Page:Blackwood's Magazine volume 001.djvu/75
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1817.]
Original Poetry.
71
Alas! the fearless linnet sings,And the bright insect folds its wingsUpon the dewy flower that springsAbove these children's clay.And if to yon deserted wellSome solitary maid,As she was wont at eve, should go—There silent as her shadeShe stands a while—then sad and slowWalks home, afraid to thinkOf many a loudly-laughing ringThat dipped their pitchers in that spring,And lingered round its brink.
On—on—through woful imagesMy spirit holds her way!Death in each drooping flower she sees:And oft the momentary breezeIs singing of decay.—So high upon the slender boughWhy hangs the crow her nest?All undisturbed her young have lainThis spring-time in their nest;Nor as they flew on tender wingE'er fear'd the cross-bow or the sling.Tame as the purpling turtle-dove,That walks serene in human love,The magpie hops from door to door;And the hare, not fearing to be seen,Doth gambol on the village greenAs on the lonely moor.The few sheep wandering by the brookHave all a dim neglected look,Oft bleating in their dumb distressOn her their sweet dead shepherdess.The horses pasturing through the rangeOf gateless fields, all common now,Free from the yoke enjoy the change,To them a long long Sabbath-sleep!Then gathering in one thunderous band,Across the wild they sweep,Tossing the long hair from their eyes—Till far the living whirlwind fliesAs o'er the desart sand.From human let their course is free—No lonely angler down the leaInvites the zephyr's breath—And the beggar far away doth roam,Preferring in his hovel-homeHis penury to death.On that green hedge a scattered rowNow weather-stained—once white as snow—Of garments that have long been spread,And now belong unto the dead,Shroud-like proclaim to every eye,"This is no place for Charity!"
O blest are ye! unthinking creatures!Rejoicing in your lowly naturesYe dance round human tombs!Where gladlier sings the mountain larkThan o'er the church-yard dim and darkOr where, than on the churchyard wall,From the wild rose-tree brighter fallHer transitory blooms!What is it to that lovely skyIf all her worshippers should die!As happily her splendours playOn the grave where human forms decay,As o'er the dewy turf of Morn,Where the virgin, like a woodland FaOn wings of joy was borne.—Even now a soft and silvery hazeHill—Village—Tree—is steepingIn the loveliness of happier days,Ere rose the voice of weeping!When incense-fires from every hearthTo heaven stole beautiful from earth.
Sweet Spire! that crown'st the house of God!To thee my spirit turns,While through a cloud the softened lightOn thy yellow dial burns.Ah, me! my bosom inly bleedsTo see the deep-worn path that leadsUnto that open gate!In silent blackness it doth tellHow oft thy little sullen bellHath o'er the village toll'd its knell,In beauty desolate.Oft, wandering by myself at night,Such spire hath risen in softened lightBefore my gladdened eyes,—And as I looked around to seeThe village sleeping quietlyBeneath the quiet skies,—Methought that mid her stars so bright,The moon in placid mirth,Was not in heaven a holier sightThan God's house on the earth.Sweet image! transient in my soul!That very bell hath ceased to tollWhen the grave receives its dead—And the last time it slowly swung,'Twas by a dying stripling rungO'er the sexton's hoary head!All silent now from cot or hallComes forth the sable funeral!The Pastor is not there!For yon sweet Manse now empty stands,Nor in its walls will holier handsBe e'er held up in prayer.*****N.
ITALY.
Earth's loveliest land I behold in my dreams,All gay in the summer, and drest in sun-beams—In the radiance which breaks on the purified senseOf the thin-bodied ghosts that are flitting from hence.The blue distant Alps, and the blue distant main,Bound the far varied harvests of Lombardy's plain:The rivers are winding in blue gleaming linesRound the Ruins of Old—round the Hill of the Vines—Round the grove of the orange—the green myrtle bower—By Castle and Convent—by Town and by Tower.