Imps, in the barn with moufing owlet bred, From rifled rooft at nightly revel fed; 114 Whose dark eyes flash'd thro' locks of blackest shade, When in the breeze the diftant watch-dog bay'd:And heroes fled the Sybil's mutter'd call, Whose elfin prowess scal'd the orchard-wall. As o'er my palm the filver piece she drew, And trac'd the line of life with fearching view, 120 How throbb'd my fluttering pulfe with hopes and fears, To learn the colour of my future years! Ah, then, what honeft triumph flush'd my breast! This truth once known-To bless is to be bleft! We led the bending beggar on his way; (Bare were his feet, his treffes filver-gray) Sooth'd the keen pangs his aged spirit felt, And on his tale with mute attention dwelt. 125 As in his fcrip we dropt our little store, And wept to think that little was no more, 130 He breath'd his prayer, "Long may fuch goodness live!" 'Twas all he gave, 'twas all he had to give. But hark! thro' those old firs, with fullen fwell The church-clock strikes! ye tender scenes, farewell! It calls me hence, beneath their fhade, to trace 135 The few fond lines that Time may foon efface. On yon gray ftone, that fronts the chancel-door, Worn smooth by bufy feet now feen no more, Each eve we shot the marble thro' the ring, When the heart danc'd, and life was in its spring; 140 Alas! unconfcious 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 refts his hoary head. Oft, as he turn'd the greenfward with his fpade, 145 He lectur'd every youth that round him play'd; Rous'd him to rival each, the hero of his day. Hush, ye fond flutterings, hufh! while here alone I fearch the records of each mouldering stone. In age belov'd, in poverty rever'd ; In Friendship's filent register ye live, Nor ask the vain memorial Art can give. 150 155 But when the fons of peace and pleasure sleep, When only Sorrow wakes, and wakes to weep, What spells entrance my vifionary mind, With fighs fo fweet, with raptures fo refin'd? 166 Ethereal Power! whofe fmile, at noon of night, Recalls the far-fled spirit of delight; Inftils that mufing, melancholy mood, Which charms the wise, and elevates the good; Bleft MEMORY, hail! Oh, grant the grateful Muse, 165 Her pencil dipt in Nature's living hues, To país the clouds that round thy empire roll, And trace its airy precincts in the foul. Lull'd in the countless chambers of the brain, Our thoughts are link'd by many a hidden chain. 170 Awake but one, and lo, what myriads rife ! ' Each stamps its image as the other flies! Each, as the varied avenues of sense Delight or forrow to the foul difpenfe, Brightens or fades; yet all, with magic art, 175 Controul the latent fibres of the heart. As ftudious PROSPERO'S myfterious spell Each, at thy call, advances or retires, As judgment dictates, or the scene infpires. Each thrills the feat of fenfe, that facred fource, Whence the fine nerves direct their mazy course, And thro' the frame invifibly convey The fubtle, quick vibrations as they play. C 180 |