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Filled with wild rapture, up he rose,
No more he ponders on the woes,
Which erst he felt that forward goes,
Regrets he'd sunk in impotence,
And hails the ideal day of virtuous eminence.
Ah! silly man, yet smarting sore,
With ills which in the world he bore,
Again on futile hope to rest,
An unsubstantial prop at best,
And not to know one swallow makes no summer!
Ah, soon he'll find the brilliant gleam,
Which flashed across the hemisphere,
Illumining the darkness there,
Was but a simple solitary beam,
While all around remained in customed night.
Still leaden ignorance reigns serene,
In the false court's delusive height,
And only one Carlisle is seen,
To illume the heavy gloom with pure and steady light.
DESCRIPTION OF A SUMMER'S EVE.
DOWN the sultry arc of 'day,
The burning wheels have urged their way,
And Eve along the western skies
Sheds her intermingling dyes.
Down the deep, the miry lane,
Creeking comes the empty wam,
And Driver on the shaft-horse sits,
Whistling now and then by fits ;
And oft, with bis accustom'd call,
Urging on the sluggish Ball.
The barn is still, the master's gone,
And Thresher pats his jacket on,
While Dick, upon the ladder tall,
Nails the dead kite to the wall.
Here comes shepherd Jack at last,
He has penned the sheep-cote fast,
For 'twas but two nights before,
A lamb was eaten on the moor
His empty wallet Rover carries,
Nor for Jack, when near home, tarries.
With lolling tongue he runs to try,
If the horse-trough be not dry.
The milk is settled in the pans,
And supper messes in the cans;
In the hovel carts are wheeled,
And both the colts are drove a-field;
The horses are all bedded up,
And the ewe is with the tup.
The snare for Mister Fox is set,
The leaven laid, the thatching wet,
And Bess has slink'd away to talk
With Roger in the holly-walk.
Now on the settle all, but Bess,
Are set to eat their supper mess;
And little Tom, and roguish Kate,
Are swinging on the meadow-gate.
Now they chat of various things,
Of taxes, ministers, and kings,
Or else tell all the village news,
How madam did the 'squire refuse;
How parson on his tythes was bent,
And landlord oft distrained for rent.
Thus do they talk, till in the sky
The pale ey'd moon is mounted high,
And from the alehouse drunken Ned
Had reeled--then hasten all to bed.
The mistress sees that lazy Kate
The happing coal on kitchen grate
Has laid—while master goes throughout,
Sees shutters fast, the mastiff out,
The candles safe, the hearths all clear,
And nought from thieves or fire to fear;
Then both to bed together creep,
And join the general troop of sleep.
COME, pensive sage, who lovest to dwell
In some retired Lapponian cell,
Where far from noise, and riot rude,
Resides sequestered solitude.
Come, and o'er my longing soul
Throw thy dark and russet stole,
And open to my duteous eyes,
The volume of thy mysteries.
I will meet thee on the hill,
Where, with printless footstep still
The morning, in her buskin grey,
Springs upon her eastern way;
While the frolic zephyrs stir,
Playing with the gossamer,
And, on ruder pinions borne,
Shake the dew drops from the thorn.
There, as o'er the fields we pass,
Brushing with hasty feet the grass,
We will startle from her nest,
The lively lark with speckled breast,
And hear the floating clouds among
Her gale-transported matin song,
Or on the upland stile embowered,
With fragrant hawthorn snowy flowered,
Will sauntering sit, and listen still,
To the herdsman's oaten quill,
Wafted from the plain below;
Or the heifers frequent low;
Or the milkmaid in the grove,
Singing of one that died for love.
Or when the noon-tide heats oppress,
We will seek the dark recess,
Where, in the embowered translucent stream,
The cattle shun the sultry beam,
And o'er us, on the marge
The drowsy fly her horn shall wind,
While echo, from her ancient oak,
Shall answer to the woodman's stroke;
Or the little peasant's song,
Wandering lone the glens among,
His artless lip with berries died,
And feet through ragged shoes descried.
But oh, when evening's virgin queen
Sits on her fringed throne serepe,
And mingling whispers rising near,
Steal on the still reposing ear;
While distant brooks decaying round,
Augment the mixed dissolving sound,
And the zephyr fitting by,
Whispers mystic harmony,
We will seek the woody lane,
By the hamlet, on the plain,
Where the weary rustic nigh,
Shall whistle his wild melody,
And the croaking wicket oft
Shall echo from the neighbouring croft ;
And as we trace the green path lone,
With moss and rank weeds
We will muse on pensive lore,
Till the full soul brimming o'er,