When low-hung clouds each star of summer hide, And fireless are the valleys far and wide, Oh! when the sleety showers her path assail, And like a torrent roars the headstrong gale; No more her breath can thaw their fingers cold, Their frozen arms her neck no more can fold; Weak roof a cowering form two babes to shield, And faint the fire a dying heart can yield! Press the sad kiss, fond mother! vainly fears Thy flooded cheek to wet them with its tears; No tears can chill them, and no bosom warms, Thy breast their death-bed, coffined in thine arms! Sweet are the sounds that mingle from afar, Heard by calm lakes, as peeps the folding star, Where the duck dabbles 'mid the rustling sedge, And feeding pike starts from the water's edge, Or the swan stirs the reeds, his neck and bill Wetting, that drip upon the water still; And heron, as resounds the trodden shore, Shoots upward, darting his long neck before. Now, with religious awe, the farewell light Blends with the solemn coloring of night; 'Mid groves of clouds that crest the mountain's brow, And round the west's proud lodge their shadows throw, Like Una shining on her gloomy way, The half-seen form of Twilight roams astray; When gentle Spirits urged a sportive chase, A sympathetic twilight slowly steal, And ever, as we fondly muse, we find The soft gloom deepening on the tranquil mind. The bird, who ceased, with fading light, to thread Silent the hedge or steamy rivulet's bed, From his gray re-appearing tower shall soon Salute with gladsome note the rising moon, While with a hoary light she frosts the ground, And pours a deeper blue to Æther's bound; Pleased, as she moves, her pomp of clouds to fold In robes of azure, fleecy-white, and gold. Above yon eastern hill, where darkness broods O'er all its vanished dells, and lawns, and woods; Where but a mass of shade the sight can trace, Even now she shows, half veiled, her lovely face: Across the gloomy valley flings her light, Far to the western slopes with hamlets white; And gives, where woods the checkered upland strew, To the green corn of summer, autumn's hue. Thus Hope, first pouring from her blessed horn Her dawn, far lovelier than the moon's own morn, Till higher mounted, strives in vain to cheer The weary hills, impervious, blackening near; Yet does she still, undaunted, throw the while Even now she decks for me a distant scene, (For dark and broad the gulf of time between,) Gilding that cottage with her fondest ray, (Sole bourn, sole wish, sole object of my way; How fair its lawns and sheltering woods appear! How sweet its streamlet murmurs in mine ear!) Where we, my Friend, to happy days shall rise, Till our small share of hardly paining sighs (For sighs will ever trouble human breath) Creep hushed into the tranquil breast of death. But now the clear bright Moon her zenith gains, And, rimy without speck, extend the plains: The deepest cleft the mountain's front displays Scarce hides a shadow from her searching rays; From the dark-blue faint silvery threads divide The hills, while gleams below the azure tide; Time softly treads; throughout the landscape breathes A peace enlivened, not disturbed, by wreaths Of charcoal-smoke, that, o'er the fallen wood, Steal down the hill, and spread along the flood. The song of mountain streams, unheard by day, Now hardly heard, beguiles my homeward way. Air listens, like the sleeping water, still, To catch the spiritual music of the hill, Broke only by the slow clock tolling deep, 1787-89. IV. LINES WRITTEN WHILE SAILING IN A BOAT AT EVENING. How richly glows the water's breast Such views the youthful Bard allure; |