Ere the tenacious hair had left the scalp, Exposed to insult lewd, and wantonness? No, I will lay me in the village ground; There are the dead respected. The poor hind, Unletter'd as he is, would scorn to invade The silent resting place of death. I've seen The labourer, returning from his toil,
Here stay his steps, and call his children round, And slowly spell the rudely sculptured rhymes, And, in his rustic manner, moralize.
I've mark'd with what a silent awe he'd spoken, With head uncover'd, his respectful manner, And all the honours which he paid the grave, And thought on cities, where e'en cemeteries, Bestrew'd with all the emblems of mortality, Are not protected from the drunken insolence Of wassailers profane, and wanton havoc. Grant, Heaven, that here my pilgrimage may close! Yet, if this be denied, where'er my bones May lie or in the city's crowded bounds, Or scatter'd wide o'er the huge sweep of waters, Or left a prey on some deserted shore
To the rapacious cormorant,-yet still, (For why should sober reason cast away [spirit A thought which soothes the soul?) yet still my Shall wing its way to these my native regions, And hover o'er this spot. Oh, then I'll think Of times when I was seated 'neath this yew In solemn rumination; and will smile With joy that I have got my long'd release.
THOU base repiner at another's joy,
Whose eye turns green at merit not thine own, far away from generous Britons fly,
And find on meaner climes a fitter throne. Away, away, it shall not be,
Thou shalt not dare defile our plains; The truly generous heart disdains
Thy meaner, lowlier fires, while he
Joys at another's joy, and smiles at other's jollity.
Triumphant monster! though thy schemes succeed
Schemes laid in Acheron, the brood of night, Yet, but a little while, and nobly freed, Thy happy victim will emerge to light; When o'er his head in silence that reposes
Some kindred soul shall come to drop a tear; Then will his last cold pillow turn to roses,
Which thou hadst planted with the thorn severe; Then will thy baseness stand confess'd, and all Will curse the ungenerous fate, that bade a Poet fall.
YET, ah! thy arrows are too keen, too sure: Could'st thou not pitch upon another prey? Alas! in robbing him thou robb'st the poor,
Who only boast what thou wouldst take away. See the lone Bard at midnight study sitting,
O'er his pale features streams his dying lamp; While o'er fond Fancy's pale perspective flitting, Successive forms their fleet ideas stamp. Yet say, is bliss upon his brow impress'd? [live? Does jocund Health in Thought's still mansion Lo, the cold dews that on his temples rest, That short quick sigh-their sad responses give.
And canst thou rob a poet of his song;
Snatch from the bard his trivial meed of praise ? Small are his gains, nor does he hold them long; Then leave, oh, leave him to enjoy his lays While yet he lives-for to his merits just, Though future ages join his fame to raise, Will the loud trump awake his cold unheeding dust?
YES, my stray steps have wander'd, wander'd far From thee, and long, heart-soothing Poesy! And many a flower, which in the passing time My heart hath register'd, nipp'd by the chill
Of undeserved neglect, hath shrunk and died. Heart-soothing Poesy! Though thou hast ceased To hover o'er the many-voiced strings
Of my long silent lyre, yet thou canst still Call the warm tear from its thrice hallow'd cell, And with recalled images of bliss
Warm my reluctant heart. Yes, I would throw, Once more would throw, a quick and hurried hand O'er the responding chords. It hath not ceased- It cannot, will not cease; the heavenly warmth Plays round my heart, and mantles o'er my cheek; Still, though unbidden, plays. Fair Poesy! The summer and the spring, the wind and rain, Sunshine and storm, with various interchange, Have mark'd full many a day, and week, and month, Since by dark wood, or hamlet far retired, Spell-struck, with thee I loiter'd. Sorceress! I cannot burst thy bonds! It is but lift Thy blue eyes to that deep-bespangled vault, Wreathe thy enchanted tresses round thine arm, And mutter some obscure and charmed rhyme, And I could follow thee, on thy night's work, Up to the regions of thrice chasten'd fire, Or, in the caverns of the ocean flood, Thrid the light mazes of thy volant foot. Yet other duties call me, and mine ear Must turn away from the high minstrelsy Of thy soul-trancing harp, unwillingly Must turn away; there are severer strains (And surely they are sweet as ever smote
The ear of spirit, from this mortal coil Released and disembodied), there are strains Forbid to all, save those whom solemn thought, Through the probation of revolving years, And mighty converse with the spirit of truth, Have purged and purified. To these my soul Aspireth; and to this sublimer end
I gird myself, and climb the toilsome steep With patient expectation. Yea, sometimes Foretaste of bliss rewards me; and sometimes Spirits unseen upon my footsteps wait,
And minister strange music, which doth seem Now near, now distant, now on high, now low, Then swelling from all sides, with bliss complete, And full fruition filling all the soul.
Surely such ministry, though rare, may soothe The steep ascent, and cheat the lassitude Of toil; and but that my fond heart Reverts to day-dreams of the summer gone, When by clear fountain, or embower'd brake, I lay a listless muser, prizing, far Above all other lore, the poet's theme; But for such recollections I could brace My stubborn spirit for the arduous path Of science unregretting; eye afar Philosophy upon her steepest height, And with bold step and resolute attempt Pursue her to the innermost recess,
Where throned in light she sits, the Queen of Truth.
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