Thou tedious herald of more tedious prayers! Say, dost thou ever summon from his rest One being wakening to religious cares, Or rouse one pious transport in the breast? Or rather, do not all reluctant creep, To linger out the time in listlessness or sleep? I love the bell that calls the poor to pray, Chiming from village church its cheerful sound, When the sun smiles on Labor'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 pause, 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 hast thou given? Thy vision-scaring sounds alone recall The prayer that trembles on a yawn to heaven. The snuffling, snaffling Fellow's nasal tone, And Romish rites retained, though Romish faith be flown. OXFORD, 1793. TO HYMEN. GOD of the torch, whose soul-illuming flame To thee I sing, if haply may the Muse Pour forth the song unblamed from these dull haunts, Where never beams thy torch To cheer the sullen scene. I pour the song to thee, though haply doomed Yet will the lark, albeit in cage inthralled, Light up the landscape round; When high in heaven she hears the carolling, Of joy to her denied. Friend to each better feeling of the soul! To join thy happy train. Lured by the splendor of thy sacred torch, The beacon-light of bliss, young Love draws near, And leads his willing slaves To wear thy flowery chain. And chastened Friendship comes, whose mildest sway Shall cheer the hour of age, when fainter burn The fading flame of Love, Parent of every bliss! the busy hand Will paint the weary laborer at that hour, To each domestic joy; Will paint the well-trimmed fire; the frugal meal, The ruddy children round And oft will Fancy rise above the lot His best and happiest state; When toil no longer irksome and constrained Of tranquil happiness. Why, Fancy! wilt thou, o'er the lovely scene Pouring thy vivid hues, why, sorceress bland! Soothe sad reality With visionary bliss? Turn thou thine eyes to where the hallowed light Of Learning shines; ah! rather lead thy son Along her mystic paths, To drink the sacred spring. Lead calmly on along the unvaried path To solitary Age's drear abode : Is it not happiness That gives the sting to Death? Well, then, is he whose unimbittered years If Life hath little joy, Death hath for him no sting. OXFORD, 1794. WRITTEN ON THE FIRST OF DECEMBER. THOUGH NOW no more the musing ear That lingers o'er the greenwood-shade, Sweet are the harmonies of Spring, And sweet the autumnal winds that shake And pleasant to the sobered soul The silence of the wintry scene, When Nature shrouds herself, entranced In deep tranquillity. Not undelightful now to roam The wild heath sparkling on the sight; Not undelightful now to pace The forest's ample rounds; |