Waving his hat, the shepherd, from the vale, In these secluded vales, if village fame, Confirmed by silver hairs, belief may claim; When up the hills, as now, retired the light, Strange apparitions mock'd the gazer's sight. A desperate form appears, that spurs his steed Along the midway cliffs with violent speed; Unhurt pursues his lengthen'd flight, while all Attend, at every stretch, his headlong fall. Anon, in order mounts a gorgeous show Of horsemen shadows winding to and fro; * From Thomson. See Scott's Critical Essays. At intervals imperial banners stream, And now the van reflects the solar beam, The rear thro' iron brown betrays a sullen gleam; Now, while the solemn evening shadows sail, On red slow-waving pinions, down the vale; And, fronting the bright west, yon oak entwines, Its darkening boughs and leaves, in stronger lines, How pleasant near the tranquil lake to stray Where winds the road along a secret bay; By rills that tumble down the woody steeps, And run in transport to the dimpling deeps; Along the "wild meand'ring shore" to view Obsequious Grace the winding Swan pursue: He swells his lifted chest, and backward flings His bridling neck between his towering wings; See a description of an appearance of this kind in Clark's Survey of the Lakes, accompanied by vouchers of its veracity, that may amuse the reader. In all the majesty of ease, divides And glorying, looks around, the silent tides; Proud of the varying arch and moveless form of snow. Long may ye float upon these floods serene; Yours be these holms untrodden, still, and green, Whose leafy shades fence off the blustering gale, Where breathes in peace the lily of the vale. Yon Isle, which feels not even the milk-maid's feet, Yet hears her song, "by distance made more sweet," Yon isle conceals your home, your cottage bower, Fair Swan! by all a mother's joys caress'd, Haply some wretch has eyed, and called thee bless'd; The whilst upon some sultry summer's day She dragg'd her babes along this weary way; Or taught their limbs along the burning road A few short steps to totter with their load. I see her now, denied to lay her head, By pointing to a shooting star on high: I hear, while in the forest depth, he sees And skyward lift, like one that prays, his hand, When low-hung clouds each star of summer hide, Oh! when the sleety showers her path assail, And roars between the hills the torrent gale. No more her breath can thaw their fingers cold, Their frozen arms her neck no more can fold; Weak roof a cowering form two babes to shield, And faint the fire a dying heart can yield! |