No more: the end is sudden and abrupt, Abrupt as without preconceived design Was the beginning; yet the several Lays Have moved in order, to each other bound By a continuous and acknowledged tie Though unapparent-like those Shapes distinct That yet survive ensculptured on the walls Of palaces, or temples, 'mid the wreck Of famed Persepolis; each following each, As might beseem a stately embassy, In set array; these bearing in their hands Ensign of civil power, weapon of war, Or gift to be presented at the throne Of the Great King; and others, as they go In priestly vest, with holy offerings charged, Or leading victims drest for sacrifice.
Nor will the Power we serve, that sacred Power, The Spirit of humanity, disdain
A ministration humble but sincere,
That from a threshold loved by every Muse Its impulse took-that sorrow-stricken door, Whence, as a current from its fountain-head, Our thoughts have issued, and our feelings flowed, Receiving, willingly or not, fresh strength From kindred sources; while around us sighed
(Life's three first seasons having passed away) Leaf-scattering winds; and hoar-frost sprinklings fell (Foretaste of winter) on the moorland heights; And every day brought with it tidings new Of rash change, ominous for the public weal. Hence, if dejection has too oft encroached Upon that sweet and tender melancholy Which may itself be cherished and caressed More than enough; a fault so natural (Even with the young, the hopeful, or the gay) For prompt forgiveness will not sue in vain.
CALM is the fragrant air, and loth to lose Day's grateful warmth, tho' moist with falling dews. Look for the stars, you'll say that there are none; Look up a second time, and, one by one,
You mark them twinkling out with silvery light, And wonder how they could elude the sight! The birds, of late so noisy in their bowers, Warbled a while with faint and fainter powers, But now are silent as the dim-seen flowers: Nor does the village Church-clock's iron tone The time's and season's influence disown; Nine beats distinctly to each other bound In drowsy sequence-how unlike the sound That, in rough winter, oft inflicts a fear On fireside listeners, doubting what they hear! The shepherd, bent on rising with the sun, Had closed his door before the day was done, And now with thankful heart to bed doth creep,
And joins his little children in their sleep.
The bat, lured forth where trees the lane o'ershade, Flits and reflits along the close arcade;
The busy dor-hawk chases the white moth
With burring note, which Industry and Sloth
Might both be pleased with, for it suits them both.
A stream is heard-I see it not, but know By its soft music whence the waters flow:
Wheels and the tread of hoofs are heard no more; One boat there was, but it will touch the shore With the next dipping of its slackened oar; Faint sound, that, for the gayest of the gay, Might give to serious thought a moment's sway, As a last token of man's toilsome day!
ON A HIGH PART OF THE COAST OF CUMBERLAND. Easter Sunday, April 7.
THE AUTHOR'S SIXTY-THIRD BIRTH-DAY.
[THE lines were composed on the road between Moresby and White- haven while I was on a visit to my son, then rector of the former place. This succession of Voluntaries, with the exception of the 8th and 9th, originated in the concluding lines of the last paragraph of this poem. With this coast I have been familiar from my earliest childhood, and remember being struck for the first time by the town and port of Whitehaven and the white waves breaking against its quays and piers, as the whole came into view from the top of the high ground down which the road (it has since been altered) then descended abruptly. My sister, when she first heard the voice of the sea from this point, and beheld the scene spread before her, burst into tears. Our family then lived at Cockermouth, and this fact was often mentioned among us as indicating the sensibility for which she was so remarkable.]
THE Sun, that seemed so mildly to retire, Flung back from distant climes a streaming fire, Whose blaze is now subdued to tender gleams, Prelude of night's approach with soothing dreams. Look round;—of all the clouds not one is moving; 'Tis the still hour of thinking, feeling, loving.
Silent, and stedfast as the vaulted sky,
The boundless plain of waters seems to lie :- Comes that low sound from breezes rustling o'er The grass-crowned headland that conceals the shore? No; 'tis the earth-voice of the mighty sea, Whispering how meek and gentle he can be! Thou Power supreme! who, arming to rebuke Offenders, dost put off the gracious look, And clothe thyself with terrors like the flood Of ocean roused into his fiercest mood, Whatever discipline thy Will ordain
For the brief course that must for me remain ; Teach me with quick-eared spirit to rejoice In admonitions of thy softest voice!
Whate'er the path these mortal feet may trace, Breathe through my soul the blessing of thy grace, Glad, through a perfect love, a faith sincere Drawn from the wisdom that begins with fear, Glad to expand; and, for a season, free From finite cares, to rest absorbed in Thee!
THE sun is couched, the sea-fowl gone to rest, And the wild storm hath somewhere found a nest; Air slumbers-wave with wave no longer strives, Only a heaving of the deep survives,
A tell-tale motion! soon will it be laid, And by the tide alone the water swayed.
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