Poems, chiefly pastoral By John Cunningham. The second edition. With the Addition of several pastorals and other pieces |
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THE CONTEMPLATIST:
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 | Poems, chiefly pastoral |  |
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THE CONTEMPLATIST:
A NIGHT PIECE.
Nox erat ------
Cum tacet omnis ager, pecudes, pictæque volucres.
Cum tacet omnis ager, pecudes, pictæque volucres.
I
The Queen of Contemplation, Night,Begins her balmy reign;
Advancing in their varied light
Her silver-vested train.
II
'Tis strange, the many marshal'd stars,That ride yon sacred round,
Should keep, among their rapid cars,
A silence so profound!
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III
A kind, a philosophic calm,The cool creation wears!
And what Day drank of dewey balm,
The gentle Night repairs.
IV
Behind their leafy curtains hid,The feather'd race how still!
How quiet now the gamesome kid,
That gambol'd round the hill!
V
The sweets, that bending o'er their banks,From sultry Day declin'd,
Revive in little velvet ranks,
And scent the western wind.
VI
The Moon, preceded by the breezeThat bade the clouds retire,
Appears amongst the tufted trees,
A Phœnix nest on fire.
VII
But soft—the golden glow subsides!Her chariot mounts on high!
And now, in silver'd pomp, she rides
Pale regent of the sky!
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VIII
Where Time, upon the wither'd treeHath carv'd the moral chair,
I sit, from busy passions free,
And breathe the placid air.
IX
The wither'd tree was once in prime;Its branches brav'd the sky!
Thus, at the touch of ruthless Time,
Shall Youth and Vigour die.
X
I'm lifted to the blue expanse:It glows serenely gay!
Come, Science, by my side, advance,
We'll search the Milky Way.
XI
Let us descend—The daring flightFatigues my feeble mind;
And Science, in the maze of light,
Is impotent and blind.
XII
What are those wild, those wand'ring fires,That o'er the moorland ran?
Vapours.—How like the vague desires
That cheat the heart of Man!
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XIII
But there's a friendly guide!—a flame,That lambent o'er its bed,
Enlivens, with a gladsome beam,
The hermit's osier shed.
XIV
Among the russet shades of night,It glances from afar!
And darts along the dusk; so bright,
It seems a silver star!
XV
In coverts, (where the few frequent)If Virtue deigns to dwell,
'Tis thus, the little lamp, Content,
Gives lustre to her cell.
XVI
How smooth that rapid river slidesProgressive to the deep!
The Poppies, pendent o'er its sides,
Have charm'd the waves to sleep.
XVII
Pleasure's intoxicated sons!Ye indolent! ye gay!
Reflect—for as the river runs,
Life wings its tractless way.
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XVIII
That branching grove of dusky greenConceals the azure sky;
Save, where a starry space between,
Relieves the darken'd eye.
XIX
Old Error, thus, with shades impure,Throws sacred Truth behind:
Yet sometimes, through the deep obscure,
She bursts upon the mind.
XX
Sleep, and her sister Silence reign,They lock the Shepherd's fold!
But hark—I hear a lamb complain,
'Tis lost upon the wold!
XXI
To savage herds, that hunt for prey,An unresisting prize!
For having trod a devious way,
The little rambler dies.
XXII
As luckless is the Virgin's lot,Whom pleasure once misguides:
When hurried from the halcion cot,
Where Innocence presides—
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XXIII
The passions, a relentless train!To tear the victim run:
She seeks the paths of peace in vain,
Is conquer'd—and undone.
XXIV
How bright the little insects blaze,Where willows shade the way;
As proud as if their painted rays
Could emulate the Day!
XXV
'Tis thus, the pigmy sons of pow'rAdvance their vain parade!
Thus, glitter in the darken'd hour,
And like the glow-worms fade!
XXVI
The soft serenity of night,Ungentle clouds deform!
The silver host that shone so bright,
Is hid behind a storm!
XXVII
The angry elements engage!An oak, (an ivied bower!)
Repels the rough wind's noisy rage,
And shields me from the shower.
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XXVIII
The rancour, thus, of rushing fate,I've learnt to render vain:
For whilst Integrity's her seat,
The soul will sit serene.
XXIX
A raven, from some greedy vault,Amidst that cloister'd gloom,
Bids me, and 'tis a solemn thought!
Reflect upon the tomb.
XXX
The tomb!—The consecrated dome!The temple rais'd to Peace!
The port, that to its friendly home
Compels the human race!
XXXI
Yon village, to the moral mind,A solemn aspect wears;
Where sleep hath lull'd the labour'd hind,
And kill'd his daily cares:
XXXII
'Tis but the church-yard of the Night;An emblematic bed!
That offers to the mental sight,
The temporary dead.
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XXXIII
From hence, I'll penetrate, in thought,The grave's unmeasur'd deep;
And tutor'd, hence, be timely taught,
To meet my final sleep.
XXXIV
'Tis peace—(The little chaos past!)The gracious moon restor'd!
A breeze succeeds the frightful blast,
That through the forest roar'd!
XXXV
The Nightingale, a welcome guest!Renews her gentle strains;
And Hope, (just wand'ring from my breast)
Her wonted seat regains.
XXXVI
Yes—When yon lucid orb is dark,And darting from on high;
My soul, a more celestial spark,
Shall keep her native sky.
XXXVII
Fann'd by the light—the lenient breeze,My limbs refreshment find;
And moral rhapsodies, like these,
Give vigour to the mind.
| Poems, chiefly pastoral | |