THE radiant ruler of the year At length his wintry goal attains; Soon to reverse the long career, And northward bend his fteady reins. Now, piercing half Potofi's height, Prone rufh the fiery floods of light Ripening the mountain's filver ftores: While, in fome cavern's horrid shade, The panting Indian hides his head, And oft the approach of eve implores.
But lo, on this deferted coaft
How pale the fun! how thick the air! Mustering his ftorms, a fordid hoft, Lo, Winter defolates the year. The fields refign their latest bloom; No more the breezes waft perfume,
Born 1721; dyed 1770.
Now waft me from the green hill's fide
Whofe cold turf hides the buried friend!
And fee, the fairy valleys fade,
Dun Night has veil'd the folemn view!
Yet once again, dear parted fhade, Meek Nature's Child, again adieu!
*The genial meads affign'd to bless Thy life, fhall mourn thy early doom; Their hinds, and fhepherd-girls fhall dress With fimple hands thy rural tomb.
Long, long, thy ftone, and pointed clay Shall melt the mufing Briton's eyes, O! vales, and wild woods, fhall He say, In yonder grave Your Druid lies!
* Mr. Thomson refided in the neighbourhood of Richmond sometime before his death.
BY MARK AKENSIDE, M. D. *
THE radiant ruler of the year
At length his wintry goal attains; Soon to reverse the long career, And northward bend his fteady reins. Now, piercing half Potofi's height, Prone rush the fiery floods of light Ripening the mountain's filver stores: While, in fome cavern's horrid shade, The panting Indian hides his head, And oft the approach of eve implores.
But lo, on this deferted coaft
How pale the fun! how thick the air! Mustering his ftorms, a fordid hoft, Lo, Winter defolates the year. The fields refign their latest bloom; No more the breezes waft perfume,
Born 1721; dyed 1770.
No more the ftreams in mufic roll:
But fnows fall dark, or rains refound; And, while great Nature mourns around, Her griefs infect the human foul.
Hence the loud city's bufy throngs Urge the warm bowl and fplendid fire: Harmonious dances, feftive fongs Against the spiteful heaven conspire. Meantime perhaps with tender fears Some village-dame the curfew hears, While round the hearth her children play : At morn their father went abroad;
The moon is funk and deep the road;
She fighs, and wonders at his stay.
But thou, my lyre, awake, arise,
And hail the fun's returning force:
Even now he climbs the northern skies, And health and hope attend his course. Then louder howl the aërial wafte, Be earth with keener cold imbrac'd, Yet gentle hours advance their wing;
And fancy, mocking winter's night, With flowers and dews and ftreaming light, Already decks the newborn fpring.
O fountain of the golden day, Could mortal vows promote thy speed, How foon before thy vernal ray Should each unkindly damp recede! How foon each hovering tempeft fly, Whofe ftores for mischief arm the sky, Prompt on our heads to burft amain,
To rend the foreft from the steep, Or, thundering o'er the Baltic deep,
To whelm the merchant's hopes of gain!
But let not man's unequal views
Prefume o'er Nature and her laws: 'Tis his with grateful joy to use The indulgence of the fovran caufe; Secure that health and beauty fprings Through this majestic frame of things, Beyond what he can reach to know; And that heaven's all-fubduing will, With good the progeny of ill, Attempereth every state below.
How pleafing wears the winter night, Spent with the old illuftrious dead!
« EelmineJätka » |