PASTORAL SONG. COME, Anna! come, the morning dawns, And watch the early lark arise; Our flocks that nip the scanty blade Come, Anna! come, and bring thy lute, And then at eve, when silence reigns, To these sweet heights again we'll come; ODE TO MIDNIGHT. SEASON of general rest, whose solemn still I sit and taste the holy calm of night. Yon pensive orb that through the ether sails, Hanging in thy dull rear her vestal flame; And sing the gentle honours of her name; While Fancy lone o'er me her votary bends, And pours upon my ear her thrilling song; And Superstition's gentle terrors come, See, see yon dim ghost gliding through the gloom! See round yon church-yard elm what spectres throng! Meanwhile I tune, to some romantic lay, The sweet notes echo o'er the mountain scene: Till in the lonely tower he spies the light, And 'mid the dreary solitude serene, Cast a much-meaning glance upon the scene, And raise my mournful eye to Heaven and weep. ODE TO THOUGHT. Written at Midnight. I. HENCÉ away vindictive thought! Thy pictures are of pain; The visions through thy dark eye caught, They with no gentle charms are fraught, So prithee back again. I would not weep, I wish to sleep, Then why, thou busy foe, with me thy vigils keep? II. Why dost o'er bed and couch recline? Pale visitant. It is not thine To keep thy sentry through the mine, The dark vault of the night; "Tis thine to die, While o'er the eye, The dews of slumber press, and waking sorrows fly. III. Go thou and bide with him who guides His bark through lonely seas; And as reclining on his helm, Sadly he marks the starry realm, To him thou mayst bring ease; But thou to me Art misery, So prithee, prithee plume thy wings and from my pillow flee. IV. And Memory pray what art thou? Art thou of pleasure born? Does bliss untainted from thee flow? The rose that gems thy pensive brow, Is it without a thorn? With all thy smiles, And witching wiles, Yet not unfrequent bitterness thy mournful sway defiles. V. The drowsy night-watch has forgot Lull'd by the winds he slumbers deep, While I in vain, capricious sleep, Invoke thy tardy power; And restless lie, With unclos'd eye, And count the tedious hours as slow they minute by. GENIUS, AN ODE. I. 1. MANY there be who, through the vale of life, By them unheeded, carking care, With even tenor, and with equal breath; Alike through cloudy, and through sunny day, Then sink in peace to death. |