The bard of the dales or poems and miscellaneous pieces; with a life of the author, written by himself. By John Castillo |
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CHANGES AND FIXTURES. |
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 | The bard of the dales |  |
CHANGES AND FIXTURES.
How seldom we think, as time whirls us about,
How soon this short life will be done!
Tho' the sand in the glass, is so fast running out,
Still after our follies we run:—
How oft has the dress
Of the party or ball,—
Been exchang'd for the mourning
Hood, cloak, or the shawl!
The Wear, and the Ganders keep rolling on still,
And the Abbey stands mouldering at top of the hill.
How soon this short life will be done!
Tho' the sand in the glass, is so fast running out,
Still after our follies we run:—
How oft has the dress
Of the party or ball,—
Been exchang'd for the mourning
Hood, cloak, or the shawl!
The Wear, and the Ganders keep rolling on still,
And the Abbey stands mouldering at top of the hill.
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'Tis thus generations are passing away
As the fruit of the field or the tree
Does irregular drop, the place is fill'd up
And oft strange alterations we see:—
How soon the sweet ointment
Of pleasure is lost—
When dark disappointment
Returns us the cost!
The Tees and the Tyne keep rolling on still,
And the Abbey stands mouldering at top of the hill.
As the fruit of the field or the tree
Does irregular drop, the place is fill'd up
And oft strange alterations we see:—
How soon the sweet ointment
Of pleasure is lost—
When dark disappointment
Returns us the cost!
The Tees and the Tyne keep rolling on still,
And the Abbey stands mouldering at top of the hill.
But those short and those shadowy glories of life,
A soul for intelligence born
Will see, and will shun, the inglorious strife,
Choosing rather to wander alone:—
She the concourse refuses
And tries for to sing,
The haunts of the muses
Or lovers in spring:—
The Dee and the Derwent keep rolling on still,
And the Abbey stands mouldering at top of the hill.
A soul for intelligence born
Will see, and will shun, the inglorious strife,
Choosing rather to wander alone:—
She the concourse refuses
And tries for to sing,
The haunts of the muses
Or lovers in spring:—
The Dee and the Derwent keep rolling on still,
And the Abbey stands mouldering at top of the hill.
After gaining her wish, as she wanders the grove
In her dull recreation she glories,
To mark out the track of the serpent and dove,
And to bundle up life's little stories:—
If we could but discern
Her voice when she calls
There's wisdom to learn
From the insect that crawls:—
The Shannon and Liffy keep rolling on still,
And the Abbey stands mouldering at top of the hill.
In her dull recreation she glories,
To mark out the track of the serpent and dove,
And to bundle up life's little stories:—
If we could but discern
Her voice when she calls
There's wisdom to learn
From the insect that crawls:—
The Shannon and Liffy keep rolling on still,
And the Abbey stands mouldering at top of the hill.
Being absent awhile, should we visit the place,
Of our friends and associates dear,
While the flowery paths of our childhood we trace,
Scarce a vestige remains as it were:—
What births and what deaths,
What marriages too;
One would think that the
Earth was peopled anew:—
The mountains and rocks keep their neighbourhood still,
And the Abbey stands mouldering at top of the hill.
Of our friends and associates dear,
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Scarce a vestige remains as it were:—
What births and what deaths,
What marriages too;
One would think that the
Earth was peopled anew:—
The mountains and rocks keep their neighbourhood still,
And the Abbey stands mouldering at top of the hill.
When we view that dear spot where in youth we have met,
To each other so kind and true-hearted;
The place is there, but the birds they have flit,
And some we lov'd dear have departed!—
While dullness of trade
Has drove many a bright fellow,
To seek for a shade
O'er the western billow:—
The moon and the stars keep their residence still,
And the Abbey stands mouldering at top of the hill.
To each other so kind and true-hearted;
The place is there, but the birds they have flit,
And some we lov'd dear have departed!—
While dullness of trade
Has drove many a bright fellow,
To seek for a shade
O'er the western billow:—
The moon and the stars keep their residence still,
And the Abbey stands mouldering at top of the hill.
We see some who have sail'd in life's golden gales,
For fear that their pilot should lose them;
If a contrary wind should just ruffle their sails,
Lest old poverty's storm should expose them:—
Being of higher blood and prouder,
With hemp, or poison, steel, or powder,
They slip off sharp across the river,
And some will say they finish'd clever:—
The ocean keeps ebbing and flowing on still,
And the Abbey stands mouldering at top of the hill.
For fear that their pilot should lose them;
If a contrary wind should just ruffle their sails,
Lest old poverty's storm should expose them:—
Being of higher blood and prouder,
With hemp, or poison, steel, or powder,
They slip off sharp across the river,
And some will say they finish'd clever:—
The ocean keeps ebbing and flowing on still,
And the Abbey stands mouldering at top of the hill.
The toil-worn out peasant, so sober and gray,
Whose life hath been squar'd with decorum;
With pleasure he feels himself wasting away,
Having Hope lighted up in the store-room:—
From the giddy and gay
He can bravely depart,
Without one to lay
His absence to heart:
Beneath his old vine his cottage stands still,
While the Abbey stands mouldering at top of the hill.
Whose life hath been squar'd with decorum;
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Having Hope lighted up in the store-room:—
From the giddy and gay
He can bravely depart,
Without one to lay
His absence to heart:
Beneath his old vine his cottage stands still,
While the Abbey stands mouldering at top of the hill.
So, a man of sound and vigorous mind,
Who answers the end he was meant for;
He wishes not here to be always confin'd,
Nor yet go before he is sent for:—
Still the Father, the mother,
The daughter, and son,
Dies off, and the whole
Generation is gone:—
The winter and summer keep rolling on still,
And the Abbey stands mouldering at top of the hill.
Who answers the end he was meant for;
He wishes not here to be always confin'd,
Nor yet go before he is sent for:—
Still the Father, the mother,
The daughter, and son,
Dies off, and the whole
Generation is gone:—
The winter and summer keep rolling on still,
And the Abbey stands mouldering at top of the hill.
When we view by the light of yon fiery sky,
The abbey dissolv'd, and the rivers all dry—
When the rocks and the mountains removing we see,
Where then is the strong hold to which we may flee?
When the sea by strange flames
Shall shrink from the shore,
And Gabriel proclaims,
“Time shall be no more:”—
The conscience that's guilty with horror shall fill,
But true Christian Hope stands immovable still!
The abbey dissolv'd, and the rivers all dry—
When the rocks and the mountains removing we see,
Where then is the strong hold to which we may flee?
When the sea by strange flames
Shall shrink from the shore,
And Gabriel proclaims,
“Time shall be no more:”—
The conscience that's guilty with horror shall fill,
But true Christian Hope stands immovable still!
| The bard of the dales | |