With cautious step, the gentle swain shall glide Through the lone brake that shades thy secret nest, And village maids from eyes profane shall hide The lovely bird who sings of pity best; For still thy voice shall soft affections move, And still be dear to pity and to love.
THE RETURN OF THE NIGHTINGALE.
BORNE on the warm wing of the western gale, How tremulously low is heard to float,
Through the green budding thorns that fringe the vale,
The early Nightingale's prelusive note.
'Tis hope's instinctive power, which through the grove
Tells how benignant heav'n revives the earth; 'Tis the soft voice of young and timid love That calls these melting sounds of sweetness forth; With transport, sweet bird, I hail thy lay, And bid thee welcome to our shades again, To charm the wand'ring poet's pensive way, And sooth the solitary mourner's pain.
I woo thee, cheerless, melancholy, bird. Soothing to woe, is thy funereal cry; Here build thy lonely nest, and ever nigh My dwelling be thy sullen wailing heard.
Amidst the howlings of the northern blast, Thou lov'st to mingle thy discordant scream; Which, to the visionary mind, may seem To call the sufferers to eternal rest;
And sometimes with the spirit of the deep, Thou swell'st the roaring of the stormy wave, While, rising fearful, from their watery grave Aerial forms along the billows sweep;
Hark! loud and louder still the tempest raves, And yet I hear thee from the dizzy steep.
THE WOODCOCK.
In congregated flight,
The Woodcock comes, in milder climes to seek A temporary refuge from the jaws
Of wide devouring famine, and unskill'd
To dread the death which still his steps pursue. Nor will the instinctive feeling always serve The intended purpose; though he patient waits The favouring gale, and right before it steers His steady course above the swelling wave; Oft shifting from its point, the faithless wind Deserts him, or with adverse pow'r repels His labouring wing. Ill fares it with him then, On stormy seas midway surprised; no land Its swelling breast presents, where safe reclin'd His panting heart might find a short repose; But wide around, the hoarse resounding sea Meets his dim eye. Should some tall ship appear,
High bounding o'er the wave, urged by despair, He seeks the rocking mast, and throws him down Amid the twisted cordage. Thence repell'd,
If instant blows deprive him not of life, He flutters weakly on, and drops, at last, Helpless and flound'ring in the whitening surge.
BRIGHT stranger, welcome to my field; Here feed in safety, here thy radiance yield; To me, oh, nightly, be thy splendour giv’n. Oh! could a wish of mine the skies command, How would I gem thy leaf, with lib'ral hand, With every sweetest dew of heav'n.
Say, dost thou kindly light the fairy train, Amid their gambols on the tranquil plain, Hanging thy lamp upon the moisten'd blade? What lamp so fit, so pure as thine,
Amid the gentle elfin band to shine,
And chase the horrors of the midnight shade? Oh! may no feather'd foe disturb thy bow'r, And with barbarian beak thy life devour! Oh! may no ruthless torrent of the sky, O'erwhelming, force thee, from thy dewy seat, Nor tempests tear thee from thy green retreat,
And bid thee midst the humming myriads die!
Queen of the insect world! what leaves delight? Of such, these willing hands a bow'r shall form; To guard thee from the rushing rains of night,
And hide thee from the wild wing of the storm. Sweet child of stillness! midst the awful calm Of pausing nature, thou art pleas'd to dwell; In happy silence to enjoy thy balm,
And shed through life, a lustre round thy cell. How different man! vain child of noise and strife, Who courts the storm that vexes human life;
Pleas'd, when the passions wild the soul invade : How nobler far to bid those whirlwinds cease; To taste like thee, the luxury of peace, And shine in solitude and shade.
THOU cheerful Bee, come, freely, come; And wanton round my woodbine bow'r, Delight me with thy wandering hum, And rouse me from my musing hour. Oh! try no more yon barren fields, Come, taste the sweets my garden yields ; The treasure of each flow'ry mine, The bud, the blossom, all are thine. And careless of the noontide heat, I'll follow as thy rambles guide ;
To watch thee, pause, and chafe thy feet, And brush them o'er thy downy side;
Then in a flower-bell, nestling lie, And all thy busy ardour ply. Oh, nature kind! oh, labourer wise, Who roam'st along the summer ray; Glean'st every bliss thy life supplies, And meet'st prepar'd thy wintry day. Go, envied, go; with crowded gates The hive, thy rich return awaits. Bear home thy store in triumph gay, And shame each loit'rer on thy way.
THERE is a flower, a little flower, With silver crest and golden eye, That welcomes every changing hour, And weathers every sky.
The prouder beauties of the field, In
gay, but quick succession shine; Race after race their honours yield, They flourish and decline.
But this small flower, to Nature dear,
While moon and stars their courses run; Wreathes the whole circle of the year, Companion of the sun.
It smiles upon the lap of May,
To sultry Autumn spreads its charms, Lights pale October on his way,
And twines December's arms.
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