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As o'er the dusky furniture I bend, Each chair awakes the feelings of a friend. The storied arras, source of fond delight, With old achievement charms the wilder'd sight; And still, with heraldry's rich hues imprest, On the dim window glows the pictur'd crest. The screen unfolds its many-colourd chart. The clock still points its moral to the heart. That faithful monitor 'twas heaven to hear, When soft it spoke a promis'd pleasure near; And has its sober hand, its simple chime, Forgot to trace the feather'd feet of Time ? That massive beam, with curious carvings wrought, Whence the cag'd linnet sooth’d my pensive
thought; Those muskets, cas'd with venerable rust; Those once-lov'd forms, still breathing thro' their
dust, Still, from the frame in mould gigantic cast, Starting to life--all whisper of the past !
As thro' the garden's desert paths I rove, What fond illusions swarm in every grove! How oft, when purple evening ting'd the west, We watch'd the emmet to her grainy nest; Welcom'd the wild-bee home on weary wing, Laden with sweets, the choicest of the spring! How oft inscrib'd, with friendship's votive rhyme, The bark now silver'd by the touch of time; Soard in the swing, half pleas'd, and half afraid, Thro' sister elms that wav'd their summer-shade; Or strew'd with crumbs yon root-inwoven seat, To lure the redbreast from his lone retreat!
Childhood's lov'd group revisits every scene! The tangled wood-walk, and the tufted green; Indulgent Memory wakes, and lo, they live! Cloth'd with far softer hues than light can give. Thou first, best friend that Heaven assigns below To sooth and sweeten all the cares we know;
Whose just suggestions still each vain alarm,
Thy tempered gleams of happiness resign'd
Down by yon hazel copse, at evening, blaz'd The Gipsy's fagot-there we stood and gaz'd; Gaz'd on her-sunburnt face with silent awe, Her tatter'd mantle, and her hood of straw; Her moving lips, her caldron brimming o'er; The drowsy brood that on her back she bore, Imps, in the barn with mousing owlet bred, From rifled roost at nightly revel fed; Whose dark eyes flash'd thro' locks of blackest shade, When in the breeze the distant watch-dog bay'd:And heroes fled the Sibyl's mutter'd call, Whose elfin prowess scald the orchard-wall. As o'er my palm the silver piece she drew, And trac'd the line of life with searching view, How throbb'd my fluttering pulse with hopes and
fears, To learn the colour of my future years!
Ah, then, what honest triumph flush'd my
breast; This truth once known-To bless is to be blest! We led the bending beggar on his way, (Bare were his feet, his tresses silver-gray) Sooth'd the keen pangs his aged spirit felt, And on his tale with mute attention dwelt. As in his scrip we dropt our little store, And sigh'd to think that little was no more, He breath'd his prayer, “ Long may such goodness
live!” 'Twas all he gave, 'twas all he had to give. Angels, when mercy's mandate wing'd their flight, Had stopt to dwell with pleasure on the sight.
But hark! thro' those old firs, with sullen swell, The church-clock strikes!
ye tender scenes, farewell! It calls me hence, beneath their shade, to trace The few fond lines that time may soon efface.
On yon gray stone, that fronts the chancel-door, Worn smooth by busy feet now seen no more, Each eve we shot the marble thro' the ring, When the heart danc'd, and life was in its spring; Alas! unconscious of the kindred earth, That faintly echo'd to the voice of mirth.
The glow-worm loves her emerald-light to shed, Where now the sexton rests his hoary head. Oft, as he turn'd the greensward with his spade, He lectur'd every youth that round him play'd; And, calmly pointing where our fathers lay, Rous'd us to rival each, the hero of his day.
Hush, ye fond flutterings, hush! while here alone I search the records of each mouldering stone. Guides of my life! Instructors of my youth! Who first unveil'd the hallow'd form of truth! Whose every word enlighten'd and endear'd; In age belov’d, in poverty rever'd; In friendship's silent register ye live, Nor ask the vain memorial art can give.
But when the sons of peace, of pleasure sleep,
Ethereal Power! who at the noon of night
ODE ON DISAPPOINTMENT.
COME, Disappointment, come!
Not in thy terrors clad ;
But I recline
Beneath thy shrine, And round my brow resign' thy peaceful cypress
Tho' Fancy flies away
Before thy hollow tread,
And tho' the tear
By chance appear, Yet she can smile, and say, “My all was not laid here."
Come, Disappointment, come!
Tho’ from hope's summit hurld,
To turn my eye
From vanity, And point to scenes of bliss that never, never die.
What is this passing scene?
A peevish April day!
Man (soon discuss'd)
his trust, And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust.
Oh, what is beauty's power?
It flourishes and dies :
Mute, mute is all,
O’er beauty's fall, Her praise resounds no more when mantled in her
The most belov'd on earth
Not long survives to-day;
Thus does the shade
In memory fade,