 | Poems on various subjects |  |
16
EVENING,
A RURAL FRAGMENT.
Hail, meek ey'd maiden, clad in sober grey,
Whose soft approach the weary woodman loves!
Jos. Warton.
Whose soft approach the weary woodman loves!
Jos. Warton.
'Tis Evening mild; her fragrance scents the air;
In robe of dunness clad, she silent sits
On yon grey mountain's brow. At her approach,
Gay Phœbus, redd'ning, gilds the placid sky,
His faint rays dancing o'er the dimpl'd stream,
Lashing his fiery coursers down the west,
As to the sloping hills, embrown'd in shade,
He bids adieu—then vanishes from man.
In robe of dunness clad, she silent sits
On yon grey mountain's brow. At her approach,
Gay Phœbus, redd'ning, gilds the placid sky,
His faint rays dancing o'er the dimpl'd stream,
Lashing his fiery coursers down the west,
As to the sloping hills, embrown'd in shade,
He bids adieu—then vanishes from man.
The cheerful cottager no longer views
His lengthen'd shadow stalk across the plain;
But, labour-wearied, marks his far-off hut,
Where Peace sits smiling at his humble gate,
And, homeward whistling, oft, with joyous gaze,
Beholds the spiky produce of his fields.
His lengthen'd shadow stalk across the plain;
But, labour-wearied, marks his far-off hut,
Where Peace sits smiling at his humble gate,
17
Beholds the spiky produce of his fields.
Th'exhaling flow'rs, that beam'd throughout the vale,
Diffuse no more their grateful odours round,
But, drooping, seem to mourn departing day;
While, from their honey'd stores, th'industrious bee,
Humming her feeble flight, makes tow'rds her cell.
Returning zephyrs, from the fragrant glade,
Now sport among the willows near the stream,
Or kiss the curling surface of the deep,
From whence the twitt'ring swallow wings her way,
And, winding, steals into her clay-built nest,
To nurse her unfledg'd young till morning dawns.
Diffuse no more their grateful odours round,
But, drooping, seem to mourn departing day;
While, from their honey'd stores, th'industrious bee,
Humming her feeble flight, makes tow'rds her cell.
Returning zephyrs, from the fragrant glade,
Now sport among the willows near the stream,
Or kiss the curling surface of the deep,
From whence the twitt'ring swallow wings her way,
And, winding, steals into her clay-built nest,
To nurse her unfledg'd young till morning dawns.
No more the feather'd choir are heard around;
All, all is silent, save the blackbird's song,
That, faintly echoing, steals along the grove,
As from the distant wood he calls his mate.
Lorn minstrel! sweetest of the feather'd train!
Whose notes are welcome to the lover's ear;
Whilst madd'ning crowds, in search of pleasure, throng
To noisy theatres, where tumult reigns,
And Folly wonders at the work of Art,
That teaches man to mimic thy sweet voice.
O I do love to hear thee, bird of spring,
When at Eve's modest hour, in peace reclin'd,
Thy wild notes linger on the passing gale!
Tho' oft hath Flora strew'd the fields with flow'rs,
And led along the meads her sportive train,
Since first, in tuneless lays, I vainly strove,
In pensive mood, on the blithe-warbling flute,
To cheat awhile the busy canker Care;
Yet, list'ning to thy plaintive melody,
I sighing say, my time hath been misspent!
All, all is silent, save the blackbird's song,
That, faintly echoing, steals along the grove,
As from the distant wood he calls his mate.
Lorn minstrel! sweetest of the feather'd train!
18
Whilst madd'ning crowds, in search of pleasure, throng
To noisy theatres, where tumult reigns,
And Folly wonders at the work of Art,
That teaches man to mimic thy sweet voice.
O I do love to hear thee, bird of spring,
When at Eve's modest hour, in peace reclin'd,
Thy wild notes linger on the passing gale!
Tho' oft hath Flora strew'd the fields with flow'rs,
And led along the meads her sportive train,
Since first, in tuneless lays, I vainly strove,
In pensive mood, on the blithe-warbling flute,
To cheat awhile the busy canker Care;
Yet, list'ning to thy plaintive melody,
I sighing say, my time hath been misspent!
Cherish'd by Hope, the lover fondly waits,
In anxious anguish, at th'appointed shade.
