How fleet is a glance of the mind! Compared with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind,

And the swift-winged arrows of light. When I think of my own native land,

In a moment I seem to be there; But, alas! recollection at hand Soon hurries me back to despair.

But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest; The beast is laid down in his lair; Even here is a season of rest,

And I to my cabin repair. There's mercy in every place;

And mercy, encouraging thought! Gives even affliction a grace,

And reconciles man to his lot.

They never roam'd; secure beneath

the storm

Which in ambition's lofty land is rife, Where peace and love are canker'd by the worm

Of pride, each bud of joy industrious to deform.

The wight, whose tales these artless lines unfold,

Was all the offspring of this humble pair:

His birth no oracle or seer foretold:

No prodigy appear'd in earth or air, Nor aught that might a strange event declare.

You guess each circumstance of Ed

win's birth;

The parent's transport, and the parent's

care;

The gossip's prayer for wealth, and wit, and worth;

And one long summer-day of indolence and mirth.

And yet poor Edwin was no vulgar boy; Deep thought oft seem'd to fix his infant eye:

Dainties he heeded not, nor gaude, nor toy,

Save one short pipe of rudest minstrelsy.

Silent, when glad; affectionate, though shy;

And now his look was most demurely sad,

And now he laugh'd aloud, yet none knew why;

The neighbors star'd and sigh'd, yet bless'd the lad;

Some deem'd him wondrous wise, and some believ'd him mad.

But why should I his childish feats display?

Concourse, and noise, and toil he ever fled;

Nor car'd to mingle in the clamorous fray

Of squabbling imps, but to the forest sped,

Or roam'd at large the lonely mountain's head;

Or, where the maze of some bewilder'd

stream

To deep untrodden groves his footsteps led,

There would he wander wild, till
Phoebus' beam,

Shot from the western cliff, releas'd
the weary team.

Th' exploit of strength, dexterity, or speed,

To him nor vanity nor joy could bring:

His heart, from cruel sport estrang'd, would bleed

To work the woe of any living thing, By trap or net, by arrow or by sling;

These he detested, those he scorn'd to wield;

He wish'd to be the guardian, not the king,

Tyrant far less, or traitor of the field: And sure the sylvan reign unbloody joy might yield.

Lo! where the stripling, wrapt in wonder, roves

Beneath the precipice o'erhung with

pine;

O never, never turn away thine ear; Forlorn in this bleak wilderness below, Ah! what were man, should Heaven refuse to hear!

To others do (the law is not severe) What to thyself thou wishest to be done.

Forgive thy foes; and love thy parents dear,

And friends, and native land; nor those alone;

All human weal and woe learn thou to make thine own."

MORNING.

BUT who the melodies of morn can tell? The wild-brook babbling down the mountain side;

The lowing herd; the sheepfcld's simple bell;

The pipe of early shepherd dim descried

In the lone valley; echoing far and wide

The clamorous horn along the cliffs above;

The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide; The hum of bees, and linnet's lay of love, And the full choir that wakes the universal grove.

The cottage-curs at early pilgrim bark; Crown'd with her pail the tripping milkmaid sings;

The whistling ploughman stalks afield; and, hark!

Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon rings;

Thro' rustling corn the hare astonish'd springs;

Slow tolls the village-clock the drowsy hour;

The partridge bursts away on whirring wings;

Deep mourns the turtle in sequester'd bower,

And shrill lark carols clear from her aërial tower.