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THE POLITE CLERGYMAN.
ARE these the Messengers, whose warning voice
-“ Loose in morals, and in manners vain,
Who mount the sacred rostrum with a skip,
THE EVENING WALK.
A TRUCE to thought! and let us o'er the fields,
Not a tree,
Her sister tribes confounds, and to the earth
A thousand blows
To be secure,
But come, we loiter. Pass unnotic'd by
A college youth that flashes for a day
How gay this meadow-like a gamesome boy. New cloth’d, his locks fresh comb'd and powder’d, he All health and spirits. Scarce so many stars Shine in the azure canopy of Heav'n, As king-cups here are scatter'd, interspers'd With silver daisies.
See, the toiling swain With many a sturdy stroke cuts up at last The tough and sinewy furze. How hard he fought To win the glory of the barren waste ! For what more noble than the vernal furze With golden baskets hung? Approach it not, For ev'ry blossom has a troop of swords
Drawn to defend it.
"Tis the treasury Of Fays and Fairies. Here they nightly meet, Each with a burnish'd king-cup in his band, And quaff the subtle ether. Here they dance Or to the village chimes, or moody song Of midnight Philomel. The ringlet see Fantastically trod. There, Oberon His gallant train leads out, the while his torch The glow-worm lights and dusky night illumes. And there they foot it feally round, and laugh. The sacred spot ihe superstitious ewe Regards, and bites it not in reverence. Anon the drowsy clock tolls One-the cock His clarion sounds—the dance breaks off-the lights Are quench’d--the music hushid- they speed away Swifter than thought, and still the break of day Outrun, and chasing midnight as she flies, Pursue her round the globe. So Fancy weaves Her flimsy web, while sober Reason sits, And smiling, wonders at the puny work, A net for her; then springs on eagle wing, Constraint defies, and soars above the sun,
But mark with how peculiar grace, yon wood That clothes the weary steep, waves in the breeze Her sea of leaves; thither we turn our steps, And by the way attend the cheerful sound Of woodland harmony, that always fills The merry vale between. How sweet the song Day's harbinger attunes ! I have not heard Such eleganı divisions drawn from art. And what is he that wins our admiration ? A little speck that floats upon the sun-beam. What vast perfection cannot Nature crowd Into a puny point! The nightingale, Her solo anthem sung, and all that heard, Content, joins in the chorus of the day. She, gentle heart, thinks it no pain to please, Nor, like the moody songsters of the world, Just shows her talent, pleases, takes affront, And locks it up in envy.
I love to see the little goldfinch pluck The groundsel's featherd seed, and twit and twit; And ihen in bow'r of apple blossoms perch'd, Trim his gay suit, and
pay us with a song I would not hold him pris'ner for the world.
The chimney-haunting swallow, too, my eye And ear well, pleases. I delight to see How suddenly he skims the glassy pool, How quainuly dips, and with a bullet's speed Whisks by. I love to be awake, and hear His morning song twitter'd to young-ey'd day.
But most of all it wins my admiration, To view the structure of this little work, A bird's nest. Mark it well, within, without. No tool had he that wrought, no knife to cut, No nail to fix, no bodkin to insert, No glue to join ; his little beak was all. And yet how neatly finish’d. What nice hand, With every implement and means of art, And twenty years' apprenticeship to boot, Could make me such another? Fondly then We boast of excellence, whose noblest skill Instinctive genius foils.
The bee observe; She too ani aatist is, and laughs at man, Who calls on rules the sightly hexagon With truth 10 forin; a cunning architect, That at the roof begins her golden work, And builds without foundation. How she toils, And still from bud to bud, from flow'r to flow'r, Travels the live-long day. Ye idle drones, That rather pilfer than your bread obtain By honest means like these, look here, and learn How good, how fair, how honourable 'ris To live by industry. The busy tribes Of bees so emulous, are daily fed With Heaven's peculiar mapna.
'Tis for them, Unwearied alchymists, the blooming world