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nor wars are seen,

unless upon the green

two harmless lambs are butting one the other; which done, both bleating run, each to his mother; and wounds are never found,

save what the ploughshare gives the ground.

Go! let the diving Negro seek

for gems hid in some forlorn creek:

we all pearls scorn,

save what the dewy morn

congeals upon each little spire of grass,

which careless shepherds beat down as they pass: and gold ne'er here appears,

save what the yellow Ceres bears.

SIR W. RALEIGH

344 ODE ON THE DEATH OF JAMES THOMSON

N yonder grove a Druid lies,

IN

where slowly winds the stealing wave!
The year's best sweets shall duteous rise
to deck its poet's sylvan grave.

In yon deep bed of whispering reeds
his airy harp shall now be laid,
that he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds,
may love through life the soothing shade.
The maids and youth shall linger here,
and while its sounds at distance swell,
shall sadly seem in Pity's ear

to hear the woodland pilgrim's knell.
Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore

when Thames in summer wreaths is drest, and oft suspend the dashing oar,

to bid his gentle spirit rest!

And oft as ease and health retire

to breezy lawn, or forest deep,

the friend shall view yon whitening spire, and 'mid the varied landscape weep. 345 But thou who own'st that earthly bed, Ah! what will every dirge avail? or tears, which Love and Pity shed, that mourn beneath the gliding sail!

346

Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye

shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering near?
with him, sweet bard, may Fancy die,
and Joy desert the blooming year.

But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide
no sedge-crowned sisters now attend;
now waft me from the green hill's side,
whose cold turf hides the buried friend!

And see, the fairy valleys fade;

dun night has veiled the solemn view!
yet once again, dear parted shade,
meek Nature's Child, again adieu!

The genial meads, assigned to bless
thy life, shall mourn thy early doom;
their hinds and shepherd girls shall dress
with simple hands thy rural tomb.

Long, long, thy stone and pointed clay
shall melt the musing Briton's eyes:
O! vales, and wild woods, shall he say,
in yonder grove your Druid lies!

R

A DIRGE

W. COLLINS

EST on your battle-fields, ye brave!
let the pines murmur o'er your grave,
your dirge be in the moaning wave—
we call you back no more!

O there was mourniug when ye fell,
in your own vales a deep-toned knell,
an agony, a wild farewell-

but that hath long been o'er.

Rest with your still and solemn fame;
the hills keep record of your name,
and never can a touch of shame

darken the buried brow.

But we on changeful days are cast

when bright names from their place fall fast;
and ye that with your glory passed,

we cannot mourn you now.

F. HEMANS

347

THE

THE HAMLET

HE hinds how blest, who ne'er beguiled to quit their hamlet's hawthorn wild, nor haunt the crowd, nor tempt the main for splendid care and guilty gain!

When morning's twilight-tinctur'd beam.
strikes their low thatch with slanting gleam,
they rove abroad in ether blue,

to dip the scythe in fragrant dew;
the sheaf to bind, the beech to fell,
that nodding shades a craggy dell.

'Midst gloomy glades, in warbles clear,
wild nature's sweetest notes they hear:
on green untrodden banks they view
the hyacinth's neglected hue:

in their lone haunts, and woodland rounds,
they spy the squirrel's airy bounds;

and startle from her ashen spray,

across the glen, the screaming jay:
each native charm their steps explore
of Solitude's sequestered store.

348 For them the moon with cloudless ray
mounts to illume their homeward way;
their weary spirits to relieve,

the meadows incense breathe at eve.
No riot mars the simple fare,

that o'er a glimmering hearth they share;
but when the curfew's measured roar

duly, the darkening valleys o'er,
has echoed from the distant town,
they wish no beds of cygnet-down,
no trophied canopies, to close
their drooping eyes in quick repose.

Their humble porch with honied flowers, the curling woodbine's shade imbowers: from the small garden's thymy mound their bees in busy swarm resound: nor fell Disease, before his time, hastes to consume life's golden prime:

349

but when their temples long have wore
the silver crown of tresses hoar;
as studious still calm peace to keep,
beneath a flowery turf they sleep.

SUF

THE TIMBER

T. WARTON

OURE thou didst flourish once! and many Springs, many bright mornings, much dew, many showers past o'er thy head; many light hearts and wings, which now are dead, lodg'd in thy living bowers.

And still a new succession sings and flies;

fresh groves grow up and their green branches shoot towards the old and still enduring skies;

while the low violet thrives at their root.

But thou beneath the sad and heavy line

of death dost waste all senseless, cold and dark; where not so much as dreams of light may shine, nor any thought of greenness, leaf or bark.

And yet, as if some deep hate and dissent,

bred in thy growth betwixt high winds and thee, were still alive, thou dost great storms resent,

before they come, and know'st how near they be.

Else all at rest thou lyest, and the fierce breath
of tempests can no more disturb thy ease;
but this thy strange resentment after death
means only those who broke in life thy peace.

H. VAUGHAN

350

BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN

H, deem not they are blest alone

deem, not they arful tenor keep;

the Power who pities man, has shown
a blessing for the eyes that weep.

The light of smiles shall fill again
the lids that overflow with tears;
and weary hours of woe and pain
are promises of happier years.

351

352

There is a day of sunny rest

for every dark and troubled night;
and grief may bide an evening guest,
but joy shall come with early light.

And thou, who o'er thy friend's low bier
sheddest the bitter drops like rain,
hope that a brighter, happier sphere
will give him to thy arms again.

For God has marked each sorrowing day
and numbered every secret tear,
and heaven's long age of bliss shall pay
for all his children suffer here.

W. C. BRYANT

ANACREONTIC

BENEA

ENEATH a thick and silent shade
that seem'd for pure devotion made

in holy rapture stretch'd along

(Urania lay to aid my song)

I tun'd my voice and touch'd the lyre

while heav'nly themes the Muse inspire;

I sung the beauties of the grove

I sung th' Almighty power above,
but striving more my notes to raise,
and to my subject suit my lays,
a string o'erstrain'd, in pieces flew,
and sudden from its place withdrew.
Under my hand the chord I found,

but lost alas! the sprightly sound.
So pierc'd by Death's relentless dart
we view the lifeless earthly part,
the soul invisible takes wing

as sound that leaves the breaking string.

VITA EST BENEFACTIS EXTENDENDA

THE snow, that

crowns each mountain's brow,

and whitens every spray,

fom each high rock and loaded bough

will quickly melt away;

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