AT the close of day, when the hamlet is still, While his harp rung symphonious, a hermit began: "Ah! why, thus abandon'd to darkness and woe, And sorrow no longer thy bosom enthrall. Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn; O, sooth him whose pleasures like thine pass away: Full quickly they pass, but they never return. "Now gliding remote, on the verge of the sky, She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. The path that conducts thee to splendor again, But man's faded glory, what change shall renew! Ah, fool! to exult in a glory so vain! "Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more; Kind nature the embryo blossom will save. But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn! ""Twas thus, by the glare of false science betray'd, That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind: My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward to shade, Destruction before me and sorrow behind. O pity, great Father of light,' then I cried, Thy creature, who fain would not wander from thee; Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride: From doubt and from darkness thou only can'st free.' "And darkness and doubt are now flying away; WORKING LANDSCAPE. (FROM THE "MINSTREL.") EVEN now his eyes with smiles of rapture glow, But who the melodies of morn can tell? The wild brook bubbling down the mountain side; The lowing herd; the sheepfold's simple bell; The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love, The cottage curs at early pilgrim bark; Crowned with her pail, the tripping milkmaid sings; The whistling plowman stalks afield; and hark! Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon rings; Through the rustling corn the hare astonished springs; Slow tolls the village clock the drowsy hour; The partridge bursts away on whizzing wings, Deep mourns the turtle in sequestered bower, And shrill lark carols clear from her aërial tower. |