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The white cot peeping from the grove, its blue smoke in the
skyThe rural group of ruddy boys, that gaily loitered nighThe silent sheep-besprinkled hill—the rivulet-watered valeThe lonely lake, where brightly shone the fisher's sun-lit sail ;
Awhile these seemed illusions brief of beauty and delight,
years, nor in
But when upon my wildering doubts reflection flashed the truth, Oh! never in my childhood
fervid youth, So deep a rapture thrilled my breast as while I gazed around, And recognized the thousand charms that hallow English ground !
Yes—I have loved and honoured thee
Nor guile, nor fear of guile were mine ; But, oh! since thou can'st faithless be,
I'll grieve not for a heart like thine !
Lady, when first thine azure eye
Met and controlled my raptured gaze, I breathed the fond impassioned sigh
That youthful love to beauty pays.
Could I have known, what now I know,
Its beam but brightened to betray, In vain had shone the spurious glow
That led a trusting heart astray.
'Tis not an eye of brightest hue
Can woman's nobler spell impart; Fidelity and feeling true
Forge the strong fetters of the heart.
The transient charm hath lost its power,
Indignant pride shall now rebel; For, cold and false One! from this hour,
My soul is free-Farewell !- Farewell! SUMMER AND WINTER.
(WRITTEN IN INDIA IN THE COLD SEASON.]
At this season of the year, in dear Old England, how exquisite is the enjoyment of a brisk morning walk and the social evening fire. Though a cold day in Calcutta is not exactly like a cold day in London, it often revives the remembrance of it. An Indian winter is indeed far less agreeable than a winter in England, but it is not without its pleasures. The mornings and evenings are sometimes truly delightful.
Still, however, who would not prefer the more wholesome frigidity of England ? There, the external gloom and bleakness enhance our in-door comforts, and we do not miss sunny skies when greeted with sunny looks. If we see no blooming gardens, we see blooming faces. But as we have few domestic enjoyments in this country, and as our houses are as open as birdcages, we have little comfort when compelled to remain at home on a cold day, with a sharp easterly wind whistling through every room. In our dear native country each season has its peculiar moral or physical attractions. It is not easy to say which is the most agreeable—its summer or its winter. Perhaps I must decide in favour of the former. The memory of many a smiling summer day still flashes upon my soul. If the whole of human life were like a fine day in June, we should cease to wish for another and a better world.' From dawn to sunset it is one revel of delight. How pleasantly, from the first break of day, have I lain wide awake, and traced the approach of the breakfast hour by the increasing notes of birds, and the advancing sunlight on my curtains! A summer feeling, at such a time, would steal upon my
spirit, as I thought of the long, cheerful day before me, and planned some rural walk, or rustic entertainment. The ills that flesh is heir to, if they occurred for a moment to my mind, appeared like idle visions. They were inconceivable as real things. As I heard the lark singing in ' a glorious privacy of light,' and saw the boughs of the green and gold laburnum at my window, and had my fancy filled with images of natural beauty, I felt a glow of fresh life in my veins, and my heart was almost inebriated with pleasure. It is difficult, amidst such exhilarating influences, to entertain those melancholy ideas which sometimes crowd upon us, and appear so natural, at a less happy hour. Even actual misfortune comes in a questionable shape, when our physical constitution is in perfect health, and the flowers are in full bloom, and the streams are glittering in the sun. fully does the light of external nature sometimes act upon the moral system, that a sweet sensation steals gradually over the heart, even when we think we have reason to be sorrowful, and while we almost accuse ourselves of a want of feeling. The fretful hypochondriac would do well to bear this in mind, and not take it for granted that all are cold and selfish who fail to sympathize in his fantastic cares.
He should remember that men are sometimes so buoyed up by the sense of corporeal power, and a communion with nature in her cheerful moods, that things connected with their own personal interest, which at other times would irritate them to madness, pass by them like the wind. He himself must have had his intervals of comparative happiness, in which the causes of his present afflictions would have appeared trivial and absurd. He should not then, expect persons whose blood is warm in their veins, and whose eyes are open to the blessed sun in heaven, to think more of his sorrows than he would himself, were his mind and body in a healthful state.
With what a light heart and eager appetite did I enter the little breakfast parlour, whose glass-doors opened upon a bed of flowers! The table was spread with dewy and delicious fruits from our own garden, and gathered by fair and friendly hands. Beautiful and luscious as were these natural dainties, they were of small account in comparison with the fresh cheeks and cherry lips that so frankly accepted the wonted early greeting. Alas! how that dear, domestic circle is now divided, and what a change has since come over the spirit of our dreams! Yet still I cherish boyish feelings, and the past is sometimes present. As I give an imaginary kiss to an old familiar face,' and catch myself almost unconsciously, yet literally, returning imaginary smiles, my heart is as fresh and fervid as of yore. Fifteen years and fifteen thousand miles do not change or separate faithful spirits, nor annihilate early associations. Parted friends may still share the light of love, as severed clouds are equally kindled by the same sun.
I must not be too egotistically garrulous in print, or I would now describe the various ways in which I have spent a summer's day in England. I would dilate upon my noon-day loiterings amidst wild ruins, and thick forests, and on the shaded banks of rivers—the pic-nic parties—the gipsy prophecies—the twilight homeward walk—the social tea drinking, and, the last scene of all, the ‘ rosy dreams and slumbers light,' induced by wholesome exercise and placid thoughts. But perhaps these few simple allusions are sufficient to awaken a train of kindred associations in the reader's mind, and he will thank me for those words and images that are like the keys of memory, and open all her cells with easy force.'
If a summer's day be thus rife with pleasure, scarcely less so is a day in winter, though with some little drawbacks, that give, by contrast, a zest to its enjoyments. It is difficult to leave the warm morning bed and brave the external air. The fireless grate and frosted windows may well make the stoutest shudder. But when we have once screwed our courage to the sticking point, and with a single jerk of the clothes, and a brisk jump