On purple peaks a deeper shade descending ; In twilight copse the glow-worm lights her spark,
The deer, half seen, are to the covert wending. Resume thy wizard elm! the fountain lending,
And the wild breeze, thy wilder minstrelsy; Thy numbers sweet with Nature's vespers blending,
With distant echo from the fold and lea, And herdboy's evening pipe, and hum of housing bee. Yet, once again, farewell, thou minstrel harp!
Yet, once again, forgive my feeble sway, And little reck I of the censure sharp
May idly cavil at an idle lay. Much have I owed thy strains on life's long way,
Through secret woes the world has never known, When on the weary night dawn'd wearier day,
And bitterer was the grief devour'd alone. [own. That I o’erlive such woes, enchantress! is thine Hark! as my lingering footsteps slow retire,
Some spirit of the air has waked thy string! 'Tis now a seraph bold, with touch of fire, 'Tis now the brush of fairy's frolic wing.
Receding now, the dying numbers ring
Fainter and fainter down the rugged dell, And now the mountain breezes scarcely bring
A wandering witch-note of the distant spell; And now 'tis silent all! Enchantress, fare thee
JAMES GRAHAME. 1765-1811.
FROM "THE SABBATH." How still the morning of the hallow'd day! Mute is the voice of rural labour, hush'd The ploughboy's whistle, and the milkmaid's song. The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers, That yestermorn bloom'd waving in the breeze. Sounds the most faint attract the ear: the hum Of early bee, the trickling of the dew, The distant bleating midway up the hill. Calmness sits throned on yon unmoving cloud. To him who wanders o'er the upland leas, The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale; And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook Murmurs more gently down the deep-worn glen; While from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke O'ermounts the mist, is heard, at intervals, The voice of psalms, the simple song of praise. With dovelike wings, peace o’er yon village
broods; The dizzying mill-wheel rests; the anvil's din Hath ceased; all, all around is quietness. Less fearful on this day, the limping hare Stops and looks back, and stops and looks on man, Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn horse, set free, Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large;
And as his stiff, unwieldy bulk he rolls,
But chiefly man the day of rest enjoys.
Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day. The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe The morning air, pure from the city's smoke; While, wandering slowly up the river side, He meditates on Him, whose power he marks In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough, As in the tiny dew-bent Howers that bloom Around its roots ; and while he thus surveys, With elevated joy, each rural charm, He hopes, yet fears presumption in the hope, That Heaven may be one Sabbath without end.
ROBERT BLOOMFIELD. 1766–1823.
FROM "THE Farmer's Boy.”—AUTUMN.
Her mind's serenity, her peace was gone,
Till sympathetic drops unbidden start,
Fair-promised sunbeams of terrestrial bliss-
ON BEHOLDING BODIHAM CASTLE, ON THE BANK OF THE
ROTHER, IN SUSSEX.
On thou, brave ruin of the passed time,
When glorious spirits shone in burning arms,
And the brave trumpet, with its sweet alarms,
And thy full vigour, and the eating harms