Of clamorous infants and laborious man
Unheard as yet, tho' from the chimney tops
The grey smoke, rising to the church-yard trees,
Curls its light vapour round their boughs, and gives
Promise of morning's meal. Behold the cart,
That late, well-loaded, on thy pebbled bank
Had creaked and crept, at the yet silent mill
Stopt; those full stores resigning, which shall soon
Employ thy silent waters, and awake
The clattering hubbub of the busy scene.
Adown those rocky stairs, which to thy brink
Lead from the hamlet cots, erewhile shall step,
With cleanly pail light rocking on her head,
The rustic maid, new-risen; for she has seen,
Through lattice curtain'd by the briar rose,
Her cow slow pacing up thy left hand bank,
Intelligent of hour, the burden rich
Duteous to yield; and, yet more welcome, sees,
Not far behind, the youth belov'd, from cops'd
And hay-stack'd tenement down in the vale.
Yes! and thou soon shalt hear the tender vows
Of true love breath'd; and breath'd in sweeter sound
Than song of linnet, or the quiet tune
Of thine own streams when hush'd are all the woods.
Mark that clos'd door, for it shall open soon.
It is the good dame's school, and in shall throng
Like bees in spring time to their dusky hive,
The little troop, and in resembling hum
Mutter the morning task; but when yon tower
Shall tell, far heard, the welcome tale of noou,
Some striding and some tumbling o'er the sill,
The infant tribe releas'd, with prattle loud
Shall totter down, and on thy shelving bank
Shout, laugh, and squabble, strenuous while they hurl
The frequent stone; dividing thy smooth waves.
But, on the morrow, Sabbath bells shall ring,
And 'twixt the matin and the vesper hour,
And at the rosy setting of the sun,
That little lawless multitude, which late,
Noisy and wild, had clamour'd on thy bank,
In Sunday vestments, and with sober gait
Walk by their parents' side; while from each hand,
The varied posy, dappled pinks, and rose,
Woodbine, and fragrant southernwood, and thyme,
Scent the wide air. Leisure and quietness,
Apparel clean, and vacant looks, all speak
The sacred day of rest; and thou shalt bear,
From that wood-mantled tower, the holy chimes,
Silver'd and mellow'd on thy liquid course,
To neighbouring farm, and cot. There we may trust
Right welcome is the sound, more welcome still
The Pastor's voice persuasive, when he speaks
Of hopes eternal. Charitable deeds
Shedding a daily beauty on his life,
That makes his doctrine saintly; while, combin'd,
They form a picture, delicate of trait,
As the soft scene now mirror'd on thy breast;
While the soft scene, and thou its mirror fair,
Are all the sweet creation of his hand,
Whose touch is Genius, and whose life is Love.
Inscribed on a Monument, erected to the Memory of Dr. Small, in a sequestered Grove, at Soko, near Birmingham.
YE gay and young, who thoughtless of your doom,
Shun the disgustful mansions of the dead,
Where Melancholy broods o'er many a tomb,
Mouldering beneath the yew's unwholesome shade:
If chance ye enter these sequester'd groves,
And day's bright sunshine for a while forego,
Oh! leave to Folly's cheek the laugh and loves,
And give one hour to philosophic woe!
Here, while no titled dust, no sainted bone,
No lover weeping over Beauty's bier,
No warrior frowning in historic stone,
Extorts your praises, or requests your tear;
Cold Contemplation leans her aching head,
On human woe her steady eye she turus,
Waves her meek hand, and sighs for Science dead,
For Science, Virtue, and for SMALL, she mourns.
"Here let clouds of incense rise,"
Venus whisper'd, "to the skies."
From the chariot light I sprung,
Shrill the golden axle rung.
Kneeling by the crystal spring,
Every Naiad's charms I sing;
Echo wafts their praises wide,
But chief the Naiads of the tide.
Goddess of the stream attend!
O'er thy wave I suppliant bend ;
Grant thy spring may ever be,
Dear to Venus, and to me.
As I bent the waves to kiss,
Murmurs rise of softer bliss ;
For the fountain's liquid face,
I feel the timid nymph's embrace;
Glow and pant my labouring veins,
As her ivory arms she strains;
While the melting kiss she sips,
The soul sits quivering on my lips.
Sudden from our watery bed,
Venus slily smiling fled;
With her sought the shady grove,
The smiling, dimpling God of Love:
Loud through all its dusky bounds,
Hylas! a second Hylas," sounds;
While the vision fled in air,
And left the Bard to lone despair.
By every smiling God above,
By the maid you dearest love:
Drummond! to all the Muses dear,
Lend, to thy friend, thy partial ear;
Thou gifted Bard, canst best explain,
Each dream that haunts the poet's brain.
O THOU! with soul to Nature dead,
Who lov'st in Folly's court to tread ;
To mingle with her worthless train,
The light, the dissolute, the vain;
To hear the darkly-whisper'd tale,
That turns the cheek of Candour pale;
The flimsy talk, the clumsy jest,
By wit or sense alike unblest;
Or join the drunkard's frantic rite,
That shocks the sober ear of Night;
Far hence! nor dare with footsteps rude
Within my sacred bounds intrude!
Retire! nor idly linger here,
Where nought can please thine eye or ear.
In vain, for thèe a thousand blooms
Breathe more than Araby's perfumes;
In vain, the wildly warbling throng
Awake of love and peace the song;
In vain, the limpid current flows,
The life-reviving zephyr blows,
The swain his toil with mirth beguiles,
And earth and heaven are drest in smiles!
All, all by thee are coldly past:
Thou hear'st no music in the blast;
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