Shine on her sweetly-scented road, And guid'st the pilgrim to his home. Shine, where my charmer's sweeter breath Where, winnowed by the gentle air, Thus, ever thus, at day's decline, In converse sweet, to wander far, O bring with thee my Caroline, And thou shalt be my Ruling Star! THE BEECH TREE'S PETITION. O LEAVE this barren spot to me! Yet leave this barren spot to me: Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree! Thrice twenty summers I have seen As Love's own altar honor me: Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree! FIELD FLOWERS. YE field flowers! the gardens eclipse you, 'tis true, Yet, wildings of Nature, I dote upon you, For ye waft me to summers of old, When the earth teemed around me with fairy delight, And when daisies and buttercups gladdened my sight, Like treasures of silver and gold. I love you for lulling me back into dreams Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing streams, And of birchen glades breathing their balm, While the deer was seen glancing in sunshine remote, And the deep mellow crush of the wood-pigeon's note Made music that sweetened the calm. Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune Than ye speak to my heart, little wildings of June: Of old ruinous castles ye tell, Where I thought it delightful your beauties to find, When the magic of Nature first breathed on my med, And your blossoms were part of her spell. Even now what affections the violet awakes; What landscapes I read in the primrose's looks, Earth's cultureless buds, to my heart ye were dear, Had scathed my existence's bloom; Once I welcome you more, in life's passionless stage, STANZAS TO PAINTING. O THOU by whose expressive art In whose creative hand the hues Fresh from yon orient rainbow shine; I bless thee, Promethean Muse! And call thee brightest of the Nine! Possessing more than vocal power, From Love, the Sire of Nature, sprung; Does Hope her high possession meet? But oh! thou pulse of pleasure dear, Then for a beam of joy to light Shall Song its witching cadence roll? What visions rise! to charm, to melt! But thou, serenely silent art! By heaven and love wast taught to lend A milder solace to the heart, The sacred image of a friend. All is not lost! if, yet possessed, Or, gazing through luxurious tears, She looks! she lives! this tranced hour, Yes, Genius, yes! thy mimic aid Where beauty's canonized shade Smiles in the sainted hues of heaven. No spectre forms of pleasure fled, Thy softening, sweetening tints restore; For thou canst give us back the dead, E'en in the loveliest looks they wore. Then blest be Nature's guardian Muse, Whose hand her perished grace redeems! Whose tablet of a thousand hues The mirror of creation seems. |