« EelmineJätka »
In adamantine chains shall death be bound,
Waste sandy valleys, once perplex'd with thorn,
the verdant mead, And boys in flow'ry bands the tyger lead; The steer and lion at one crib shall meet, And harmless serpents lick the pilgrim's feet. The smiling infant in his hand shall take The crested basilisk, and speckled snake; Pleas'd, the green lustre of the scales survey, And with their forky tongues shall innocently play.
Rise, crown'd with light, imperial SALEM, rise! Exalt thy tow'ry head, and lift thy eyes! See a long race thy spacious courts adorn; See future sons and daughters, yet unborn, In crowding ranks on ev'ry side arise, Demanding life, impatient for the skies! See barb'rous nations at thy gates attend, Walk in thy light, and in thy temple bend; See thy bright altars throng'd with prostrate kings, And heap'd with product of Sabæan springs! For thee Idume's spicy forests blow, And seeds of gold in Ophir's mountains glow. See Heav'n its sparkling portals wide display, And break upon thee in a flood of day!
No more the rising sun shall gild the morn,
WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimm’ring landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r,
The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bow'r,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turfin 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,
Theswallow 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.
Or busy housewife ply her ev'ning care;
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 afield! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdystroke!
Let not ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
The short and simple annals of the poor.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike th' inevitable hour,
The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, to these impute the fault,
If mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where thro’the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault,
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
Can story'd 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? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre.
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll; Chill penury repress'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear; Full many a flow'r is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.