Tenderness of Mind.
I HAVE found out a gift for my fair;
I have found where the wood-pigeons breed;
But ah, let me that plunder forbear!
She will say 'tis a barbarous deed.
For he ne'er can be true, she averr'd,
Who can rob a poor bird of its young; And I lov'd her the more when I heard
Such tenderness fall from her tongue.
I have heard her with sweetness unfold,
How that pity was due to a dove;
That it ever attended the bold;
And she call'd it the sister of love.
How foolish they who lengthen night,
And slumber in the morning light!
How sweet, at early morning's rise,
To view the glories of the skies,
And mark with curious eye the sun'
Prepare his radiant course to run!
Its fairest form then nature wears,
And clad in brightest green appears.
The sprightly lark, with artless lay,
Proclaims the entrance of the day.
How sweet to breathe the gale's perfume,
And feast the eyes with nature's bloom!
Along the dewy lawn to rove,
And hear the music of the grove!
Nor you, ye delicate and fair,
Neglect to taste the morning air;
This will your nerves with vigour brace,
Improve and heighten every grace;
Add to your breath a rich perfume;
And to your cheeks a fairer bloom;
With lustre teach your eyes to glow,
And health and cheerfulness bestow.
ALL in a garden, on a current bush,
Two Goldfinches had built their airy seat;
In the next orchard liv'd a friendly thrush,
Not distant far, a wood-lark's soft retreat.
Here, blest with ease, and in each other blest,
With early songs they wak'd the neighb'ring groves;
Till time matur'd their joy, and crown'd their nest,
With infant pledges of their faithful loves.
And now, what transport glow'd in either's eye!
What equal fondness dealt th' allotted food!
What joy each other's likeness to descry,
And future sonnets in the chirping brood!
But ah! what earthly happiness can last!
How does the fairest purpose often fail!
A truant schoolboy's wantonness could blast
Their flatt'ring hopes, and leave them both to wail.
The most ungentle of his tribe was he;
No gen'rous precept ever touch'd his heart:
With concord false, and hideous prosody,
He scrawl'd his task, and blunder'd o'er his part.
On mischief bent, he mark'd with rav'nous eyes,
Where, wrapt in down, the callow songsters lay;
Then rushing, rudely seiz'd the glitt'ring prize,
And bore it in his impious hands away!
But how shall I describe in numbers rude,
The pangs for poor Chrysomitris decreed,
When from her secret stand aghast, she view'd
The cruel spoiler perpetrate the deed!
"O grief of griefs!' with shrieking voice she cried,
"What sight is this that I have liv'd to see!
O! that I had in youth's fair season died,
From all false joys, and bitter sorrows free.
Was it for this, alas! with weary bill,
Was it for this I pois'd th' unwieldy straw; For this I bore the moss from yonder hill,
Nor shunn'd the pond'rous stick along to draw?
Was it for this I pick'd the wool with care,
Intent with nicer skill our work to crown; For this, with pain, I bent the stubborn hair, And lin'd our cradle with the thistle's down?
Was it for this my freedom I resign'd,
And ceas'd to rove at large from plain to plain; For this I sat at home whole days confin'd,
To bear the scorching heat and pealing rain?
Was it for this my watchful eyes grow dim?
For this the roses on my check turn pale?
Pale is my golden plumage, once so trim !
And all my wonted mirth and spirits fail!'
Thus sang the mournful bird her piteous tale;
The piteous tale her mournful mate return'd:
Then side by side they sought the distant vale ;
And there in secret sadness inly mourn'd.
HAIL, lovely power! whose bosom heaves the sigh,
When fancy paints the scene of deep distress;
Whose tears spontaneous crystalize the eye,
When rigid fate denies the power to bless.
Not all the sweets Arabia's gales convey
From flow'ry meads, can with that sigh compare; Nor dew drops glitt'ring in the morning ray, Seem ne'er so beauteous as that falling tear
Devoid of fear, the fawns around thee play;
Emblem of peace, the dove before thee flies!
No blood-stain'd traces mark thy blameless way;
Beneath thy feet no hapless insect dies.
Come, lovely nymph, and range the mead with me,
To spring the partridge from the guileful foe;
From secret snares the struggling bird to free;
And stop the hand uprais'd to give the blow.
