O POVERTY! though from thy haggard eye, Thy cheerless mien, of every charm bereft, Thy brow that Hope's last traces long have left, Vain Fortune's feeble sons with terror fly;
I love thy solitary haunts to seek:
For Pity, reckless of her own distress;
And Patience, in the pall of wretchedness,
That turns to the bleak storm her faded cheek;
And Piety, that never told her wrong;
And meek Content, whose griefs no more rebel;
And Genius, warbling sweet her saddest song;
And Sorrow list'ning to a lost friend's knell, Long banish'd from the world's insulting throng;
With thee, and thy unfriended offspring, dwell.
ON these white cliffs, that calm above the flood,
Uplift their shadowing heads, and, at their feet,
Scarce hear the surge that has for ages beat,
Sure many a lonely wand'rer has stood;
And, whilst the lifted murmur met his ear,
And o'er the distant billows the still Eve
Sail'd slow, has thought of all his heart must leave
To-morrow; of the friends he lov'd most dear;
Of social scenes, from which he wept to part:
But if, like me, he knew how fruitless all
The thoughts that would full fain the past recall,
Soon would he quell the risings of his heart,
And brave the wild winds and unhearing tide-
The World his country, and his GOD his guide.
THE orient beam illumes the parting oar→→→
From yonder azure track, emerging white,
The earliest sail slow gains upon the sight,
And the blue wave comes rippling to the shore-
Meantime far off the rear of darkness flies:
Yet 'mid the beauties of the morn, unmov'd,
Like one for ever torn from all he lov❜d,
Tow'rds Albion's heights I turn my longing eyes,
Where every pleasure seemed erewhile to dwell:
Yet boots it not to think, or to complain,
Musing sad ditties to the reckless main :
To dreams like these, adieu!-the pealing bell
Speaks of the hour that stays not-and the day
To life's sad turmoil calls my heart away.
How sweet the tuneful bells' responsive peal!
As when, at opening morn, the fragrant breeze
Breathes on the trembling sense of wan disease,
So piercing to my heart their force I feel!
And hark! with lessening cadence now they fall,
And now, along the white and level tide,
They fling their melancholy musick wide;
Bidding me many a tender thought recall
Of summer-days, and those delightful years
When by my native streams, in life's fair prime,
The mournful magick of their mingling chime
First wak'd my wond'ring childhood into tears!
But seeming now, when all those days are o'er,
The sounds of joy once heard, and heard no more.
'TWAS morn, and beauteous on the mountain's brow (Hung with the beamy clusters of the vine)
Stream'd the blue light, when on the sparkling RHINE We bounded, and the white waves round the prow In murmurs parted;-varying as we go,
Lo! the woods open, and the rocks retire,
Some convent's ancient walls or glist'ning spire
'Mid the bright landscape's track unfolding slow.
Here dark with furrow'd aspect, like despair,
Frowns the bleak cliff-there on the woodland's side
The shadowy sunshine pours its streaming tide;
Whilst Hope, enchanted with the scene so fair,
Would wish to linger many a summer's day,
Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds away.
|