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-colour'd 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, As thro' the garden's desert paths I rove, 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, Just tells the pensive pilgrim where it lay. Down by yon hazel copse, at evening, blaz'd Whose dark eyes flash'd thro' locks of blackest shade, 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! 'Twas all he gave, 'twas all he had to give. 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, From whom that musing, melancholy mood To pass the clouds that round thy empire roll, ROGERS ODE ON DISAPPOINTMENT. COME, Disappointment, come! Not in thy terrors clad; Come in thy meekest, saddest guise; The restless and the bad. But I recline Beneath thy shrine, And round my brow resign'd thy peaceful cypress twine. Tho' Fancy flies away Before thy hollow tread, Yet Meditation, in her cell, Hears with faint eye, the ling'ring knell, That tells her hopes are dead; 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 hurl'd, To turn my eye From vanity, And point to scenes of bliss that never, never die. What is this passing scene? And then night sweeps along the plain, Man (soon discuss'd) Yields up his trust, And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust. Oh, what is beauty's power? It flourishes and dies: Will the cold earth its silence break, Beneath its surface lies? Mute, mute is all, O'er beauty's fall, Her praise resounds no more when mantled in her pall. The most belov'd on earth Not long survives to-day; So music past is obsolete, And yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet, But now 'tis gone away. Thus does the shade In memory fade, When in forsaken tomb the form belov'd is laid. |