« EelmineJätka »
SHE came--she is gone-we have met
And meet perhaps never again ; The sun of that moment it set,
And seems to have risen in vain. Catherina has fled like a dream
(So vanishes pleasure, alas !) But has left a regret and esteem
That will not so suddenly pase.
The last evening-ramble we made,
Catherina, Maria, and I,
By the nightingale warbling nigh.
We paus'd under many a tree,
And much she was charm’d with a tone Less sweet to Maria and me,
Who had witness'd so lately her owi.
My numbers that day she had sung,
And gave them a grace so divine, As only her musical tongue
Could infuse into numbers of mine. The longer I heard, I esteem'd
The work of my fancy the more, And ev'n to myself never seemd
So tuneful a poet before.
Though the pleasures of London exceed
In number the days of the year,. Catherina, did nothing impedė,
Would feel herself happier here ; For the close-woven arches of limes,
On the banks of our river, I'know, Are sweeter to her many times
Than all that the city can show.
So it is, when the mind is endued
With a well-judging taste from above,
Tis nature alone that we love.
May even our wonder excite,
A lasting, a sacred delight.
Since then in the rural recess
Catherina alone can rejoice, May it still be her lot to possess
The scene of her sensible choice!
S. To inhabit a mansion remote
From the clatter of street-pacing steeds, And by Philomel's annual note,
To measure the life that she leads.
With her book, and her voice, and her lyre,
To wing all her moments at home,
As oft as it suits her to roam,
With little to wish or to fear,
THE EVENING WALK.
A TRUCE to thought and let us o'er the fields,
As well we may,
Of nature. Lay aside the sweet resource
A little monitor presents her page
And so the storm
But come, we loiter. Pass unnotic'd by
How gay this meadou Like a gamesome boy New-cloth'd, his locks fresh comb'd and powder'd, he
All health and spirits. Scarce so many stars
See, the toiling swain With many a sturdy stroke cuts up at last The tough and sinewy furze. How hard he fought To win the glory of the barren waste ! For what more noble than the vernal furze With golden baskets hung? Approach it not, For ev'ry blossom has a troop of swords Drawn to defend it. Tis the treasury Of Fays and Fairies. Here they nightly meet, Each with a burnish'd king-cup in his haud, And quaff the subtle ether. Here they dance Or to the village chimes, or moody song Of midnight Philomel. The ringlet see Fantastically trod. There, Oberon His gallant train leads out, the while his torch The glow-worm lights and dusky night illumes. And there they foot it featly round, and laugh. The sacred spot the superstitious ewe Regards, and bites it not in reverence. Anon the drowsy clock tolls One-the cock. His clarion sounds—the dance breaks off the lights Are quench'd the music hush'd—they speed away Swifter than thought, and still the break of day Outrun, and chasing midnight as she flies Pursue her round the globe. So Fancy weaves Her flimsy web, while sober reason sits, And smiling wonders at the puny work, A net for her; then springs on eagle wing, Constraint defies, and soars above the sun.
But mark with how peculiar grace, yon wood That clothes the weary steep, waves in the breeze