These were his traits of worth: "Tis all a transient hour below; And we that would detain thee here, Ourselves as fleetly go! Yet shall our latest age This parting scene review; SONG TO THE EVENING STAR. STAR that bringest home the bee, Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow Come to the luxuriant skies, From cottages whose smoke unstirr'd Star of love's soft interviews, 1 THE BEECH-TREE'S PETITION. On leave this barren spot to me! Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree! Though bush or floweret never grow My dark, unwarming shade below; Nor summer bud perfume the dew Of rosy blush or yellow hue; Nor fruits of autumn, blossom-born, My green and glossy leaves adorn; Nor murmuring tribes from me derive Th' ambrosial amber of the hive; Yet leave this barren spot to me: Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree! Thrice twenty summers I have seen The sky grow bright, the forest green; And many a wintry wind have stood In bloomless, fruitless solitude, Since childhood in my pleasant bower First spent its sweet and sportive hour; Since youthful lovers in my shade Their vows of truth and rapture made; And on my trunk's surviving frame Carved many a long-forgotten name. Oh! by the sighs of gentle sound, First breathed upon this sacred ground; By all that Love has whisper'd here, Or Beauty heard with ravish'd ear; As Love's own altar honour me, Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree! CAROLINE. I'LL bid the hyacinth to blow, There all his wild-wood sweets to bring, Delight my rustling canopy. Come to my close and clustering bower, Fresh with the dews of fruit and flower, With all thy rural echoes come, Where'er thy morning breath has play'd, Where Heaven and Love their sabbath hold, Where pure and happy spirits smile, Of beauty's fairest, brightest mould; From some green Eden of the deep, From some sweet paradise afar, Oh, gentle gale of Eden bowers, If back thy rosy feet should roam, Name to thy loved Elysian groves, FIELD FLOWERS. YE field flowers! the gardens eclipse you, 'tis true, Yet, wildings of Nature, I dote upon you. For ye waft me to summers of old, When the earth teem'd around me with fairy delight, I love you for lulling me back into dreams Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune Where I thought it delightful your beauties to find, Ev'n now what affections the violet awakes; What landscapes I read in the primrose's looks, Earth's cultureless buds, to my heart ye were dear, Ere the fever of passion or ague of fear Had scathed my existence's bloom; Once I welcome you more, in life's passionless stage, With the visions of youth to revisit my age, And I wish you to grow on my tomb. STANZAS TO PAINTING. Oн thou by whose expressive art And call thee brightest of the Nine! Possessing more than vocal power, But oh! thou pulse of pleasure dear, Then for a beam of joy to light In Memory's sad and wakeful eye ! Shall song its witching cadence roll? What visions rise! to charm, to melt! |