Sketches in verse :: :: University of Virginia Library

Where, on the burnisht panes, beneath thy tower,
O Manathon! mild evening flings its rays,
Behold a thoughtless progeny, let loose
From catechetic lecture, quick pursue
The rolling circle, tho' they look behind
With tremulous apprehension as they run,
Or, at each murmur of the poplar-breeze,
Shrink back in silence from the imagin'd form
Of their stern parson, who might strait unlock
That engine which, in durance vile, detains
The culprit, closing on the imprison'd legs.

But see a graver tribe pace down the hill;
And, where thick hollies shade the lane, survey
That sallow-visag'd girl upon the arm
Of her white-trowser'd paramour repose—
Alas! the pale chlorosis hath consum'd
Her cherry cheek. Meantime, amid the groupe
Of cottages, yon whiten'd walls allure
The eye of passenger, but chief the glare
Of gaudy anchor, too attractive sign!
There shall the loitering rustic hail the dusk,
Heedless of home. And say, within those huts
Clustering around, is there one little nook
That wears a Sabbath aspect—such as, erst,
The simple fathers of the hamlet lov'd?
Perchance, some antique crone, green-spectacled,
May bend her dim eye o'er the unclasped book,
Then stir the brightening embers, and then conn
The holy text, till twilight. But, perchance,

One only such yet lingers; to recount
With boding sighs her tale of other days,
Frail relic of primeval piety!
So, on a Sabbath, sets the village-eve!