I love the bell that calls the poor to pray,
Chiming from village church its cheerful sound,
When the sun smiles on labour's holy-day,
And all the rustic train are gathered round,
Each deftly dizened in his Sunday's best,
And pleased to hail the day of piety and rest.
And when, dim shadowing o'er the face of day,
The mantling mists of eventide rise slow,
As through the forest gloom I wend my way,
The minster curfew's sullen voice I know,,
and love its solemn toll to hear,
As, made by distance soft, it dies upon the ear.
Nor with an idle nor unwilling ear
Do I receive the early passing-bell;
For sick at heart with many a secret care,
When I lie listening to the dead man's knell,
I think that in the grave all sorrows cease,
And would full fain recline my head, and be at peace.
But thou, memorial of monastic gall!
What fancy sad or lightsome thou hast given!
Thy vision-scaring sounds alone recal
The prayer that trembles on a yawn to heaven!
And this dean's gape, and that dean's nasal tone,
And Roman rites retained, though Roman faith be flown.
THE RACE OF BANQUO.
FLY, son of Banquo! Fleance, fly!
Leave thy guilty sire to die.
O'er the heath the stripling fled,
The wild storm howling round his head.
Fear mightier through the shades of night
Urged his feet, and winged his flight;
And still he heard his father cry,
Fly, son of Banquo! Fleance, fly!
Fly, son of Banquo! Fleance, fly!
Leave thy guilty sire to die.
On every blast was heard the moan,
The anguished shriek, the death-fraught groan;
Loathly night-hags join the yell,
And see the midnight rites of hell.
Forms of magic! spare my life!
Shield me from the murderer's knife!
Before me dim in lurid light
Float the phantoms of the night-
Behind I hear my father cry,
Fly, son of Banquo-Fleance, fly!
Parent of the sceptred race,
Boldly tread the circled space:
Boldly, Fleance, venture near-
Sire of monarchs-spurn at fear.
Sisters, with prophetic breath,
Pour we now the dirge of death!
BRAIN! you must work! begin, or we shall lose
The day while yet we only think upon it.
The hours run on, and yet you will not chuse
The subject-come-ode, elegy, or sonnet.
You must contribute, brain! in this hard time;
Taxes are high, food dear, and you must rhyme.
"Twere well if when I rubb'd my itchless head,
The fingers with benignant stimulation
Could through the medullary substance spread
The motions of poetic inspiration;
But scratch, or knock, or shake my head about,
The motions may go in, but nought comes out.
The natural head, consider good my brain,
To the head politic bears some allusion;
The limbs and body must support your reign,
And all when you do wrong is in confusion.
But caput mine, in truth I can't support
A head as lazy as if born at court.
LEWTI, OR THE CIRCASSIAN LOVE-CHANT.
The verse goes on, and we shall have, my friend,
A poem ere the subject we determine."
But everything should have some useful end.
That single line itself is worth a sermon!
The moral point as obvious is as good,—
So gentle brain! I thank you and conclude.
LEWTI, OR THE CIRCASSIAN LOVE-CHANT.
AT midnight by the stream I rov'd
To forget the form I lov'd.
Image of Lewti! from my mind
Depart; for Lewti is not kind.
The moon was high, the moonlight gleam,
And the shadow of a star
Heav'd upon Tamaha's stream;
But the rock shone brighter far,
The rock half shelter'd from my view,
By pendant boughs of tressy yew.-
So shines my Lewti's forehead fair,
Gleaming through her sable hair.
Image of Lewti! from my mind
Depart; for Lewti is not kind.
I saw a cloud of palest hue,
Onward to the moon it pass'd.
Still brighter and more bright it grew,
With floating colours not a few,
Till it reach'd the moon at last;
Then the cloud was wholly bright,
With a rich and amber light;
And so with many a hope I seek,
And with such joy I find my Lewti;
And even so my pale wan cheek
Drinks in as deep a flush of beauty!
Nay, treach'rous image! leave my mind,
If Lewti never will be kind.
The little cloud-it floats away,
Away it goes-away so soon!
Alas! it has no power to stay:
Its hues are dim, its hues are grey→
Away it passes from the moon.
How mournfully it seems to fly,
Ever fading more and more,
To joyless regions of the sky-
And now 'tis whiter than before,
As white as my poor cheek will be,
When, Lewti! on my couch I lie,
A dying man for love of thee.
Nay, treach'rous image! leave my mind→
And yet thou didst not look unkind!
I saw a vapour in the sky,
Thin, and white, and very high.
I ne'er beheld so thin a cloud-
Perhaps the breezes that can fly
Now below, and now above,
Have snatch'd aloft the lawny shroud
Of lady fair-that died for love;
For maids, as well as youths, have perish'd
From fruitless love too fondly cherish'd!
Nay, treach'rous image! leave my mind-
For Lewti never will be kind.
Hush! my heedless feet from under
Slip the crumbling banks for ever;
Like echoes to a distant thunder,
They plunge into the gentle river.
The river swans have heard my tread,
And startle from their reedy bed.
O beauteous birds! methinks ye measure
Your movements to some heavenly tune!
O beauteous birds! 'tis such a pleasure
To see you move beneath the moon,
I would it were your true delight
To sleep by day and wake all night.
I know the place where Lewti lies,
When silent night has clos'd her eyes—
It is a breezy jasmin bower,
The nightingale sings o'er her head;
Had I the enviable power
To creep, unseen, with noiseless tread, Then should I view her bosom white
Heaving lovely to the sight,
As these two swans together heave
On the gently-swelling wave.
Oh that she saw me in a dream,
And dreamt that I had died for care!
All pale and wasted I would seem,
Yet fair withal, as spirits are.
I'd die, indeed, if I might see
Her bosom heave, and heave for me!
Soothe, gentle image! soothe my mind!
To-morrow Lewti may be kind.
GOOSEBERRY-PIE is best.
Fuli of the theme, O muse begin the song! What though the sunbeams of the west Mature within the turtle's breast
Blood glutinous and fat of verdant hue? What though the deer bound sportively along O'er springy turf, the park's elastic vest
Give them their honours due
But gooseberry pie is best.
Behind his oxen slow
The patient ploughman plods;
And as the sower followed by the clods Earth's genial womb received the swelling seed. The rains descend, the grains they grow ;
Saw ye the vegetable ocean
Roll its green billows to the April gale 7
The ripening gold with multitudinous motion
Sway o'er the summer vale?
It flows through alder banks along
Beneath the copse that hides the hill;
The gentle stream you cannot see,
You only hear its melody,
The stream that turns the mill.
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