AT the silence of twilight's contemplative hour, On the wind-shaken weeds that embosom the bower, All ruined and wild is their roofless abode, And lonely the dark raven's sheltering tree; And travelled by few is the grass-covered road, Where the hunter of deer and the warrior trode To his hills that encircle the sea. Yet, wandering, I found on my ruinous walk. One rose of the wilderness left on its stalk, All wild in the silence of Nature it drew From each wandering sunbeam a lonely embrace: Sweet bud of the wilderness! emblem of all Though the wilds of enchantment, all vernal and bright, In the days of delusion by fancy combined, Be hushed, my dark spirit! for wisdom condemns Through the perils of chance, and the scowl of disdain, Yea! even the name I have worshipped in vain ODE TO WINTER. WHEN first the fiery mantled sun His children four the seasons flew : First, in green apparel dancing, The young Spring smiled with angel grace; Rosy Summer, next advancing, Rushed into her sire's embrace : Her bright-haired sire, who bade her keep For ever nearest to his smiles, On Calpe's olive-shaded steep, Or India's citron-covered isles. More remote, and buxom brown, The Queen of vintage bowed before his throne; A rich pomegranate gemmed her crown, A ripe sheaf bound her zone. But howling Winter fled afar Whirls to death the roaring whale, And trampling on her faded form; Till light's returning lord assume The shaft that drives him to his northern field, Of power to pierce his raven plume, O sire of storms! whose savage ear (Fast descending as thou art) Say, hath mortal invocation Spells to touch thy stony heart? Then, sullen Winter! hear my prayer, And gently rule the ruined year; Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bare, Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear: To shivering want's unmantled bed Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lend, And mildly on the orphan head Of innocence descend. But chiefly spare, O king of clouds ! The sailor on his airy shrouds, When wrecks and beacons strew the steep, And spectres walk along the deep; Milder yet thy snowy breezes Pour on yonder tented shores ;* To many a deep and dying groan? At shrieks and thunders louder than your own? May spare the victim fallen low; THE BEECH TREE'S PETITION. OH! leave this barren spot to me- Thrice twenty summers I have stood Their vows of truth and rapture paid; ⚫ This Ode was written in Germany at the close of the year 1800, before the conclusion of hostilities. And on my trunk's surviving frame THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. OUR bugles sung truce-for the night-cloud had lowered. When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array, I flew to the pleasant fields, traversed so oft In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn reapers sung. Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart. |