The Poetical Works of William Lisle Bowles Volume Ii Part 29

THE SHEPHERD AND HIS DOG.

1 My dog and I are both grown old; On these wild downs we watch all day; He looks in my face when the wind blows cold, And thus methinks I hear him say:

2 The gray stone circlet is below, The village smoke is at our feet; We nothing hear but the sailing crow, And wandering flocks, that roam and bleat.

3 Far off, the early horseman hies, In shower or sunshine rushing on; Yonder the dusty whirlwind flies; The distant coach is seen and gone.

4 Though solitude around is spread, Master, alone thou shalt not be; And when the turf is on thy head, I only shall remember thee!

5 I marked his look of faithful care, I placed my hand on his s.h.a.ggy side; There is a sun that shines above, A sun that shines on both, I cried.

THE WITHERED LEAF.

1 Oh! mark the withered leaves that fall In silence to the ground; Upon the human heart they call, And preach without a sound.

2 They say, So pa.s.ses man's brief year!

To-day, his green leaves wave; To-morrow, changed by time, and sere, He drops into the grave.

3 Let Wisdom be our sole concern, Since life's green days are brief!

And faith and heavenly hope shall learn A lesson from the LEAF.

THE GIPSY'S TENT.

1 When now cold winter's snows are fled, And birds sing blithe again, Look where the gipsy's tent is spread, In the green village lane.

2 Oft by the old park pales, beneath The branches of the oak, The watchdog barks, when, in slow wreath, Curls o'er the woods the smoke.

3 No home receives the wandering race; The panniered a.s.s is nigh, Which patient bears from place to place Their infant progeny.

4 Lo! houseless o'er the world they stray, But I at home will dwell, Where I may read my book and pray, And hear the Sabbath-bell.

MY FATHER'S GRAVE.

1 My father's grave, I heard her say, And marked a stealing tear; Oh, no! I would not go away, My father's grave is here!

2 A thousand thronging sympathies The lonely spot endear, And every eve remembrance sighs, My father's grave is here!

3 Some sudden tears unbidden start, As spring's gay birds I hear, For all things whisper to my heart, My father's grave is here!

4 Young hope may blend each colour gay, And fairer views appear; But, no! I will not go away, My father's grave is here!

THE SWALLOW AND THE RED-BREAST.

AN APOLOGUE.

The swallows, at the close of day, When autumn shone with fainter ray, Around the chimney circling flew, Ere yet they bade a long adieu, To climes where soon the winter drear Shall close the unrejoicing year.

Now with swift wing they skim aloof, Now settle on the crowded roof, As counsel and advice to take, Ere they the chilly north forsake.

Then one, disdainful, turned his eye, Upon a red-breast twittering nigh, And thus began, with taunting scorn: Thou household imp, obscure, forlorn, Through the deep winter's dreary day, Here, dull and shivering, shalt thou stay; Whilst we, who make the world our home, To softer climes impatient roam, Where summer, still on some green isle Rests, with her sweet and lovely smile?

Thus speeding, far and far away, We leave behind the shortening day.

'Tis true (the red-breast answered, meek) No other scenes I ask, or seek; To every change alike resigned, I fear not the cold winter's wind.

When spring returns, the circling year Shall find me still contented here; But whilst my warm affections rest Within the circle of my nest, I learn to pity those that roam, And love the more my humble home.

THE BLIND MAN OF SALISBURY CATHEDRAL.

There is a poor blind man, who, every day, In summer sunshine, or in winter's rain, Duly as tolls the bell, to the high fane Explores, with faltering footsteps, his dark way, To kneel before his Maker, and to hear The chaunted service, pealing full and clear.

Ask why alone in the same spot he kneels Through the long year. Oh, the wide world is cold, As dark, to him! Here he no longer feels His sad bereavement. Faith and Hope uphold His heart; he feels not he is poor and blind, Amid the unpitying tumult of his mind.

As through the aisles the choral anthems roll, His soul is in the choirs above the skies, And songs far off of angel companies, When this dim earth hath perished like a scroll.

Oh! happy if the rich, the vain, the proud-- The plumed actors in life's motley crowd-- Since pride is dust, and life itself a span, Would learn one lesson from a poor blind man!

THE BLIND SOLDIER AND HIS DAUGHTER.

1 Old soldier! old soldier! the beams of the day, That shone on thy sabre, have long pa.s.sed away, And thy sun is gone down, and thy few hairs are gray, Old soldier!

2 The drum and the hurrahs, where victory led, No longer are heard on the battle-field red; Thy comrades in glory are scattered or dead, Old soldier!

3 Perhaps thou wert foremost of some gallant band, By Acre's white walls, or in that ancient land Where the sphynx and gray pyramid shaded the sand, Old soldier!

4 Left lonely and poor, but to fortune resigned, Forgetting the trumpet that clanged in the wind, Thou turnest thy organ unnoticed and blind, Old soldier!

5 That faded red jacket still speaks of some pride, And a dutiful daughter is seen at thy side, To beat her light drum, and thy footsteps to guide, Old soldier!

6 Ah! woe to the heart that would seek to betray, Or turn from a desolate father away, That dutiful child, of thy age the last stay, Old soldier!

7 But may every true Briton, whose country is dear, Bestow a small boon, now the season is drear, Thy warm chimney corner at Christmas to cheer, Old soldier!

8 Then the thought of the days of past glory shall spring, And wiping one tear from thy cheek, thou shalt sing, Old England for ever, and G.o.d save the King!

Old soldier!