Till the thin leaves the truant boy disclose,
Long on the wood-moss stretched in sweet repose.
Nor yet to pleasing objects are confined
The silent feasts of the reflecting mind.
Danger and death a dread delight inspire;
And the bald veteran glows with wonted fire,
When, richly bronzed by many a summer-sun,
He counts his scars, and tells what deeds were
done.
Go, with old Thames, view Chelsea's glorious
And ask the shattered hero, whence his smile?
Go, view the splendid domes of Greenwich—Go,
And own what raptures from Reflection flow.
Hail, noblest structures imaged in the wave!
A nation's grateful tribute to the brave.
Hail, blest retreats from war and shipwreck, hail!
That oft arrest the wondering stranger's sail.
Long have ye heard the narratives of age,
The battle's havoc and the tempest's rage;
Long have ye known Reflection's genial ray
Gild the calm close of Valour's various day.
Time's sombrous touches soon correct the piece,
Mellow each tint, and bid each discord cease:
A softer tone of light pervades the whole,
And steals a pensive languor o'er the soul.
Hast thou thro' Eden's wild-wood vales pur-
sued
Each mountain-scene, majestically rude;
To note the sweet simplicity of life,
Far from the din of Folly's idle strife;
Nor there awhile, with lifted eye, revered
That modest stone which pious Pembroke reared;
Which still records, beyond the pencil's power,
The silent sorrows of a parting hour;
Still to the musing pilgrim points the place
Her sainted spirit most delights to trace?
So, when the daring 20 The mild Tafarer's
What slow gradati
Yet mark in each
Oh mark the sleep
The adventurous
And hies from hom
Turns on the neigh
The dear abode of p
And as he turns, tl
The smoke's blue
breeze,
The village-commo
The church-yard y
sleep;
All rouse Reflection
And oft he looks an
So, when the mil
Arts yet untaught,
And, with the sons
That, rising, swell
So, when he breathe
Borne from his leafy
To And all his soul best
While each soft scen
Long o'er the wave a
Long watched the
Till twilight's dewy t
And fairy-forests frin
So Scotia's Queen,
Rose on her couch an
Her eyes had blesse
height,
That faintly tipt the
But now the morn wi
ot if courts or camps dissolve the charm: Vespasian loved his Sabine farm;
nt Navarre, when France and freedom Wed,
e lone limits of a forest-shed. cletian's self-corrected mind rial fasces of a world resigned, we trace the labours of his spade Salona's philosophic shade.
contentious Charles renounced a throne with monks and meditate alone,
his soul the parting tribute drew ? ned the sorrows of a last adieu ? retreats that soothed his tranquil breast our dazzled, and its cares oppressed. ed by time, the generous Instinct
tribes its choicest influence hail:the drum beats briskly in the gale, -worn courser charges at the sound, young vigour wheels the pasture round,
The aged tenant of the vale
his staff to lengthen out the tale; is lips the grateful tribute breathed, 10 son with pious zeal bequeathed. the blasted heath the day declined, scathed oak warred the winter-wind; a distant taper's twinkling ray o'er the furze to light him on his way; a sheep-bell soothed his listening ear, grain-drops told the tempest near; bis horse the homeward track descry, that shunned his sad, inquiring eye;
On the rude stone to trace the truth sublime;
When at his feet, in honoured 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 ruined 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 tho' the iron school of War erase
Each milder virtue and each softer grace;
What tho' 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,
Condemned to climb his mountain-cliffs no more,
If chance he hears the song so sweet, so wild,
His heart would spring to hear it when a child,'
Melts at the long-lost scenes that round him rise,
And sinks a martyr to repentant sighs.
[If chance he hears the song so sweetly wild
Which on those cliffs his infant hours beguiled.-Ed. 1839.]
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 resigned,
Say why we trace the labours of his spade
In calm Salona's philosophic shade.
Say, when contentious Charles renounced a throne
To muse with monks and meditate alone,
What from his soul the parting tribute drew?
What claimed the sorrows of a last adieu ?
The still retreats that soothed his tranquil breast
Ere grandeur dazzled, and its cares oppressed.
Undamped by time, the generous Instinct
glows
Far as Angola's sands, as Zembla's snows;
Glows in the tiger's den, the serpent's nest,
On every form of varied life imprest.
The social tribes its choicest influence hail:-
And when the drum beats briskly in the gale,
The war-worn courser charges at the sound,
And with young vigour wheels the pasture round,
Oft has the aged tenant of the vale Leaned on his staff to lengthen out the tale; Oft have his lips the grateful tribute breathed, From sire to son with pious zeal bequeathed. When o'er the blasted heath the day declined, And on the scathed oak warred the winter-wind; When not a distant taper's twinkling ray Gleamed o'er the furze to light him on his way; When not a sheep-bell soothed his listening ear, And the big rain-drops told the tempest near; Then did his horse the homeward track descry, The track that shunned his sad, inquiring eye;
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