Of the sun going down to his rest, In the broad open eye of the solitary sky, They dance, there are three, as jocund as free, Man and Maidens wheel, They themselves make the reel, And their music's a prey which they seize: They dance not for me, Yet mine is their glee! Thus pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find; Thus a rich loving-kindness, redundantly kind, Moves all nature to gladness and mirth. The showers of the Spring Rouse the birds, and they sing; If the wind do but stir for his proper delight, Each wave, one and t'other, speeds after his brother; 10* 'MID crowded obelisks and urns I sought the untimely grave of Burns; Sons of the Bard, my heart still mourns With sorrow true, And more would grieve, but that it turns Trembling to you! Through twilight shades of good and ill Ye now are panting up life's hill, And more than common strength and skill If ye would give the better will Hath Nature strung your nerves to bear The social hour,-of tenfold care For honest men delight will take Your steps pursue; And of your Father's name will make A snare for you. Far from their noisy haunts retire, There seek the genius of your Sire, Or where, 'mid "lonely heights and hows," Bedewed with toil, While reapers strove, or busy ploughs His judgment with benignant ray Shall guide, his fancy cheer, your way; Nor deem that "light which leads astray, Is light from Heaven." Let no mean hope your souls enslave; Be independent, generous, brave; And such revere; But be admonished by his grave, And think, and fear! HUMANITY, delighting to behold A fond reflection of her own decay, As though his weakness were disturbed by pain: An undisputed symbol of command, For he it was, dread Winter! who beset, He smote the blossoms of their warrior youth; Life to consume in Manhood's firmest hold; Nor spared the reverend blood that feebly runs; For why,-unless for liberty enrolled And sacred home,—ah! why should hoary Age be bold? Fleet the Tartar's reinless steed, But fleeter far the pinions of the Wind, Which from Siberian caves the Monarch freed, No pitying voice commands a halt, OUR LADY OF THE SNOW. MEEK Virgin Mother, more benign These crowded offerings, as they hang * Mount Righi. |