THE HERMIT. Ar the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, 'When naught but the torrent is heard on the hill, And naught but the nightingale's song in the "T was thus by the cave of the mountain afar, While his harp rung symphonious, a hermit began ; No more with himself or with nature at war, grove: He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man. "Ah! why, all abandon'd to darkness and woe, Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall P For Spring shall return, and a lover bestow, And sorrow no longer thy bosom enthral. But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay; 5 10 [mourn : Mourn, sweetest complainer, Man calls thee to O soothe him, whose pleasures like thine pass away: Full quickly they pass-but they never return. 16 "Now gliding remote, on the verge of the sky, The moon half extinguish'd her crescent displays: But lately I mark'd, when majestic on high She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. 20 Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue The path that conducts thee to splendour again: But man's faded glory what change shall renew! Ah, fool! to exult in a glory so vain ''Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more: 25 I mourn, but ye woodlands, I mourn not for you; For morn is approaching, your charms to restore, Perfum'd with fresh fragrance, and glitt'ring with dew: Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn; 30 "'T was thus, by the glare of false science betray'd, That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind, My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward to shade, Destruction before me, and sorrow behind. "O pity, great Father of light!' then I cried, 36 'Thy creature, who fain would not wander from thee; Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride: From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free.' "And darkness and doubt are now flying away; 41 No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn. So breaks on the traveller, faint and astray, The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn. See Truth, Love, and Mercy, in triumph descending,45 And Nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom! On the cold cheek of Death smiles and roses are blending, And Beauty immortal awakes from the tomb!" A PASTORAL BALLAD. IN FOUR PARTS. Arbusta humilesque myrica. I. ABSENCE. Ye shepherds! so cheerful and gay, BEATTIE. VIRGIL. Allow me to muse and to sigh, Nor talk of the change that ye None once was so watchful as I; find: -I have left my dear Phyllis behind. Now I know what it is to have strove 5 10 And to leave her we love and admire. Ah! lead forth my flock in the morn, And the damps of each evening repel : Alas! I am faint and forlorn : I have bade my dear Phyllis farewell. Since Phyllis vouchsafed me a look, If I knew of a kid that was mine. I prized every hour that went by Beyond all that had pleased me before; But now they are past, and I sigh; And I grieve that I prized them no more. But why do I languish in vain; Why wander thus pensively here ? O why did I come from the plain, Where I fed on the smiles of my dear ? They tell me my favourite maid, The pride of that valley, is flown; Alas! where with her I have stray'd, I could wander with pleasure alone. When forced the fair nymph to forgo, 30 Yet I thought, but it might not be so,— She gazed, as I slowly withdrew; My path I could hardly discern; 35 So sweetly she bade me adieu, I thought that she bade me return. 40 The pilgrim that journeys all day Is happy, nor heard to repine. Thus widely removed from the fair, Where my vows, my devotion, I owe, Soft Hope is the relic I bear, And my solace wherever I go. II. HOPE. 45 My banks they are furnish'd with bees, 5 My grottos are shaded with trees, And my hills are white over with sheep. I seldom have met with a loss, Such health do my fountains bestow; My fountains all border'd with moss, 55 Where the harebells and violets grow. Not a pine in my grove is there seen, But with tendrils of woodbine is bound; Not a beech's more beautiful green, But a sweet briar entwines it around. Not my fields in the prime of the year More charms than my cattle unfold; Not a brook that is limpid and clear, But it glitters with fishes of gold. One would think she might like to retire But I hasted and planted it there. the wild branches away. 65 70 From the plains, from the woodlands and groves, What strains of wild melody flow! How the nightingales warble their loves From thickets of roses that blow ! In a concert so soft and so clear, I have found out a gift for my fair; 75 80 I have found where the wood-pigeons breed: But let me that plunder forbear, She will say 't was a barbarous deed. For he ne'er could be true, she averr'd, Who would rob a poor bird of its young: And I loved her the more, when I heard 85 I have heard her with sweetness unfold 90 That it ever attended the bold, And she call'd it the sister of love. But her words such a pleasure convey, So much I her accents adore, |