Written while Sailing in a Boat at Evening.
How richly glows the water's breast
Before us, tinged with Evening hues,
While, facing thus the crimson west,
The Boat her filent courfe pursues !
And fee how dark the backward stream!
A little moment paft fo fmiling!
And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam,
Some other loiterers beguiling.
Such views the youthful Bard allure;
But, heedless of the following gloom,
He deems their colours fhall endure
Till peace go with him to the tomb.
And let him nurfe his fond deceit,
And what if he must die in forrow! Who would not cherish dreams fo fweet,
Though grief and pain may come to-morrow?
With a continuous cloud of texture close,
Heavy and wan, all whitened by the moon,
Which through that vale is indiftinctly seen,
A dull, contracted circle, yielding light
So feebly spread that not a shadow falls,
Chequering the ground-from rock, plant, tree, or tower.
At length a pleasant inftantaneous gleam
Startles the penfive traveller as he treads
His lonesome path, with unobferving eye
Bent earthwards; he looks up-the clouds are split
Afunder, and above his head he fees
The clear moon, and the glory of the heavens.
There in a black blue vault she fails along,
Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small
And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss
Drive as the drives ;-how faft they wheel away,
Yet vanish not!-the wind is in the tree,
But they are filent ;-still they roll along
Immeasurably distant;—and the vault,
Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds,
Still deepens its unfathomable depth.
At length the vision closes; and the mind,
Not undisturbed by the delight it feels,
Which flowly settles into peaceful calm,
Is left to muse upon the folemn scene.
(I fpeak of one from many fingled out,)
One of those heavenly days that cannot die;
When forth I fallied from our cottage-door,
With a huge wallet o'er my shoulders flung,
A nutting-crook in hand, and turn'd my steps
Towards the diftant woods, a figure quaint,
Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds
Which for that service had been husbanded,
By exhortation of my frugal dame.
Motley accoutrement, of power to smile
At thorns, and brakes, and brambles,—and, in truth,
More ragged than need was.
And o'er the pathless rocks, I forced my way,
Until, at length, I came to one dear nook
Unvifited, where not a broken bough
Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious fign
Of devaftation, but the hazels rofe
Tall and erect, with milk-white clusters hung,
A virgin scene!-A little while I stood,
Breathing with fuch fuppreffion of the heart
As joy delights in; and with wise restraint
Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed
The banquet, or beneath the trees I fat
Among the flowers, and with the flowers I played;
A temper known to thofe, who, after long
And weary expectation, have been blessed
With fudden happiness beyond all hope.—
Perhaps it was a bower beneath whofe leaves
The violets of five feasons re-appear
And fade, unfeen by any human eye;
Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on
For ever, and I saw the sparkling foam,
And with my cheek on one of those green ftones
That, fleeced with mofs, beneath the fhady trees,
Lay round me, scattered like a flock of sheep,-
I heard the murmur and the murmuring found,
In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay
Tribute to ease; and of its joy fecure,
The heart luxuriates with indifferent things,
Wafting its kindliness on stocks and stones,
And on the vacant air. Then up I rose,
And dragged to earth both branch and bough, with crash
And merciless ravage; and the shady nook
Of hazels, and the green and moffy bower,
Deformed and fullied, patiently gave up
Their quiet being; and, unless I now
Confound my prefent feelings with the paft,
Even then, when from the bower I turned away
Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings,
I felt a fenfe of pain when I beheld
The filent trees and the intruding fky.-
Then, dearest maiden! move along these shades
In gentleness of heart; with gentle hand
Touch-for there is a spirit in the woods.
Written in Early Spring.
I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I fat reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleafant thoughts
Bring fad thoughts to the mind.
To her fair works did Nature link
The human foul that through me ran ;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.
Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.
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