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Invigorate my frame:
Beyond those clouds of flame.
In all the varied view!
Behind the twilight's hue.
They shun the clear blue face of Morn;
The fleecy clouds successive fly,
And hark! the thatcher has begun
His whistle on the eaves,
Among the rustling leaves:
The noisy whip resounds,
Mix with the morning's sounds.
Who would not rather take his seat
Beneath these clumps of trees,
And catch the healthy breeze,
Luxurious to lie?
An interval of joy ?
To him who simply thus recounts
The morning's pleasures o'er,
To ope on him no more.
He'll greet thy beams awhile;
Wilt sweetly on him smile;
And the pale glow-worm's pensive light Will guide his ghostly walks in the drear moonless night.
TO THE HERB ROSEMARY.
Sweet-scented flower! who art wont to bloom
On January's front severe,
To waft thy waste perfume!
And as I twine the mournful wreath,
The melody of death.
With the pale corse in lonely tomb,
A sweet decaying smell.
And we will sleep a pleasant sleep:
So peaceful and so deep.
Moans hollow in the forest trees,
Mysterious music dies.
The cold turf altar of the dead;
Where as I lie, by all forgot,
WRITTEN ON WHIT-MONDAY.
Hark! how the merry bells ring jocund round,
Anon they thunder loud
Wafted in varying cadence, by the shore
A day of jubilee,
An ancient holiday
On the smooth-shaven green
Resounds the voice of Mirth.
Who now are in their graves
Kept up the Whitsun dance;
Beneath the silent sod,
A cold and cheerless sleep.
To smile upon us here,
Mortals! be gladsome while ye have the power,
in time the bell will toll
That warns ye to your graves.
Shall not intrude to break
There will I ponder on the state of man,
This day of jubilee
To sad reflection's shrine;
Shall rock above the sod,
THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM.
When marshalld on the nightly plain,
The glittering host bestud the sky;
Can fix the sinner's wandering eye.
From every host, from every gem;
It is the Star of Bethlehem.
The storm was loud,—the night was dark,
The wind that toss'd my foundering bark. Deep horror then my vitals froze,
Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem;
It was the Star of Bethlehem.
It bade my dark forebodings cease;
It led me to the port of peace.
I'll sing, first in night's diadem,
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,
Here first I enter'd, though with toil and pain,
But soon inured to alphabetic toils,
Oh! had the venerable matron thought
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.