We shall love and praise the things That are down in Hades. Glad am I, and glad will be; For my heart rejoices When sweet looks and lips I see, I will hope, and work, and love, On the grass their shadows; Cuckoos shouting o'er us; Clouds, with white or crimson hood, Pacing right before us. Who, in such a world as this, Could not heal his sorrow? Welcome this sweet sunset bliss Sunrise comes to-morrow! ANONYMOUS. Wespondency Rebuked. SAY not, the struggle nought availeth, The labor and the wounds are vain, The enemy faints not, nor faileth, And as things have been they remain. If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars; It may be, in yon smoke concealed, Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers, And, but for you, possess the field. For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, And not by eastern windows only, When daylight comes, comes in the light; In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly, But westward, look, the land is bright. ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. The Bucket. How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, When fond recollection presents them to view! The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood, And every loved spot which my infancy knew! The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it; The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell; The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it; And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure; For often at noon, when returned from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell! Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket, arose from the well. How sweet from the green, mossy brim to receive it, As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips! Not a full, blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, The brightest that beauty or revelry sips. And now, far removed from the loved habitation, The tear of regret will intrusively swell, As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE. I learned at last submission to my lot; On the Receipt of my Mother's Picture But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. OUT OF NORFOLK, THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN, ANN BODHAM. On that those lips had language! Life has passed To quench it!) here shines on me still the same. O welcome guest, though unexpected here! I will obey — not willingly alone, But gladly, as the precept were her own; My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away; Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent, 653 Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed: Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here. I pricked them into paper with a pin, (And thou wast happier than myself the whileWouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile) Could those few pleasant days again appear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? I would not trust my heart-the dear delight Thou- as a gallant bark, from Albion's coast, (The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed,) Shoots into port at some well-havened isle, And, while the wings of fancy still are free, WILLIAM COWPER. The Traveller; OR, A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY. REMOTE, unfriended, melancholy, slow, Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend, And round his dwelling guardian saints attend! Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire To pause from toil, and time their evening fire! Blest that abode, where want and pain repair, And every stranger finds a ready chair! Blest be those feasts with simple plenty crowned, Where all the ruddy family around Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail, Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale; Or press the bashful stranger to his food, And learn the luxury of doing good! But me, not destined such delights to share, My future leads to traverse realms alone, I sit me down a pensive hour to spend; When thus creation's charms around combine, Amidst the store should thankless pride repine Say, should the philosophic mind disdain That good which makes each humbler bosom vain ? Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can, And wiser he whose sympathetic mind Exults in all the good of all mankind. Ye glittering towns, with wealth and splendor crowned; Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round; As some lone miser visiting his store, Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er, Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill, Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still, THE TRAVELLER. 655 Thus to my breast alternate passions rise, But let us try these truths with closer eyes, Pleased with each good that heaven to man sup- And trace them through the prospect as it lies; plies; Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall, Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at rest, May gather bliss to see my fellows blest. But where to find that happiest spot below Here, for a while, my proper cares resigned, Far to the right, where Apennine ascends, Bright as the summer, Italy extends; Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side, Woods over woods, in gay theatric pride, While oft some temple's mouldering tops between With venerable grandeur mark the scene. Could nature's bounty satisfy the breast, The sons of Italy were surely blest: Whatever fruits in different climes are found, That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground; Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear, And thanks his gods for all the goods they Whose bright succession decks the varied year; gave. Such is the patriot's boast where'er we roam, To different nations, makes their blessings even. Nature, a mother kind alike to all, And honor sinks where commerce long prevails. Whatever sweets salute the northern sky But small the bliss that sense alone bestows, And sensual bliss is all this nation knows. In florid beauty groves and fields appear, Man seems the only growth that dwindles here. Contrasted faults through all his manners reign: Though poor, luxurious; though submissive, vain; Though grave, yet trifling; zealous, yet untrue! And e'en in penance planning sins anew. All evils here contaminate the mind, That opulence departed leaves behind; For wealth was theirs; not far removed the date When commerce proudly flourished through the state. At her command the palace learned to rise, Again the long-fallen column sought the skies, The canvas glowed, beyond e'en nature warm, The pregnant quarry teemed with human form; Till, more unsteady than the southern gale, Commerce on other shores displayed her sail; While naught remained, of all that riches gave, But towns unmanned, and lords without a slave; And late the nation found, with fruitless skill, Its former strength was but plethoric ill. Yet still the loss of wealth is here supplied By sports like these are all their cares beguiled; With patient angle trolls the finny deep, Thus every good his native wilds impart, Imprints the patriot lesson on his heart; And e'en those ills that round his mansion rise, Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies. bore Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms, And dear that hill that lifts him to the storms; And as a child, when scaring sounds molest, Clings close and closer to the mother's breast, So the loud torrent and the whirlwind's roar But bind him to his native mountains more. Defaced by time, and tottering in decay, My soul, turn from them! turn me to survey Where rougher climes a nobler race display, Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansion tread, And force a churlish soil for scanty bread: No product here the barren hills afford But man and steel, the soldier and his sword; No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array, But winter lingering chills the lap of May; No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast, But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest. Yet still, even here, content can spread a charm, He sees his little lot the lot of all; Such are the charms to barren states assigned: Their wants but few, their wishes all confined; Yet let them only share the praises due,― If few their wants, their pleasures are but few: For every want that stimulates the breast Becomes a source of pleasure when redressed. Hence from such lands each pleasing science flies, That first excites desire and then supplies; Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures cloy, To fill the languid pause with finer joy! Unknown those powers that raise the soul to flame, Catch every nerve, and vibrate through the frame. Their level life is but a smouldering fire, Nor quenched by want, nor fanned by strong desire; Unfit for raptures, or if raptures cheer But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow,Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low; For, as refinement stops, from sire to son Unaltered, unimproved the manners run; |