Silent, unseen, unnoticed, unlamented,
Come then, sad Thought, and let us meditate
While meditate. we may.-We have now
But a small portion of what men call time
To hold communion; for even now the knife,
The separating knife, I feel divide
The tender bond that binds my soul to earth.
Yes, I must die-I feel that I must die;
And though to me has life been dark and dreary,
Though Hope for me has smiled but to deceive,
And Disappointment still pursued her blandishments,
Yet do I feel my soul recoil within me
As I contemplate the dim gulf of death,
The shuddering void, the awful blank-futurity.
Ay, I had plann'd full many a sanguine scheme
Of earthly happiness--romantic schemes,
And fraught with loveliness; and it is hard
To feel the hand of Death arrest one's steps,
Throw a chill blight o'er all one's budding hopes,
And hurl one's soul untimely to the shades,
Lost in the gaping gulf of blank oblivion.
Fifty years hence, and who will hear of Henry?
Oh! none;-another busy brood of beings
Will shoot up in the interim, and none
Will hold him in remembrance. I shall sink,
As sinks a stranger in the crowded streets
Of busy London :-Some short bustle's caused,
A few inquiries, and the crowds close in,
And all's forgotten.--On my grassy grave
The men of future times will careless tread,
And read my name upon the sculptured stone;
Nor will the sound, familiar to their ears,
Recall my vanish'd memory.-I did hope
For better things!-I hoped I should not leave
The earth without a vestige;-Fate decrees
It shall be otherwise, and I submit.
Henceforth, oh world, no more of thy desires'
No more of hope! the wanton vagrant Hope!
I abjure all.-Now other cares engross me,
And my tired soul, with emulative haste,
Looks to its God, and prunes its wings for Heaven.
PASTORAL SONG.
COME, Anna! come, the morning dawns,
Faint streaks of radiance tinge the skies.
Come let us seek the dewy lawns,
And watch the early lark arise;
While Nature, clad in vesture gay,
Hails the lov'd return of day.
Our flocks, that nip the scanty blade
Upon the moor, shall seek the vale;
And then, secure beneath the shade,
We'll listen to the throstle's tale :
And watch the silver clouds above,
As o'er the azure vault they rove.
Come, Anna! come, and bring thy lute,
That with its tones, so softly sweet,
In cadence with my mellow flute,
We may beguile the noontide heat;
While near the mellow bee shall join,
To raise a harmony divine.
And then at eve, when silence reigns,
Except when heard the beetle's hum,
We'll leave the sober-tinted plains,
To these sweet heights again we'll come
And thou to thy soft lute shalt play
A solemn vesper to departing day.
WHEN pride and envy, and the scorn
Of wealth, my heart with gall embue
I thought how pleasant were the morn
Of silence, in the solitude;
To hear the forest bee on wing,
Or by the stream, or woodland spring
To lie and muse alone-alone,
While the tinkling waters moan,
Or such wild sounds arise, as say,
Man and noise are far away.
Now, surely, thought I, there's enow
To fill life's dusty way;
And who will miss a poet's feet,
Or wonder where he stray:
So to the woods and waste I'll go,
And I will build an osier bower;
And sweetly there to me shall flow
The meditative hour.
And when the Autumn's withering hand
Shall strew with leaves the sylvan land,
I'll to the forest caverns hie:
And in the dark and stormy nights
I'll listen to the shrieking sprites,
Who, in the wintry wolds and floods,
Keep jubilee, and shred the woods:
Or, as it drifted soft and slow,
Hurl in ten thousand shapes the snow,
BLOOMFIELD, thy happy-omen'd name
Ensures continuance to thy fame;
Both sense and truth this verdict give,
While fields shall bloom, thy name shall live!
ODE TO MIDNIGHT.
SEASON of general rest, whose solemn still
Strikes to the trembling heart a fearful chill,
But speaks to philosophic souls delight,
Thee do I hail, as at my casement high,
My candle waning melancholy by,
I sit and taste the holy calm of night.
Yon pensive orb, that through the ether sails,
And gilds the misty shadows of the vales,
Hanging in thy dull rear her vestal flame,
To her, while all around in sleep recline,
Wakeful I raise my orisons divine,
And sing the gentle honours of her name;
While Fancy lone o'er me her votary bends,
To lift my soul her fairy vision sends,
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 churchyard elm what spectres throng!
Meanwhile I tune to some romantic lay,
My flageolet-and, as I pensive play
The sweet notes echo o'er the mountam scene,
The traveller late journeying o'er the moors
Hears them aghast,-(while still the dull owl pours
Her hollow screams each dreary pause between,)
Till in the lonely tower he spies the light
Now faintly flashing on the glooms of night,
Where I, poor muser, my lone vigils keep,
And 'mid the dreary solitude serene,
Cast a much-meaning glance upon the scene,
And raise my mournful eye to heaven and weep.
HENCE away, vindictive Thought!
Thy pictures are of pain;
The visions through thy dark eye caught,
They with no gentle charms are fraught,
So pr'ythee back again.
I would not weep,
I wish to sleep,
Then why, thou busy foc, with me thy vigils keep?
Why dost o'er bed and couch recline?
Is this thy new delight?
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.
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 may'st bring ease :
So pr'ythee, pr'ythee, plume thy wings, and from my
And, Memory, pray what art thou?
Art thou of pleasure born?
Does bliss untainted from thee flow?
The rose that gems the pensive brow,
Is it without a thorn?
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