Thee kindred aspirations moved III. How fondly will the woods embrace IV. Well may the villagers rejoice! Nor heat, nor cold, nor weary ways, That would unite in prayer and praise; More duly shall wild wandering Youth Shall tottering Age, bent earthward, hear And all shall welcome the new ray Imparted to their sabbath-day. V. Nor deem the Poet's hope misplaced, A shade upon the future cast, 30 35 40 Can hear the monitory clock Sound o'er the lake with gentle shock VI. Lives there a man whose sole delights Hardening a heart that loathes or slights 45. 50 Who never caught a noon-tide dream 55 From murmur of a running stream; Could strip, for aught the prospect yields To him, their verdure from the fields; And take the radiance from the clouds In which the sun his setting shrouds. VII. A soul so pitiably forlorn, If such do on this earth abide, VIII. Alas! that such perverted zeal Should spread on Britain's favoured ground! 60 65 70 That public order, private weal, Should e'er have felt or feared a wound Which from their own blind hearts they draw; God, whom their passions dare defy, And boast that they alone are free 75 80 IX. But turn we from these "bold bad" men; 85 Down Rydal-cove from Fairfield's side, Who means to charity no wrong; Whose offering gladly would accord With this day's work, in thought and word. 90 X. Heaven prosper it! may peace, and love, To kneel together, and adore their God! 95 100 ΤΟ O DEARER far than light and life are dear, Trembling, through my unworthiness, with fear Misgivings, hard to vanquish or control, Mix with the day, and cross the hour of rest; ee With sober certainties" of love is blest. That sigh of thine, not meant for human ear, 5 ΙΟ Peace settles where the intellect is meek, 15 1824. WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF MACPHERSON'S OSSIAN. OFT have I caught, upon a fitful breeze, With ear not coveting the whole, A part so charmed the pensive soul. 5 Nor felt a wish that heaven would show The image of its perfect bow. What need, then, of these finished Strains? An abbey in its lone recess, A temple of the wilderness, Wrecks though they be, announce with feeling Spirit of Ossian! if imbound In language thou may'st yet be found, Or floating on the tongues of men, In concert with memorial claim Of old grey stone, and high-born name Where moans the blast, or beats the wave, Let Truth, stern arbitress of all, Interpret that Original, And for presumptuous wrongs atone; Authentic words be given, or none ! Time is not blind; yet He, who spares Pyramid pointing to the stars, Hath preyed with ruthless appetite On all that marked the primal flight Of the poetic ecstasy 35 |