In a garden live like me, Flowers have sprung for many a year, And homeward walking, wept o'er me And soon, her cottage-window near, When past was many a painful day, One generous swain her heart approved, He died and soon her lip was cold, The village wept to hear the tale Yet one boon have I to crave; Wilt thou do one tender deed, And strew my pale flowers o'er their grave? ON DENNIS HAMPSON, The blind Bard of Magilligan, in Ireland, who died at the advanced age of 110. The fame of the brave shall no longer be sounded, The last of our bards now sleeps cold in his grave; Magilligan rocks; where his lays have resounded, Frown dark at the ocean, and spurn at the wave. For Hampson no more shall thy soul-touching finger Steal sweet o'er the strings, and wild melody pour; No more near thy hut shall the villagers linger, While strains from thy harp warble soft round the shore. No more thy harp swells with enraptured emotion, Yet vigour and youth with bright visions had fired thee, And rose-buds of health have blown deep on thy cheek; The songs of the sweet bards of Erin inspired thee, And urged thee to wander like laurels to seek. Yes, oft has thou sung of our kings crown'd with glory, Or sighing repeated the lover's fond lay, And oft hast thou sung of the bards famed in story, Whose wild notes of rapture have long past away. Thy grave shall be screen'd from the blast and the billow, Around it a fence shall posterity raise; Erin's children shall wet with their tears thy cold pillow. Her youths shall lament thee, and carol thy praise. ON GOD AND NATURE. All are but parts of one stupendous whole, Whose body Nature is, and God the soul; That chang'd thro' all, and yet in all the same, Great in the earth, as in th' ætherial frame, Warns in the sun, refreshes in the breeze, Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees, Lives thro' all life, extends thro' all extent, Spreads undivided, operates unspent, Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part, As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart; As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns, As the rapt seraph that adores and burns; To him, no high, no low, no great, no small; He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all. Cease then, nor order imperfection name: Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear: All Nature is but art, unknown to thee; All chance, direction, which thou canst not see; All discord, harmony, not understood; And, spite of pride, in erring reason's spite, ON HAPPINESS. O Happiness! our being's end and aim! Good. pleasure, ease, content! whate'er thy name: That something, which still prompts th' eternal sigh; For which be bear to live, nor fear to die: Ask of the learn'd the way, the learn'd are blind: This bids to serve, and that to shun mankind. Some place the bliss in action, some in ease; Those call it pleasure, and contentment these : |