THE POPLAR FIELD. The poplars are felled, farewell to the shade, And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade; The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves, Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives. Twelve years have elapsed, since I last took a view Of my favourite field, and the bank where they grew; And now in the grass behold they are laid, And the tree is my seat, that once lent me a shade. The blackbird has fled to another retreat, Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat; And the scene, where his melody charmed me before, Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more. My fugitive years are all hasting away, With a turf on my breast, and a stone at my head, Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead. The change both my heart and my fancy. employs, I reflect on the frailty of man, and his joys; Short-lived as we are, yet our pleasures, we see, Have a still shorter date, and die sooner than we. Cowper. THE ROSE. The rose had been washed, just washed in a shower, Which Mary to Anna conveyed, The plentiful moisture encumbered the flower, And weighed down its beautiful head. The cup was all filled, and the leaves were all wet, To weep for the buds it had left with regret, I hastily seized it, unfit as it was, For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd, And such, I exclaimed, is the pitiless part This elegant rose, had I shaken it less, Might have bloomed with its owner awhile, And the tear that is wiped with a little address, May be followed perhaps by a smile. Cowper. VERSES SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY ALEXANDER SELKIRK, DURING HIS SOLITARY ABODE ON A DESERT ISLAND. I am monarch of all I survey, My right there is none to dispute ; That sages have seen in thy face? I am out of humanity's reach, I must finish my journey alone, Never hear the sweet music of speech, I start at the sound of my own. The beasts, that roam over the plain, Society, friendship, and love, Divinely bestowed upon man, In the ways of religion and truth, Religion what treasure untold Or smiled when a sabbath appeared. Ye winds, that have made me your sport, Convey to this desolate shore Some cordial endearing report Of a land I shall visit no more. My friends, do they now and then send How fleet is a glance of the mind! Compared with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind, And the swift-winged arrows of light. When I think of my own native land, In a moment I seem to be there; But, alas! recollection at hand Soon hurries me back to despair. But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest, And I to my cabin repair. Cowper. |