« PreviousContinue »
AN ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 129
On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries,
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
For thee, who, mindful of the unhonored dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate ; If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit should inquire thy fate,
Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
“ Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.
“ There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech,
That wreathes its old, fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
“Hard by yon wood, now smiling, as in scorn,
Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove; Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn,
Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love.
“ One morn I missed him on the 'customed hill,
Along the heath, and near his favorite tree; Another came ; nor yet beside the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he.
“ The next, with dirges due, in sad array, : Slow through the church-way path we saw him
borne ; Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.
y “There scattered oft, the earliest of the year,
By hands unseen are showers of violets found; The redbreast loves to build and warble there,
And little footsteps lightly print the ground.”
Here rests his head upon the lap of earth,
A youth to fortune and to fame unknown; Fair science frowned not on his humble birth,
And melancholy marked him for her own.
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heaven did a recompense as largely send; He gave to misery all he had, a tear; He gained from Heaven ('t was all he wished)
No further seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,)
The bosom of his Father and his God.
YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. — Campbell.
YE Mariners of England !
YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.
While the battle rages loud and long,
The spirit of your fathers
Britannia needs no bulwark, —
The meteor flag of England
ON MUNGO PARK'S FINDING A TUFT OF GREEN MOSS IN THE AFRICAN DESERT.- Edinburgh
The sun had reached its midday height,
On Afric's burning land ;
Was filled with glowing sand.
No mighty rock upreared its head
In all the weary plane;
But one wide, sandy main.
Dauntless and daring was the mind
Those deserts to explore ;
In wilds untrod before.
And, ah! shall we less daring show,
Than ever heroes dream;
Whence flows salvation's stream?
Let peril, nakedness, and sword,
Our burning zeal oppose;
A TUFT OF GREEN MOSS IN THE AFRICAN DESERT. 133
Yet, martyr-like, we 'll lift the voice,
And blossom as the rose.
Sad, faint, and weary, on the sand
Covered his burning head ;
All nature seemed as dead.
One tiny tuft of moss alone,
Fixed his delighted gaze;
His lips o'erflowed with praise.
O, shall not He who keeps thee green,
Thy fellow-exile save ?
Me from a scorching grave.
The heaven-sent plant new hope inspired,
And bore him safe along, -
Lulled by the negro's song.
Thus we in this world's wilderness,
Seem undisturbed to reign,