Whose dark eyes flash'd through locks of blackest
When in the breeze the distant watch-dog bay'd:
And heroes fled the sibyl's mutter'd call,
Whose elfin prowess scaled the orchard-wall.
As o'er my palm the silver piece she drew,
And traced the line of life with searching view,
How throbb'd my fluttering pulse with hopes and
To learn the colour of my future years! [fears,
Ah, then, what honest triumph flush'd my breast;
This truth once known-to bless is to be bless'd!
We led the bending beggar on his way
(Bare were his feet, his tresses silver-gray),
Sooth'd the keen pangs his aged spirit felt,
And on his tale with mute attention dwelt.
As in his scrip we dropp'd our little store,
And sigh'd to think that little was no more,
He breathed his prayer, "Long may such goodness
'Twas all he gave, 'twas all he had to give. [live!"
But hark! through those old firs, with sullen swell,
The church-clock strikes! ye tender scenes, farewell!
It calls me hence, beneath their shade to trace
The few fond lines that Time may soon efface.
On yon gray stone that fronts the chancel door,
Worn smooth by busy feet now seen no more,
Each eve we shot the marble through the ring,
When the heart danced, and life was in its spring
Alas! unconscious of the kindred earth,
That faintly echo'd to the voice of mirth.
The glow-worm loves her emerald light to shed,
Where now the sexton rests his hoary head.
Oft, as he turn'd the greensward with his spade,
He lectured every youth that round him play'd;
And, calmly pointing where our fathers lay,
Roused us to rival each, the hero of his day.
Hush, ye fond flutterings, hush! while here alone
I search the records of each mouldering stone.
Guides of my life! instructers of my youth!
Who first unveil'd the hallow'd form of Truth;
Whose every word enlighten'd and endear'd;
In age beloved, in poverty revered;
In Friendship's silent register ye live,
Nor-ask the vain memorial Art can give.
But when the sons of Peace, of Pleasure sleep,
When only Sorrow wakes, and wakes to weep,
What spells entrance my visionary mind
With sights so sweet, with transports so refined!
Ethereal power! who at the noon of night
Recall'st the far-fled spirit of delight:
From whom that musing, melancholy mood,
Which charms the wise, and elevates the good;
Bless'd Memory, hail! Oh grant the grateful muse,
Her pencil dipp'd in Nature's living hues,
To pass the clouds that round thy empire roll,
And trace its airy precincts in the soul.
Lull'd in the countless chambers of the brain,
Our thoughts are link'd by many a hidden chain.
Awake but one, and lo, what myriads rise!
Each stamps its image as the other flies!
Each, as the various avenues of sense
Delight or sorrow to the soul dispense,
Brightens or fades! yet all, with magic art,
Control the latent fibres of the heart.
As studious Prospero's mysterious spell
Drew every subject-spirit to his cell;
Each, at thy call, advances or retires,
As judgment dictates or the scene inspires.
Each thrills the seat of sense, that sacred source
Whence the fine nerves direct their mazy course,
And through the frame invisibly convey
The subtle, quick vibrations as they play.
Survey the globe, each ruder realm explore;
From Reason's faintest ray to Newton soar.
What different spheres to human bliss assign'd!
What slow gradations in the scale of mind!
Yet mark in each these mystic wonders wrought;
Oh, mark the sleepless energies of thought!
The adventurous boy that asks his little share, And hies from home with many a gossip's prayer,
Turns on the neighbouring hill once more to see
The dear abode of peace and privacy;
And as he turns, the thatch among the trees,
The smoke's blue wreaths ascending with the breeze,
The village common spotted white with sheep,
The churchyard yews round which his fathers sleep;
All rouse Reflection's sadly-pleasing train,
And oft he looks and weeps, and looks again.
So, when the mild Tupia dared explore
Arts yet untaught, and worlds unknown before,
And, with the sons of Science, woo'd the gale
That, rising, swell'd their strange expanse of sail;
So, when he breathed his firm yet fond adieu,
Borne from his leafy hut, his carved canoe,
And all his soul best loved: such tears he shed,
While each soft scene of summer beauty fled.
