Down by yon hazel copse, at evening, blazed The Gipsy's fagot-there we stood and gazed; Gazed on her sun-burnt face with silent awe, Her tattered mantle, and her hood of straw; Her moving lips, her caldron brimming o'er; The drowsy brood that on her back she bore, Imps, in the barn with mousing owlet bred, From rifled roost at nightly revel fed; Whose dark eyes flashed thro' locks of blackest shade, And heroes fled the Sibyl's muttered call, As o'er my palm the silver piece she drew, Ah, then, what honest triumph flushed my breast; He breathed his prayer, "Long may such goodness live!" 'Twas all he gave, 'twas all he had to give. Angels, when Mercy's mandate winged their flight, Had stopt to dwell with pleasure on the sight. But hark! thro' those old firs, with sullen swell, The church-clock strikes! ye tender scenes, farewell! It calls me hence, beneath their shade, to trace The few fond lines that Time may soon efface. On yon grey stone, that fronts the chancel-door, Worn smooth by busy feet now seen no more, Each eve we shot the marble thro' the ring, When the heart danced, and life was in its spring; Alas! unconscious of the kindred earth, That faintly echoed to the voice of mirth. The glow-worm loves her emerald-light to shed, Where now the sexton rests his hoary head. Oft, as he turned the greensward with his spade, He lectured every youth that round him played; And, calmly pointing where our fathers lay, Roused us to rival each, the hero of his day. Hush, ye fond flutterings, hush! while here alone I search the records of each mouldering stone. Guides of my life! Instructors of my youth! Who first unveiled the hallowed form of Truth! Whose every word enlightened and endeared; In Friendship's silent register ye live, But when the sons of peace, of pleasure sleep, When only Sorrow wakes, and wakes to weep, What spells entrance my visionary mind With sighs so sweet, with transports so refined? From whom that musing, melancholy mood Which charms the wise, and elevates the good; Blest MEMORY, hail! Oh grant the grateful Muse, Her pencil dipt in Nature's living hues, Το pass the clouds that round thy empire roll, And trace its airy precincts in the soul. Lulled in the countless chambers of the brain, Delight or sorrow to the soul dispense, Controul the latent fibres of the heart. As studious PROSPERO'S mysterious spell Each, at thy call, advances or retires, As judgment dictates, or the scene inspires. Each thrills the seat of sense, that sacred source The subtle, quick vibrations as they play; At once illumined when the cloud is past. Survey the globe, each ruder realm explore; The adventurous boy, that asks his little share, And as he turns, the thatch among the trees, The smoke's blue wreaths ascending with the breeze, The village-common spotted white with sheep, The church-yard yews round which his fathers sleep; All rouse Reflection's sadly-pleasing train, So Scotia's Queen, as slowly dawned the day, But now the morn with orient hues pourtrayed Each castled cliff, and brown monastic shade: As summer-clouds flash forth electric fire. |