Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Ask you, my Friend, how flows away
The village Curate's spring-tide day?
Now to the blackbird's pipe I rove,
That whistles thro' the beechen grove;
Now thro' the tangled coppice stray,
And mark the black thorn's budding spray;
With many a primrose pale beset,
And many a purple violet.

And now I climb the breezy height,
Whose sides with hanging flocks are white,
And view below the cultur'd vale;
The winding road; the distant sail;
Here Harting's humble cots appear,
To thee, O plaintive Collins, dear:
And there thy blue cliffs, Vecta, heave
Their summits from the misty wave.

And now the garden's turf I tread,
And watch the lilac's bursting head,
And every bud and blossom count:
And now on yonder gentle mount
The woodbine plant and jessamine;
Which soon in playful wreaths shall twine,
And hang my pleasant summer bower
With verdant leaf and fragrant flower.

But not alone in thoughtless play
My precious moments steal away.
At home, my daily task assign'd
To open on the youthful mind
The brightest wits of Roman name;
And those more bright, who soar'd to fame
By old Ilissus' Attic tide,
Sicilia's charms; Ionia's pride.

Abroad a holier care I prove:
The herald of my Saviour's love,
'Tis mine to throw a cheering ray
Of hope around the poor man's way;
To train his children's helpless age
With lessons from the sacred page;
The wand'ring earth-born wish controul,
And lift to heav'n the humble soul.

Such cares my hours of toil employ,
And such my springs of blameless joy.
With pray'r for more I tempt not heaven,
But praise him for his mercies given:
Contented with my lowly lot;
By all, but by my friends, forgot,
Where peace of heart and quiet dwell
In Buriton's sequester'd dell.