Huge paintings of Heroes and Peace Seem'd to smile at the sound of the fiddle, Proud to fill up each tall shining space Round the lanthorn* that stood in the middle. A bell rang, announcing new pleasures, Feathers nodded, perfumes shed their treasures, As a white flock would cover a plain! But now came a scene worth the showing, Then down stream'd a million of stars; There thousands of gay lamps aspir'd The intervals between the pillars in the centre of the Rotunda were filled up by transparent paintings. 'Tis not wisdom to love without reason, Or to censure without knowing why: I had witness'd no crime, nor no treason, "O Life, 'tis thy picture," said I. 'Tis just thus we saunter along, Months and years bring their pleasures or pain; We sigh midst the right and the wrong; -And then we go round them again! WRITTEN AT CLARE-HALL, HERTS. WELCOME silence! welcome peace! My heart and soul for quiet made. While rapture's gushing tears descend; I would not for a world of gold That Nature's lovely face should tire; I grant that summer heats will burn, Build me a shrine, and I could kneel That one GREAT SPIRIT governs all. Where o'er my corse green branches wave; And those who from life's tumult fly With kindred feelings press my grave. THE WOODLAND HALLÓ. (PERHAPS) ADAPTED FOR MUSIC. In our cottage, that peeps from the skirts of the wood, I am mistress, no mother have I; Yet blithe are my days, for my father is good, They both work together beneath the green shade, Where I've listen'd whole hours to the echo that made So much of a laugh or-Halló, From my basket at noon they expect their supply, And Echo that sings as I sing. Though deep shades delight me, yet love is my food, As I call the dear name of my Joe; His musical shout is the pride of the wood, Simple flowers of the grove, little birds live at ease, I'll still dwell beneath the deep roar of your trees, The trill of the robin, the coo of the dove, But resting through life on the bosom of love, BARNHAM WATER. FRESH from the hall of Bounty sprung, The backward valley painted gay; Where one small streamlet cross'd the way What was it rous'd my soul to love? And never brook seem'd half so clear. Its shelving brink for rest was made, But every charm was incomplete, For Barnham Water wants a shade. There, faint beneath the fervid sun, For who can see the current run And snatch no feast of mental food? Keep that fair path by wisdom trod, "That thou may'st hope to wind thy way "To fame worth boasting, and to God." *On a sultry afternoon, late in the summer of 1802, EustonHall lay in my way to Thetford, which place I did not reach until the evening, on a visit to my sister: the lines lose much of their interest except they could be read on the spot, or at least at a corresponding season of the year |