A thousand doubts disturb his artless breast,
And oft he gazes for the promis'd maid.
In anxious anguish, at th'appointed shade.
A thousand doubts disturb his artless breast,
And oft he gazes for the promis'd maid.
19
Upon the green, the shepherd's rural pipe
Proclaims to distant meads the lively dance,
And calls the younker to the festive ring,
Where Mirth and frolic Joy light-footed stray,
And sportive Gladness mocks the toils of day:
The village train now mingling in the throng
With sprightly glee. E'en Age forgets his pain,
And joins the cheering song, or harmless joke,
Recounting strange the tales of former days;
What wonders he atchiev'd to gain the fair,
And bore away the prize: then blooming health
Glow'd on his cheeks, now furrow'd o'er by time.
The rustics round in mute attention stand,
List'ning with wistful gaze to the village sage.
Full oft the laugh of innocence goes round,
And many a sigh steals forth at artless tales
In praise of virtue, till the darkning hours
Invite the happy few to soft repose.
Proclaims to distant meads the lively dance,
And calls the younker to the festive ring,
Where Mirth and frolic Joy light-footed stray,
And sportive Gladness mocks the toils of day:
The village train now mingling in the throng
With sprightly glee. E'en Age forgets his pain,
And joins the cheering song, or harmless joke,
Recounting strange the tales of former days;
What wonders he atchiev'd to gain the fair,
And bore away the prize: then blooming health
Glow'd on his cheeks, now furrow'd o'er by time.
The rustics round in mute attention stand,
List'ning with wistful gaze to the village sage.
Full oft the laugh of innocence goes round,
And many a sigh steals forth at artless tales
In praise of virtue, till the darkning hours
Invite the happy few to soft repose.
20
Evening, I hail thy hours of gay content,
That to this pensive bosom still are dear!
Tho' I no more across the mist-clad hill
Steal forth with sighs to meet my soul's true-love;
Yet oft, by Fancy led, my vagrant feet
Bend tow'rds the woods, or cowslip-painted meads,
To trace the scene of many a youthful sport;
And, nurs'd by Solitude, awhile from care,
Fond Memory glances at the joys that were.
'Tis then great Nature charms the wand'ring eye,
Whose scenes luxuriant give the soul delight;
'Tis then, hid from the world, man tastes of bliss
That Reason and Religion most approve.
That to this pensive bosom still are dear!
Tho' I no more across the mist-clad hill
Steal forth with sighs to meet my soul's true-love;
Yet oft, by Fancy led, my vagrant feet
Bend tow'rds the woods, or cowslip-painted meads,
To trace the scene of many a youthful sport;
And, nurs'd by Solitude, awhile from care,
Fond Memory glances at the joys that were.
'Tis then great Nature charms the wand'ring eye,
Whose scenes luxuriant give the soul delight;
'Tis then, hid from the world, man tastes of bliss
That Reason and Religion most approve.
When in Retirement's shade, pleas'd I behold
The enlivening orb of day dart his mild beams
Aslaunt the upland lawn, or hanging wood,
Or tinge with partial gleam some distant tow'r:
Calm Contemplation steals upon my mind;
Then turning to that Pow'r who rules on high
A thought-entranced wight, thus I exclaim—
Alas! this life's a transient summer day,
And man, frail insect! sports away his morn,
(A child of Folly caught in Pleasure's snare)
Nor thinks the present hour may be his last!
Then keen Reflection points to age, life's eve,
And whispers, like a flow'r upon the plain
My tott'ring head must bend, as feebly on
Tow'rds home I wander thro' this rugged path,
Till Death shall close in sleep my wearied eyes.
The enlivening orb of day dart his mild beams
Aslaunt the upland lawn, or hanging wood,
Or tinge with partial gleam some distant tow'r:
Calm Contemplation steals upon my mind;
Then turning to that Pow'r who rules on high
A thought-entranced wight, thus I exclaim—
21
And man, frail insect! sports away his morn,
(A child of Folly caught in Pleasure's snare)
Nor thinks the present hour may be his last!
Then keen Reflection points to age, life's eve,
And whispers, like a flow'r upon the plain
My tott'ring head must bend, as feebly on
Tow'rds home I wander thro' this rugged path,
Till Death shall close in sleep my wearied eyes.
| Poems on various subjects | |