Where the weary rustic nigh
Shall whistle his wild melody,
And the croaking wicket oft

Shall echo from the neighbouring croft
And as we trace the green path lone,
With moss and rank weeds overgrown,
We will muse on pensive lore,
Till the full soul brimming o'er,
Shall in our upturn'd eyes appear,
Embodied in a quivering tear.
Or else, serenely silent, sit
By the brawling rivulet,

Which on its calm unruffled breast,
Bears the old mossy arch impress'd,
That clasps its secret stream of glass
Half hid in shrubs and waving grass,
The wood-nymph's lone secure retreat,
Unpress'd by fawn or sylvan's feet,
We'll watch in eve's ethereal braid,
The rich vermillion slowly fade;
Or catch, faint twinkling from afar,
The first glimpse of the eastern star.
Fair Vesper, mildest lamp of light,
That heralds in imperial night;
Meanwhile, upon our wandering ear,
Shall rise, though low, yet sweetly clear,
The distant sounds of pastoral lute,
Invoking soft the sober suit

Of dimmest darkness-fitting well
With love, or sorrow's pensive spell,
(So erst did music's silver tone
Wake slumbering Chaos on his throne,)
And haply then, with sudden swell,
Shall roar the distant curfew bell,

While in the castle's mouldering tower,
The hooting owl is heard to pour
Her melancholy song, and scare
Dull Silence brooding in the air.
Meanwhile her dusk and slumbering car
Black-suited Night drives on from far,
And Cynthia, 'merging from her rear,
Arrests the waxing darkness drear.
And summons to her silent call,
Sweeping, in their airy pall,

The unshriv'd ghosts, in fairy trance,
To join her moonshine morrice-dance.

While around the mystic ring
The shadowy shapes elastic spring,
Then with a passing shriek they fly,
Wrapp'd in mists, along the sky.
And oft are by the shepherd seen,
In his lone night-watch on the green.

Then, hermit, let us turn our feet To the low abbey's still retreat, Embower'd in the distant glen, Far from the haunts of busy men, Where as we sit upon the tomb, The glow-worm's light may gild the gloom, And show to fancy's saddest eye, Where some lost hero's ashes lie. And oh, as through the mouldering arch, With ivy fill'd and weeping larch, The night-gale whispers sadly clear, Speaking drear things to Fancy's ear, We'll hold communion with the shade Of some deep-wailing, ruin'd maid— Or call the ghost of Spenser down, To tell of woe or Fortune's frown; And bid us cast the eye of hope Beyond this bad world's narrow scope. Or if these joys, to us denied, To linger by the forest's side; Or in the meadow, or the wood,

Or by the lone, romantic flood;

Let us in the busy town,

When sleep's dull streams the people drown,

Far from drowsy pillows flee,

And turn the church's massy key;

Then, as through the painted glass
The moon's faint beams obscurely pass
And darkly on the tropied wall,
Her faint ambiguous shadows fall;
Let us, while the faint winds wail,
Through the long reluctant aisle,
As we pace with reverence meet,
Count the echoings of our feet;

While from the tombs, with confess'd breath,
Distinct responds the voice of death.
If thou, mild sage, wilt condescend,
Thus on my footsteps to attend,

To thee my lonely lamp shall burn
By fallen Genius' sainted urn,
As o'er the scroll of Time I pore,
And sagely spell of ancient lore,
Till I can rightly guess of all
That Plato could to memory call
And scan the formless views of things,
Or with old Egypt's fetter'd kings,
Arrange the mystic trains that shine
In night's high philosophic mine;
And to thy name shall e'er belong
The honours of undying song.

BLOOMFIELD.

THE WIDOW TO HER HOUR GLASS,

COME, friend, I'll turn thee up again :
Companion of the lonely hour!

Spring thirty times hath fed with rain
And cloth'd with leaves my humble bower,
Since thou hast stood

In frame of wood,

On chest or window by my side:
At every birth still thou wert near,
Still spoke thine admonitions clear-
And, when my husband died.

I've often watch'd thy streaming sand,
And seen the growing mountain rise,
And often found life's hopes to stand
On props as weak in wisdom's eyes:
Its conic crown

Still sliding down,

Again heap'd up, then down again;
The sand above more hollow grew,
Like days and years still filt'ring through,
And mingling joy with pain.

While thus I spin and sometimes sing,
(For now and then my heart will glow)
Thou measur'st time's expanding wing,
By thee the noontide hour I know;
Though silent thou,
Still shalt thou flow,

And jog along thy destin'd way:
But when I glean the sultry fields,
When earth her yellow harvest yields,
Thou get'st a holiday.

Steady as truth, on either end
Thy daily task performing well,
Thou'rt meditation's constant friend,
And strik'st the heart without a bell:
Come, lovely May!

Thy lengthen'd day

Shall gild once more my native plain;
Curl inward here, sweet woodbine flower;—
Companion of the lonely hour,
I'll turn thee up again.

MARKET NIGHT.

'O WINDS! howl not so long and loud; Nor with your vengeance arm the snow: 'Bear hence each heavy-loaded cloud : And let the twinkling star-beams glow.

Now sweeping floods rush down the slope, 'While scattering ruin-Stars, shine soon; No other light my love can hope:

Midnight will want the joyous moon.

O guardian spirits!-Ye that dwell
Where woods, and pits, and hollow ways
The lone night-trav'ller's fancy swell
With fearful tales of older days,-

'Press round him,-guide his willing steed Through darkness, dangers, currents, snows; 'Wait where, from shelt'ring thickets freed, The dreary heath's rude whirlwind blows;

That o'er the hill with furious sweep Now writhes, now rends the shiv'ring tree, 'Sure-footed beast, thy road thou❜lt keep: Nor storm nor darkness startless thee !'

O blest assurance, (trusty steed,)
To thee the buried road is known;
Home, all the spur thy footsteps need,
When loose the frozen rein is thrown.