And when the air with heat meridian glows,
And nature droops beneath the conqu'ring gleam,
Let us, slow wandering where the current flows,
Save sinking flies that float along the stream.
Or turn to nobler, greater tasks thy care,
To me thy sympathetic gifts impart;
Teach me in friendship's grief to bear a sbarc,
And justly boast the gen'rous feeling heart.
Teach me to sooth the helpless orphan's grief;
With timely aid the widow's woes assuage;
To mis'ry's moving cries to yield relief;
And be the sure resource of drooping age.
So when the genial spring of life shall fade,
And sinking nature own the dread decay,
Some soul congenial then may lend its aid,
And gild the close of life's eventful day.
'Tis the voice of the Sluggard-I heard him complain, 'You have wak'd me too soon, I must slumber again.' As the door on its hinges, so he on his bed,
Turns his sides and his shoulders, and his heavy head.
A 'little more sleep, and a little more slumber;'
Thus he wastes half his days, and his hours without number:
And when he gets up, he sits folding his hands,
Or walks about sauntering, or trifling he stands.
I pass'd by his garden, and saw the wild brier,
The thorn, and the thistle, grow broader and higher,
The clothes that hang on him are turning to rags;
And his money still wastes, till he starves or he begs.
I made him a visit, still hoping to find
He had ta'en better care for improving his mind:
He told me his dreams, talk'd of eating and drinking;
But he scarce reads the Bible, and never loves thinking.
Said I then to my heart, 'Here's a lesson for me;
That man's but a picture of what I might be :
But thanks to my friends for their care in my breeding,
Who taught me betimes to love working and reading!
Now winter is come, with his cold chilling breath,
And the verdure has dropp'd from the trees;
All nature seems touch'd with the finger of death,
And the streams are beginning to freeze.
When wanton young lada, o'er the river can slide,
And Flora attends us no more;
When in plenty you sit by a good fire-side,
Sure you ought to remember the poor.
When the cold feather'd snow does in plenty descend,
And whiten the prospect around;
When the keen cutting winds from the north shall attend,
Hard chilling and freezing the ground;
When the hills and the dales are all candied with white,
When the rivers congeal to the shore,
When the bright twinkling stars shall proclaim a cold night,
Then remember the state of the poor.
When the poor harmless hare may be trac'd to the wood,
By her footsteps indented in snow;
When the lips and the fingers are starting with blood;
When the marksmen a cock-shooting go;
When the poor robin redbreast approaches the cot;
When the icicles hang at the door;
When the bowl smokes with something reviving and hot,
That's the time to remember the poor.
When a thaw shall ensue, and the waters increase,
And the rivers all insolent grow;
When the fishes from prison obtain a release;
When in danger the travellers go:
When the meadows are hid with the proud swelling flood;
When the bridges are useful no more;
When in health you enjoy every thing that is good,
Can you grumble to think on the poor?
Soon the day will be here, when a Saviour was born,
All the world should agree as one voice;
All nations unite to salute the blest morn;
All ends of the earth should rejoice.
Grim death is depriv'd of his all killing sting,
And the grave is triumphant no more;
Saints, angels, and men, hallelujah's shall sing,
And the rich shall remember the poor.
SWEET Auburn! loveliest village of the plain!
Where health and plenty cheers the labouring swain;
Where smiling spring its earliest visits paid,
And parting summer's ling'ring blooms delay'd:
Dear lovely bow'rs of innocence and ease!
Seats of my youth, when ev'ry sport could please!
How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green,
Where humble happiness endear'd each scene!
How often have I paus'd on every charm-
The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm,
The never-failing brook, the busy mill,
The decent church, that topp'd the neighbouring hill;
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,
For talking age and whispering lovers made.
How often have I blest the coming day,
When toil, remitting, lent its turn to play-
And all the village train, from labour free,
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree!
While many a pastime circled in the shade,
The young contending as the old survey'd!
And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground,
And slights of art, and feats of strength, went round;
And still as each repeated pleasure tir'd,
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir'd:
The dancing pair, that simply sought renown,
By holding out, to tire each other down,
The swain, mistrustless of his smutted face,
While secret laughter titter'd round the place:
The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love;
The matron's glance, that would those looks reprove.
Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's close, Up yonder hill the village murmur rose.
|