Per me si va nella Città dolente.
We have not passed into a doleful City,
We who were led to-day down a grim Dell,
By some too boldly named "the Jaws of Hell:"
Where be the wretched Ones, the sights for pity?
These crowded streets resound no plaintive ditty:
As from the hive where bees in summer dwell,
Sorrow seems here excluded; and that knell,
It neither damps the gay, nor checks the witty.
Too busy Mart! thus fared it with old Tyre,
Whose Merchants Princes were, whose decks were
Soon may the punctual sea in vain respire
To serve thy need, in union with that Clyde Whose nursling current brawls o'er mossy stones, The poor, the lonely Herdsman's joy and pride.
"THERE!" said a Stripling, pointing with meet pride
Towards a low roof with green trees half concealed,
"Is Mossgiel farm; and that's the very field
Where Burns ploughed up the Daisy." Far and wide
A plain below stretched sea-ward, while, descried
Above,sea-clouds, the Peaks of Arran rose;
And, by that simple notice, the repose
Of earth, sky, sea, and air, was vivified.
Beneath "the random bield of clod or stone
Myriads of Daisies have shone forth in flower
Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour
Have passed away, less happy than the One
That by the unwilling ploughshare died to prove
The tender charm of Poetry and Love.
THE Lovers took within this ancient grove
Their last embrace; beside those crystal springs
The Hermit saw the Angel spread his wings
For instant flight; the Sage in yon alcove
Sate musing; on that hill the Bard would rove,
Not mute, where now the Linnet only sings:
Thus every where to truth Tradition clings,
Or Fancy localises Powers we love.
Were only History licensed to take note
Of things gone by, her meagre monuments
Would ill suffice for persons and events:
There is an ampler page for man to quote,
A readier book of manifold contents,
Studied alike in palace and in cot.
THE RIVER EDEN, CUMBERLAND.
EDEN! till now thy beauty had I viewed
By glimpses only, and confess with shame
That verse of mine, whate'er its varying mood,
Repeats but once the sound of thy sweet name;
Yet fetched from Paradise 12 that honour came,
Rightfully borne; for Nature gives thee flowers
That have no rivals among British bowers;
And thy bold rocks are worthy of their fame.
Measuring thy course, fair Stream! at length I pay
To my life's neighbour dues of neighbourhood;
But I have traced thee on thy winding way
With pleasure sometimes by the thought restrained
That things far off are toiled for, while a good
Not sought, because too near, is seldom gained.
IN WETHERAL CHURCH, NEAR CORBY, ON THE BANKS OF THE
STRETCHED on the dying Mother's lap, lies dead Her new-born Babe, dire issue of bright hope!
But Sculpture here, with the divinest scope
Of luminous faith, heavenward hath raised that head So patiently; and through one hand has spread
A touch so tender for the insensate Child,
Earth's lingering love to parting reconciled,
Brief parting for the spirit is all but fled;
That we, who contemplate the turns of life
Through this still medium, are consoled and cheered; Feel with the Mother, think the severed Wife
Is less to be lamented than revered;
And own that Art, triumphant over strife
And pain, hath powers to Eternity endeared.
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