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Invigorate my frame:
I'll join with thee the buskind chase,
With thee the distant clime will trace,

Beyond those clouds of flame.
Above, below, what charms unfold

In all the varied view!
Before me all is burnish'd gold,

Behind the twilight's hue.
The mists which on old Night await,
Far to the west they hold their state,

They shun the clear blue face of Morn;
Along the fine cerulean sky

The fleecy clouds successive fly,
While bright prismatic beams their shadowy folds adorn.

And hark! the thatcher has begun

His whistle on the eaves,
And oft the hedger's bill is heard

Among the rustling leaves:
The slow team creaks upon the road,

The noisy whip resounds,
The driver's voice, his carol blithe,
The mower's stroke, his whetting scythe,

Mix with the morning's sounds.

Who would not rather take his seat

Beneath these clumps of trees,
The early dawn of day to greet,

And catch the healthy breeze,
Than on the silken couch of Sloth

Luxurious to lie?
Who would not from life's dreary waste
Snatch, when he could, with eager haste,

An interval of joy ?

To him who simply thus recounts

The morning's pleasures o'er,
Fate dooms, ere long, the scene must close,

To ope on him no more.
Yet, Morning! unrepining still

He'll greet thy beams awhile;
And surely thou, when o'er his grave
Solemn the whispering willows wave,

Wilt sweetly on him smile;

And the pale glow-worm's pensive light Will guide his ghostly walks in the drear moonless night.

Б

TO THE HERB ROSEMARY.

Sweet-scented flower! who art wont to bloom

On January's front severe,
And o'er the wintry desert drear

To waft thy waste perfume!
Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now,
And I will bind thee round my brow;

And as I twine the mournful wreath,
I'll weave a melancholy song:
And sweet the strain shall be, and long,

The melody of death.
Come, funeral flower! who lov'st to dwell

With the pale corse in lonely tomb,
And throw across the desert gloom

A sweet decaying smell.
Come, press my lips, and lie with me
Beneath the lowly alder tree;

And we will sleep a pleasant sleep:
And not a care shall dare intrude,
To break the marble solitude,

So peaceful and so deep.
And hark! the wind-god, as he flies,

Moans hollow in the forest trees,
And sailing on the gusty breeze,

Mysterious music dies.
Sweet flower! that requiem wild is mine,
It warns me to the lonely shrine,

The cold turf altar of the dead;
My grave shall be in yon lone spot,

Where as I lie, by all forgot,
A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed.

ODE.

WRITTEN ON WHIT-MONDAY.

Hark! how the merry bells ring jocund round,
And now they die upon the veering breeze:

Anon they thunder loud
Full on the musing ear.

Wafted in varying cadence, by the shore
Of the still twinkling river, they bespeak

A day of jubilee,

An ancient holiday
And, lo! the rural revels are begun,
And gaily echoing to the laughing sky,

On the smooth-shaven green

Resounds the voice of Mirth.
Alas! regardless of the tongue of Fate,
That tells them 'tis but as an hour since they

Who now are in their graves

Kept up the Whitsun dance;
And that another hour, and they must fall
Like those who went before, and sleep as still

Beneath the silent sod,

A cold and cheerless sleep.
Yet why should thoughts like these intrude to scare
The vagrant Happiness, when she will deign

To smile upon us here,
A transient visitor ?

Mortals! be gladsome while ye have the power,
Aud laugh and seize the glittering lapse of joy!

in time the bell will toll

That warns ye to your graves.
I to the woodland solitude will bend
My lonesome way-where Mirth's obstreperous shout

Shall not intrude to break
The meditative hour.

There will I ponder on the state of man,
Joyless and sad of heart, and consecrate

This day of jubilee

To sad reflection's shrine;
And I will cast my fond eye far beyond
This world of care, to where the steeple loud

Shall rock above the sod,
Where I shall sleep in peace.

THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM.

When marshalld on the nightly plain,

The glittering host bestud the sky;
One star alone, of all the train,

Can fix the sinner's wandering eye.
Hark! hark! to God the chorus breaks,

From every host, from every gem;
But one alone the Saviour speaks,

It is the Star of Bethlehem.
Once on the raging seas I rode,

The storm was loud,—the night was dark,
The ocean yawn'd—and rudely blow'd

The wind that toss'd my foundering bark. Deep horror then my vitals froze,

Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem;
When suddenly a star arose,-

It was the Star of Bethlehem.
It was my guide, my light, my all,

It bade my dark forebodings cease;
And through the storm and dangers' thrall,

It led me to the port of peace.
Now safely moor'd-my perils o'er,

I'll sing, first in night's diadem,
For ever and for evermore,

The star!—the Star of Bethlehem!

THE VILLAGE SCHOOL-MISTRESS.

In yonder cot, along whose mouldering walls In many a fold the mantling woodbine falls, The village matron kept her little school, Gentle of heart, yet knowing well to rule; Staid was the dame, and modest was her mien; Her garb was coarse, yet whole, and nicely clean: Her neatly border’d cap, as lily fair, Beneath her chin was pinn'd with decent care; And pendent ruffles, of the whitest lawn, Of ancient make, her elbows did adorn. Faint with old age and dim were grown her eyes, A pair of spectacles their want supplies •

These does she guard secure in leathern case,
From thoughtless wights, in some unweeted place.

Here first I enter'd, though with toil and pain,
The low vestibule of learning's fane:
Enter'd with pain, yet soon I found the way,
Though sometimes toilsome, many a sweet display.
Much did I grieve, on that ill-fated morn,
When I was first to school reluctant borne;
Severe I thought the dame, though oft she tried,
To soothe my swelling spirits when I sigh’d;
And oft, when harshly she reproved, I wept,
To my lone corner broken-hearted crept,
And thought of tender home, where anger never kept.

But soon inured to alphabetic toils,
Alert I met the dame with jocund smiles;
First at the form, my task for ever true,
A little favourite rapidly I grew:
And oft she stroked my head with fond delight,
Held me a pattern to the dunce's sight;
And, as she gave ny diligence its praise,
Talk'd of the honours of my future days.

Oh! had the venerable matron thought
Of all the ills by talent often brought;
Could she have seen me when revolving years
Had brought me deeper in the vale of tears;
Then had she wept, and wish'd my wayward fate
Had been a lowlier, an unletter'd state;
Wish'd that, remote from worldly woes and strife,
Unknown, unheard, I might have pass'd through life.

From Childhood,

FRAGMENT.

The pious man, In this bad world, when mists and couchant storms Hide heaven's fine circlet, springs aloft in faith Above the clouds that threat him, to the fields Of ether, where the day is never veil'd With intervening vapours; and looks down Serene

upon the troubled sea, that hides The earth's fair breast, that sea whose nether face To grovelling mortals frowns and darkens all; But on whose billowy back, from man conceald, The glaring sunbeam plays.

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