And as the sparks of social love expand, As the heart opens in a foreign land; And, with a brother's warmth, a brother's smile, But wins the heart, and wakes the social sigh, But these pure joys the world can never know; When the hushed grove has sung its parting lay; When pensive Twilight, in her dusky car, Comes slowly on to meet the evening-star; Above, below, aërial murmurs swell, From hanging wood, brown heath, and bushy dell! A thousand nameless rills, that shun the light, Stealing soft music on the ear of night. So oft the finer movements of the soul, In the still shades of calm Seclusion rise, And breathe their sweet, seraphic harmonies! And the cleft oak flung boldly o'er the flood; Some antient cataract's deserted bed. High on exulting wing the heath-cock rose, And blew his shrill blast o'er perennial snows; Ere the rapt youth, recoiling from the roar, Gazed on the tumbling tide of dread Lodoar; And thro' the rifted cliffs, that scaled the sky, с Derwent's clear mirror charmed his dazzled eye. Each osier isle, inverted on the wave, Thro' morn's gray mist its melting colours gave; Light as the breeze that brushed the orient dew, Save when a bright and momentary gleam Glanced from the white foam of some sheltered stream. From its rich roof a sparry lustre shot. A crystal water crossed the pebbled floor, And on the front these simple lines it bore: In this secret, shadowy cell Musing MEMORY loves to dwell, With her sister Solitude. Far from the busy world she flies, And noting, ere they fade away, The little lines of yesterday. FLORIO had gained a rude and rocky seat, When lo, the Genius of this still retreat! Fair was her form-but who can hope to trace The pensive softness of her angel-face? Can VIRGIL'S verse, can RAPHAEL'S touch impart Those finer features of the feeling heart, Those tend'rer tints that shun the careless eye, And in the world's contagious climate die? She left the cave, nor marked the stranger there; Her pastoral beauty, and her artless air Had breathed a soft enchantment o'er his soul! In every nerve he felt her blest controul! A rich vine clustering round the Gothic gate. Age had not quenched one spark of manly fire; |