But let me quit this melancholy spot,
And roam where nature gives a parting smile.
As yet the blue-bells linger on the sod
That copes the sheepfold ring; and in the woods
A second blow of many flowers appears;
Flowers faintly tinged and breathing no perfume.
But fruits, not blossoms, form the woodland wreath
That circle's autumn's brow: the ruddy haws
Now clothe the half-leaved thorn; the bramble bends
Beneath its jetty load; the hazel hangs
With auburn branches, dipping in the stream
That sweeps along, and threatens to o'erflow
The leaf-strewn banks: oft, statue-like, I gaze
In vacancy of thought upon that stream,
And chase with dreaming eye the eddying foam;
Or rowan's clustered branch, or harvest-sheaf
Borne rapidly adown the dizzying flood.
How dazzling white the snowy scene; deep, deep,
The stillness of the winter Sabbath-day,—
Not even a footfall heard. Smooth are the fields,
Each hollow pathway level with the plain :
Hid are the bushes, save that here and there
Are seen the topmost shoots of brier or broom.
High-ridged the whirled drift has almost reached
The powdered keystone of the churchyard porch :
Mute hangs the hooded bell; the tombs lie buried:
No step approaches to the house of prayer:
The flickering fall is o'er; the clouds disperse,
And show the sun hung o'er the welkin's verge,
Shooting a bright but ineffectual beam
On all the sparkling waste. Now is the time
To visit nature in her grand attire;
Though perilous the mountainous ascent,
A noble recompense the danger brings.
How beautiful the plain stretched far below
Unvaried though it be, save by yon stream
With azure windings, or the leafless wood!
But what the beauty of the plain, compared
To that sublimity which reigns enthroned,
Holding joint rule with solitude divine,
Among yon rocky fells that bid defiance
To steps the most adventurously bold!
There silence dwells profound; or if the cry
Of high-poised eagle break at times the calm,
The mantled echoes no response return.
But let me now explore the deep sunk dell:
No footprint, save the covey's or the flock's,
Is seen along the rill, where marshy springs
Still rear the grassy blade of vivid green.
Beware, ye shepherds, of these treacherous haunts,
Nor linger there too long: the wintry day
Soon closes, and full oft a heavier fall,
Heaped by the blast, fills up the sheltered glen.
While gurgling deep below the buried rill
Mines for itself a snow-coved way. Oh! then
Your helpless charge drive from the tempting spot,
And keep them on the bleak hill's stormy side,
Where night-winds sweep the gathering drift away:
So the Great Shepherd leads the heavenly flock
From faithless pleasures full into the storms
Of life, where long they bear the bitter blast,
Until at length the vernal sun looks forth,
Bedimmed with showers; then to the pastures green
He brings them where the quiet waters glide,
The streams of life, the Siloah of the soul.
THE author of the "Minstrel," and other poems, and of various works in prose, was born in Laurencekirk in 1735, and died in 1803.
Ar the close of the day, when the hamlet is still,
And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove,
When naught but the torrent is heard on the hill,
And naught but the nightingale's song in the grove:
'Twas then, by the cave of the mountain afar,
A hermit his song of the night thus began,
No more with himself or with nature at war,
He thought as a sage, while he felt as a man.
"Ah! why thus abandoned to darkness and wo,
Why thus, lonely Philomel, flows thy sad strain?
For spring shall return and a lover bestow,
And thy bosom no trace of misfortune retain.
Yet if pity inspire thee, ah, cease not thy lay,
Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn ;
O soothe him whose pleasures like thine pass away—
Full quickly they pass, but they never return.
"Now gliding remote, on the verge of the sky,
The moon half extinguished, her crescent displays;
But lately I marked, when majestic on high
She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze.
Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue
The path that conducts thee to splendor again,
But man's faded glory no change shall renew,
Ah, fool! to exult in a glory so vain!
""Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more:
I mourn, but ye woodlands I mourn not for you,
For morn is approaching your charms to restore,
Perfumed with fresh fragrance and glittering with dew.
Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn,
Kind nature the embryo blossom will save;
But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn!
O when shall it dawn on the night of the grave!
""Twas thus by the glare of false science betrayed, That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind;
My thoughts wont to roam from shade onward to shade, Destruction before me, and sorrow behind.
O pity, great Father of Light,' then I cried,
Thy creature who fain would not wander from thee! Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride,
From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free.'
"And darkness and doubt are now flying away,
No longer I roam in conjecture foriorn,
So breaks on the traveller faint and astray,
The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn.
See Truth, Love, and Mercy, in triumph descending,
And nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom!
On the cold cheek of death, smiles and roses are blending,
And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb.'
FROM AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A LADY.
Ан, whither fled!-ye dear illusions stay!
Lo! pale and silent lies the lovely clay!
How are the roses on that lip decayed,
Which health in all the pride of bloom arrayed!
Health on her form each sprightly grace bestowed;
With active life each speaking feature glowed.
Fair was the flower, and soft the vernal sky;
Elate with hope we deemed no tempest nigh;
When, lo! a whirlwind's instantaneous gust
Left all its beauties withering in the dust.
All cold the hand that soothed Wo's weary head!
All quenched the eye the pitying tear that shed!
All mute the voice whose pleasing accents stole;
Infusing balm into the rankled soul!-
O Death, why arm with cruelty thy power,
And spare the weed, yet lop the lovely flower?
Why fly thy shafts in lawless error driven !
Is virtue then no more the care of heaven ?
But peace, bold thought! be still, my bursting heart!
We, not Eliza, felt the fatal dart.
'Scaped the dark dungeon does the slave complain,
Nor bless the hand that broke the galling chain?
Say, pines not Virtue for the lingering morn,
On this dark wild condemned to roam forlorn?
Where Reason's meteor-rays, with sickly glow,
O'er the dun gloom a dreadful glimmering throw;
Disclosing dubious to th' affrighted eye,
O'erwhelming mountains tottering from on high.
Black billowy seas in storms perpetual tossed,
And weary ways in wildering labyrinths lost.
O happy stroke that bursts the bonds of clay,
Darts through the rending gloom the blaze of day,
And wings the soul with boundless flight to soar
Where dangers threat, and fears alarm no more.
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