Long o'er the wave a wistful look he cast,
Long watch'd the streaming signal from the mast;
Till twilight's dewy tints deceived his eye,
And fairy-forests fringed the evening sky.
So Scotia's queen, as slowly dawn'd the day,
Rose on her couch, and gazed her soul away.
Her eyes had bless'd the beacon's glimmering height,
That faintly tipp'd the feathery surge with light;
But now the morn with orient hues portray'd
Each castled cliff and brown monastic shade :
All touch'd the talisman's resistless spring,
And lo, what busy tribes were instant on the wing!
Thus kindred objects kindred thoughts inspire,
As summer-clouds flash forth electric fire.
And hence this spot gives back the joys of youth,
Warm as the life, and with the mirror's truth.
Hence homefelt pleasure prompts the patriot's sigh ;
This makes him wish to live and dare to die.
For this young Foscari, whose hapless fate
Venice should blush to hear the muse relate,
When exile wore his blooming years away,
To sorrow's long soliloquies a prey,
When reason, justice, vainly urged his cause,
For this he roused her sanguinary laws;
Glad to return, though Hope could grant no more,
And chains and torture hail'd him to the shore.
And hence the charm historic scenes impart :
Hence Tiber awes, and Avon melts the heart.
Aerial forms in Tempe's classic vale
Glance through the gloom and whisper in the gale;
In wild Vaucluse with love and Laura dwell,
And watch and weep in Eloisa's cell.
'Twas ever thus. As now at Virgil's tomb
We bless the shade, and bid the verdure bloom:
So Tully paused, amid the wrecks of Time,
On the rude stone to trace the truth sublime;
When at his feet, in honour'd dust disclosed,
The immortal sage of Syracuse reposed.
And as he long in sweet delusion hung,
Where once a Plato taught, a Pindar sung;
Who now but meets him musing, when he roves
His ruin'd Tusculan's romantic groves?
In Rome's great forum, who but hears him roll
His moral thunders o'er the subject soul?
And hence that calm delight the portrait gives: We gaze on every feature till it lives!
Still the fond lover sees the absent maid,
And the lost friend still lingers in his shade!
Say why the pensive widow loves to weep,
When on her knee she rocks her babe to sleep:
Tremblingly still, she lifts his veil to trace
The father's features in his infant face.
The hoary grandsire smiles the hour away,
Won by the raptures of a game at play;
He bends to meet each artless burst of joy,
Forgets his age, and acts again the boy.
What though the iron school of war erase
Each milder virtue and each softer grace;
What though the fiend's torpedo-touch arrest
Each gentler, finer impulse of the breast;
Still shall this active principle preside,
And wake the tear to Pity's self denied.
The intrepid Swiss, who guards a foreign shore, Condemn'd to climb his mountain cliffs no more,
If chance he hears the song so sweetly wild Which on those cliffs his infant hours beguiled, Melts at the long-lost scenes that round him rise, And sinks a martyr to repentant sighs.
Ask not if courts or camps dissolve the charm,
Say why Vespasian loved his Sabine farm;
Why great Navarre, when France and Freedom bled,
Sought the lone limits of a forest shed.
When Diocletian's self-corrected mind
The imperial fasces of a world resign'd,
Say why we trace the labours of his spade
In calm Salona's philosophie shade.
Say, when contentious Charles renounced a throne,
To muse with monks unletter'd and unknown,
What from his soul the parting tribute drew,
What claim'd the sorrow of a last adieu?
The still retreats that sooth'd his tranquil breast
Ere grandeur dazzled and its cares oppress'd.
THE lark has sung his carol in the sky,
The bees have humm'd their noontide lullaby.
Still in the vale the village bells ring round,
Still in Llewellyn Hall the jests resound;
For now the caudle-cup is circling there,
Now, glad at heart, the gossips breathe their prayer,
And, crowding, stop the cradle to admire
The babe, the sleeping image of his sire.
A few short years, and then these sounds shall
The day again, and gladness fill the vale;
So soon the child a youth, the youth a man,
Eager to run the race his fathers ran.
Then the huge ox shall yield the broad sirloin;
The ale, now brew'd, in floods of amber shine;
And, basking in the chimney's ample blaze,
Mid many a tale told of his boyish days,
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