The Poetical Works of Beattie, Blair, and Falconer Part 24

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When in the crimson cloud of even The lingering light decays, And Hesper on the front of heaven His glittering gem displays; Deep in the silent vale, unseen, Beside a lulling stream, A pensive Youth, of placid mien, Indulged this tender theme:

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"Ye cliffs, in h.o.a.ry grandeur piled High o'er the glimmering dale; Ye woods, along whose windings wild Murmurs the solemn gale: Where Melancholy strays forlorn, And Woe retires to weep, What time the wan Moon's yellow horn Gleams on the western deep!

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To you, ye wastes, whose artless charms Ne'er drew ambition's eye, 'Scaped a tumultuous world's alarms, To your retreats I fly.

Deep in your most sequester'd bower Let me at last recline, Where Solitude, mild, modest power, Leans on her ivied shrine.

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How shall I woo thee, matchless fair?

Thy heavenly smile how win?

Thy smile that smooths the brow of Care, And stills the storm within.

O wilt thou to thy favourite grove Thine ardent votary bring, And bless his hours, and bid them move Serene on silent wing?

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Oft let Remembrance soothe his mind With dreams of former days, When in the lap of Peace reclined He framed his infant lays; When Fancy roved at large, nor Care Nor cold distrust alarm'd, Nor Envy, with malignant glare, His simple youth had harm'd.

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Twas then, O Solitude, to thee His early vows were paid, From heart sincere, and warm, and free, Devoted to the shade.

Ah! why did Fate his steps decoy In stormy paths to roam, Remote from all congenial joy?-- O take the wanderer home!

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Thy shades, thy silence now be mine, Thy charms my only theme; My haunt the hollow cliff, whose pine Waves o'er the gloomy stream.

Whence the scared owl on pinions gray Breaks from the rustling boughs, And down the lone vale sails away To more profound repose.

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Oh, while to thee the woodland pours Its wildly-warbling song, And balmy from the bank of flowers The Zephyr breathes along; Let no rude sound invade from far, No vagrant foot be nigh, No ray from Grandeur's gilded car Flash on the startled eye.

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But if some pilgrim through the glade Thy hallow'd bowers explore, O guard from harm his h.o.a.ry head, And listen to his lore; For he of joys divine shall tell, That wean from earthly woe, And triumph o'er the mighty spell That chains his heart below.

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For me no more the path invites Ambition loves to tread; No more I climb those toilsome heights By guileful hope misled; Leaps my fond fluttering heart no more To Mirth's enlivening strain; For present pleasure soon is o'er, And all the past is vain."

THE HERMIT.

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At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill, And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove 'Twas 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, He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man.

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"Ah! why, all abandon'd to darkness and woe, Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall?

For Spring shall return, and a lover bestow, And sorrow no longer thy bosom enthrall.

But if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay, Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn: O, soothe him whose pleasures like thine pa.s.s away: Full quickly they pa.s.s--but they never return.

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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.

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!

4

'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more; I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you: For morn is approaching, your charms to restore, Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering with dew: Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn; Kind Nature the embryo blossom will save.

But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn?

O when shall it dawn on the night of the grave?

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'Twas 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, '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.'

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