« السابقةمتابعة »
Then shall we see across the vale
The village spire so white,
Shall live again in light.
So, William, from the moral world
The clouds shall pass away ;
Shall beam eternal day.
To the BURNIE* BEE.
Blythe son of summer, furl thy filmy wing,
Alight beside me on this bank of moss ; Yet to its sides the lingering shadows cling,
And sparkling dews the dark-green tufts imboss.
Here may'st thou freely quaff the nectar'd sweet
That in the violet's purple chalice hides, Here on the lily scent thy fringed feet,
Or with the wild-thymes balm anoint thy sides.
Back o'er thy shoulders throw those ruby shards
With many a tiny coal-black freckle deckt, My watchful look thy loitering saunter guards,
My ready hand thy footstep shall protect.
* A provincial name of the beetle coccinella, or lady-birde Daunted by me beneath this trembling bough
On forked wing no greedy swallow sails, No hopping sparrow pries for food below,
Nor evet lurks, nor dusky blindworm trails.
Nor shall the swarthy gaoler for thy way
His grate of twinkling threads successful strain, With venom'd trunk thy writhing members slay,
Or from thy heart the reeking life's-blood drain.
Forego thy wheeling in the sunny air
Thy glancing to the envious insects round, To the dim calmness of my bower repair,
Silence and Coolness keep its hallowed ground.
Here to the elves who sleep in flowers by day
Thy softest hum in lulling whispers pour, Or o'er the lovely band thy shield display
When blue-eyed twilight sheds her dewy shower.
So shall the fairy-train by glow-worm light
With rainbow tints thy folding pennons fret, Thy scaly breast in deeper azure dight,
Thy burnish'd armour speck with glossier jet.
With viewless fingers weave thy wintry tent,
And line with gossamer thy pendant cell, Safe in the rift of some lone ruin pent
Where ivy shelters from the storm-wind fell.
Blest if like thee I cropt with heedless spoil
The gifts of youth and pleasure in their bloom, Doom'd for no coming winter's want to toil,
Fit for the spring that waits beyond the tomb.
INSCRIPTIONS, by ROBERT SOUTHEY.
For the Banks of the HAMPSHIRE AVON.
A little while, O Traveller! linger here,