ODE TO THE EVENING STAR. Bright eye of pensive eve! resplendent orb Upon an Ethiop's brow; Thy lamp serene my now benighted steps More pure, more bright than thee. For not thy lovely sight, that kindly cheers That beams in beauty's eyes. Not all the little waking elves, that rise To dance thy rays beneath, Feel such delight as does this breast, when thou, With radiant lustre show'st the happy hour, That leads from scenes of care To still domestic bliss. ODE TO LEVEN-WATER. On Leven's banks, while free to rove; Pure stream, in whose transparent wave With white, round, polish'd pebbles spread; The ruthless pike, intent on waf THE OAK OF OUR FATHERS. Alas for the Oak of our Fathers that stood It grew and it flourish'd for many an age, But when its strong branches were bent with the blast, It struck its roots deeper, and flourish'd more fast. Its head tower'd high, and its branches spread round, For its roots were struck deep, and its heart it was sound; The bees o'er its honey-dew'd foliage play'd, And the beasts of the forest fed under its shade. The Oak of our Fathers to Freedom was dear, Its leaves were her crown, and its wood was her spear, Alas for the Oak of our Fathers that stood In its beauty, the glory and pride of the wood. There crept up an ivy and clung round the trunk, It struck in its mouths, and its juices it drunk; The branches grew sickly depriv'd of their food, And the Oak was no longer the pride of the wood. The foresters saw and they gather❜d around, Its roots still were fast, and its heart still was sound; They lopt off the boughs that so beautiful spread, But the ivy they spar'd on its vitals that fed. No longer the bees o'er its honey-dews play'd, Nor the beasts of the forest fed under its shade; Lopt and mangled the trunk in its ruin is seen, A monument now what its beauty has been. The Oak has receiv'd its incurable wound, They have loosen'd the roots, though the heart may be sound; What the travellers at distance green flourishing see, Are the leaves of the ivy that ruin'd the tree. Alas for the Oak of our Fathers that stood, THE BEECH TREE'S PETITION. O leave this barren spot to me! Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree! |