« السابقةمتابعة »
Thou lingerest, Spring ! still wintry is the scene,
The fields their dead and sapless russet wear,
Scarce does the glossy pile-wort yet appear
The elder yet its circling tufts put forth.
Oft darting out. The blasts from the bleak north
Late let the fields and gardens blossom out! Like man when most with smiles thy face is drest, "Tis to deceive, and he who knows ye best, When most ye promise, ever most must doubt.
R. SONNET IX.
Wake the loud harp to rapture! on the gale
O'er Avon's woody steeps that swept along,
Oft has it pour'd the melancholy song Of memory; often in the primros’d vale,
Where Cherwell winds her willowy meads among, Echoed to Sorrow's solitary tale; Now let it speak of Joy! for now no more
It hymns responsive to the hand of woe,
The dirge of Hope departed ; sad and slow
Her tomb despondent Love his head hung low,
(Written in a Boat, on Loch Lomond, on seeing one dart into a
Copse, on one side of the Islands of the Lake.)
Whither lone wanderer-whither art thou flown?
To what sequester'd bower or gloomy dell? Say dost thou go where sorrow is unknown,
Where trouble never enters dost thou dwell > Lend me thy wing then, tenant of these shades !
Lend me thy wing, thy gentle aid impart, For I would fain explore these wizard glades,
And shun the feeblest trace of human art ! Oh kindly guide me to a CAVE OF NIGHT,
So wild, so very secret, so unknown,
The CALLOUS MIND its power may also own ;
Ah ! quiet day, I oft recal the time,
When I did chace my childish sluggishness,
(The “ rear of darkness ling'ring still") to dress In due sort for thy coming : the first chime Of blithesome bells, that usher'd in the morn,
Carol'd to me of rest and simplest mirth :
'Twas then all happiness on the wide earth To
gaze ! I little dreamt, that man was born For ought but wholesome toil and holiest praise
Thanking that God who made him to rejoice But I am changed now ! nor could I raise
My sunken spirit at thy well-known voice ;, But that thou seemest soothingly to say, “ Look up poor mourner, to a BETTER DAY.”
ON THE APPROACH OF AUTUMN.
Farewell! gay Summer ! now the changing wind
That Autumn brings, commands thee to retreat, It fades the roses which thy temples bind
And the green sandals which adorn thy feet. Now flies with thee the walk at eventide
That fav'ring hour to bright-ey'd Fancy dear, When most she loves to seek the mountain side
And mark the pomp of twilight hast’ning near. Ah then, what faery forms around her throng!
On every cloud a magic charm she sees : Sweet Evening these delights to thee belong,
But now alas ! comes Autumn's chilling breeze And early night attendant on its sway Bears in her envious veil, sweet fancy's hour away.
A. Opie. 1793.