 | Landscapes in verse |  |
Passion's pale haunts, all hail!—The forest glooms,
Whose tenfold umbrage midst the blaze of noon
Sheds utter darkness:—The chill cell of Him,
Who holds no farther converse with the world:—
The cavern'd rock, which opes its shaggy jaws
Beside the main, to drink the foaming wave:—
The hut of shepherd on the blasted heath,
Where Pleasure's eye turns frighted from the waste,
And the keen winds, which here find no controul,
Tear up the hardy Thistle by its root,
Tho' native of the desert:—The scath'd tree,
Black with the passing lightnings:—The deep dell
Bushy and unfrequented, where the streams
Work their slow passage thro' the tangled grass:—
The cypress grove:—The church-yard guarding yews
Waving o'er recent graves, ev'n while the moon
Shines on the grassy bed of mouldering friend,
Where oft we chill our bosoms with the dews
That bathe his turf:—The sudden-opening tomb
That shews to Fancy's eye the shivering form,
Dead and alive at once, of her who late
Fill'd our bereaved arms:—Passion's pale haunts,
Again, all hail!—
Whose tenfold umbrage midst the blaze of noon
7
Who holds no farther converse with the world:—
The cavern'd rock, which opes its shaggy jaws
Beside the main, to drink the foaming wave:—
The hut of shepherd on the blasted heath,
Where Pleasure's eye turns frighted from the waste,
And the keen winds, which here find no controul,
Tear up the hardy Thistle by its root,
Tho' native of the desert:—The scath'd tree,
Black with the passing lightnings:—The deep dell
Bushy and unfrequented, where the streams
Work their slow passage thro' the tangled grass:—
The cypress grove:—The church-yard guarding yews
Waving o'er recent graves, ev'n while the moon
Shines on the grassy bed of mouldering friend,
8
That bathe his turf:—The sudden-opening tomb
That shews to Fancy's eye the shivering form,
Dead and alive at once, of her who late
Fill'd our bereaved arms:—Passion's pale haunts,
Again, all hail!—
Here Theodorus paus'd,
But soon to Melancholy's softer note,
Suiting his lyre, th'attemper'd strain began.
But soon to Melancholy's softer note,
Suiting his lyre, th'attemper'd strain began.
| Landscapes in verse | |