But spring-tide blossoms on thy lips, S. T. COLERIDGE. MORNING. BUT who the melodies of morn can tell? The wild brook babbling down the mountain's side; The lowing herd; the sheepfold's simple bell; The pipe of early shepherd dim descried In the lone valley; echoing far and wide The clamorous horn along the cliffs above; The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide; The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love, And the full choir that wakes the universal grove. The cottage curs at early pilgrim bark; Crown'd with her pail the tripping milkmaid sings; The whistling ploughman stalks afield; and hark! Down the rough slope the ponderous waggon rings; Through rustling corn the hare astonish'd springs ; Slow tells the village-clock the drowsy hour; The partridge bursts away on whirring wings; THE POET'S PRAYER. 101 Deep mourns the turtle in sequester'd bower, And shrill lark carols clear from her aerial tour. BEATTIE. THE POET'S PRAYER. HAIL to the crown by freedom shap'd, to gird Whose steps are equity, whose seat is law. Made to the spiritual fabric of her Church; 102 THE POET'S PRAYER. Who, with ancestral feeling, can perceive Thus never shall the indignities of time The poet, fostering for his native land And by ambitious longings undisturb'd : WORDSWORTH. ELEGY. THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, Hark! how the sacred calm that breathes around Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; How jocund did they drive their team a-field! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn, or animated bust, Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of death? |