See in the rear of the warm sunny shower, For now the storm of summer-rain is o'er, Yet could'st thou learn, that thus it fares with age, When pleasure, wealth, or power, the bosom warm, This baffled hope might tame thy manhood's rage, And disappointment of her sting disarm. But why should foresight thy fond heart alarm? Perish the lore that deadens young desire! Pursue, poor imp, the imaginary charm, Indulge gay Hope, and Fancy's pleasing fire: Fancy and Hope too soon shall of themselves expire. When the long-sounding curfew from afar Lingering and listening, wandered down the vale ; Or blast that shrieks by fits the shuddering isles along. Or, when the setting moon, in crimson died, To haunted stream, remote from man he hied, Where Fays of yore their revels wont to keep; And there let Fancy roam at large, till sleep A vision brought to his entranced sight. And first, a wildly-murmuring wind 'gan creep, Shrill to his ringing ear; then tapers bright, With instantaneous gleam, illum'd the vault of Night. Anon in view a portal's blazon'd arch The long-rob'd minstrels wake the warbling wire, And some with mellow breath the martial pipe inspire. With merriment, and song, and timbrels clear, Of tapers, gems, and gold, the echoing forests blaze. The dream is fled. Proud harbinger of day, O to thy cursed scream, discordant still, Forbear, my Muse. Let love attune thy line. Revoke the spell. Thine Edwin frets not so. For how should he at wicked chance repine, Who feels from every change amusement flow? Even now his eyes with smiles of rapture glow, As on he wanders through the scenes of morn, Where the fresh flowers in living lustre blow, Where thousand pearls the dewy lawns adorn, A thousand notes of joy in every breeze are borne. But who the melodies of morn can tell? The wild brook babbling down the mountain 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, and linnet's lay of love, And the full choir that wakes the universal grove. The cottage curs at early pilgrim bark; C Thro' rustling corn the hare astonish'd springs; Slow tolls the village-clock the drowsy hour; The partridge bursts away on whirring wings; Deep mourns the turtle in sequester'd bower, And shrill lark carols clear from her aerial tour. O Nature, how in every charm supreme! To sing thy glories with devotion due ! Hence ye, who snare and stupify the mind, Hence to dark Error's den, whose rankling slime First gave your form! hence! lest the Muse should deign (Tho' loth on theme so mean to waste a rhyme,) With vengeance to pursue your sacrilegious crime. But hail, ye mighty masters of the lay, O let your spirit still my bosom sooth, Inspire my dreams, and my wild wanderings guide! Your voice each rugged path of life can smooth; For well I know, wherever ye reside, There harmony, and peace, and innocence, abide. Ah me! abandon'd on the lonesome plain, Wonder and joy ran thrilling to his heart: Various and strange was the long-winded tale; And ply in caves the unutterable trade,* Midst fiends and spectres, quench the moon in blood, Yell in the midnight storm, or ride the infuriate flood. But when to horror his amazement rose, A gentler strain the Beldam would rehearse, * Macbeth How now, ye secret, black, and midnight hags, What is't you do? Witches. A deed without a name. |