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Since childhood in my pleasant bower
Written on visiting a Scene in Argyleshire.
At the silence of twilight's contemplative hour,
I have mused in a sorrowful mood, On the wind-shaken weeds that embosom the
bower, Where the home of my forefathers stood. All ruined and wild is their roofless abode,
And lonely the dark raven's sheltering tree : And travelled by few is the grass-covered road, Where the hunter of deer and the warrior trode,
To his hills that encircle the sea.
Yet wandering, I found on my ruinous walk,
By the dial-stone aged and green, One rose of the wilderness left on its stalk, .
To mark where a garden had been. Like a brotherless hermit, the last of its race,
All wild in the silence of nature, it drew, From each wandering sun-beam, a lonely em
brace, For the night-weed and thorn overshadowed the
place, Where the flower of my forefathers grew.
Sweet bud of the wilderness ! emblem of all
That remains in this desolate heart ! The fabric of bliss to its centre may fall,
But patience shall never depart ! Though the wilds of enchantment, all vernal and
bright, In the days of delusion by fancy combined With the vanishing phantoms of love and delight, Abandon my soul, like a dream of the night,
And leave but a desert behind.
Be hushed, my dark spirit ! for wisdom condemns
When the faint and the feeble deplore; Be strong as the rock of the ocean that stems,
A thousand wild waves on the shore !
THE RAINY DAY.
The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
And the day is dark and dreary.
My life is cold, and dark, and dreary ;
And the days are dark and dreary.
Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.
Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
With large and sinewy hands;
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
He earns whate'er he can,
For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
With measured beat and slow,
When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door ;
And hear the bellows roar,
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears his daughter's voice
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise ! . He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies ; And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
Onward through life he goes ; Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees its close; Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.