force divine,

Deep felt, in these appear! a simple train, Yet so delightful mixed, with such kind art,

Such beauty and beneficence combined; Shade, unperceived, so softening into shade;

And all so forming an harmonious whole; That, as they still succeed, they ravish still.

But wandering oft, with brute unconscious gaze,

Man marks not thee, marks not the mighty hand,

That, ever busy, wheels the silent spheres ;

Works in the secret deep; shoots, steaming, thence

The fair profusion that o'erspreads the spring;

Flings from the sun direct the flaming day; Feeds every

creature; hurls the tempests

forth; And, as on earth this grateful change revolves,

With transport touches all the springs of life.

Nature, attend! join every living soul, Beneath the spacious temple of the sky, In adoration join; and, ardent, raise One general song! To him, ye vocal gales,

Breathe soft, whose spirit in your freshness breathes:

O, talk of him in solitary glooms; Where, o'er the rock, the scarcely waving pine

Fills the brown shade with a religious awe!

And ye, whose bolder note is heard afar, Who shake the astonished world, lift high to heaven

The impetuous song, and say from whom you rage.

His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling rills;

And let me catch it as I muse along. Ye headlong torrents, rapid and profound;

Ye softer floods, that lead the humid

maze

Along the vale; and thou, majestic main, A secret world of wonders in thyself, Sound his stupendous praise, whose greater voice

fall.

And, as each mingling flame increases each,

In one united ardor rise to heaven.
Or if you rather choose the rural shade,
And find a fane in every sacred grove,
There let the shepherd's flute, the vir-
gin's lay,

The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre,

Still sing the God of seasons, as they roll.

For me, when I forget the darling theme,

Whether the blossom blows, the summer ray

Russets the plain, inspiring autumn gleams,

Or winter rises in the blackening east, Be my tongue mute, my fancy paint no

more,

JOHN DYER.

[1700-1758.]

GRONGAR HILL.

SILENT nymph, with curious eye!
Who, the purple eve, dost lie
On the mountain's lonely van,
Beyond the noise of busy man,
Painting fair the form of things,
While the yellow linnet sings,
Or the tuneful nightingale
Charms the forest with her tale,-
Come, with all thy various hues,
Come and aid thy sister Muse.
Now, while Phoebus, riding high,
Gives lustre to the land and sky,
Grongar Hill invites my song,
Draw the landscape bright and strong;
Grongar, in whose mossy cells
Sweetly musing Quiet dwells;
Grongar, in whose silent shade,
For the modest Muses made,
So oft I have, the evening still,
At the fountain of a rill,
Sat upon a flowery bed,
With my hand beneath my head,
While strayed my eyes o'er Towy's
flood,

Over mead and over wood,
From house to house, from hill to hill,
Till Contemplation had her fill.

About his checkered sides I wind, And leave his brooks and meads behind,

.

And groves and grottos where I lay,
And vistas shooting beams of day.
Wide and wider spreads the vale,
As circles on a smooth canal.
The mountains round, unhappy fate!
Sooner or later, of all height,
Withdraw their summits from the skies,
And lessen as the others rise.
Still the prospect wider spreads,
Adds a thousand woods and meads;
Still it widens, widens still,
And sinks the newly risen hill.

Now I gain the mountain's brow;
What a landscape lies below!
No clouds, no vapors intervene;
But the gay, the open scene
Does the face of Nature show,
In all the hues of heaven's bow!
And, swelling to embrace the light,
Spreads around beneath the sight.
Old castles on the cliffs arise,

Proudly towering in the skies;
Rushing from the woods, the spires
Seem from hence ascending fires;
Half his beams Apollo sheds
On the yellow mountain-heads,
Gilds the fleeces of the flocks,
And glitters on the broken rocks.
Below me trees unnumbered rise,
Beautiful in various dyes:
The gloomy pine, the poplar blue,
The yellow beech, the sable yew,
The slender fir that taper grows,
The sturdy oak with broad-spread
boughs;

And beyond the purple grove,
Haunt of Phyllis, queen of love!
Gaudy as the opening dawn,
Lies a long and level lawn,

On which a dark hill, steep and high,
Holds and charms the wandering eye.
Deep are his feet in Towy's flood:
His sides are clothed with waving
wood,

And ancient towers crown his brow,
That cast an awful look below;
Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps,
And with her arms from falling keeps ;
So both a safety from the wind
In mutual dependence find.
"T is now the raven's bleak abode;
'Tis now the apartment of the toad;
And there the fox securely feeds;
And there the poisonous adder breeds,
Concealed in ruins, moss, and weeds;
While, ever and anon, there fall
Huge heaps of hoary mouldered wall:
Yet Timé has seen,
that lifts the low

And level lays the lofty brow, —
Has seen this broken pile complete,
Big with the vanity of state.
But transient is the smile of Fate!
A little rule, a little sway,
A sunbeam in a winter's day,
Is all the proud and mighty have
Between the cradle and the grave.

And see the rivers how they run, Through woods and meads, in shade and

55

When will the landscape tire the view!
The fountain's fall, the river's flow;
The woody valleys, warm and low;
The windy summit, wild and high,
Roughly rushing on the sky;
The pleasant seat, the ruined tower,
The naked rock, the shady bower;
The town and village, dome and farm, -
Each gives each a double charm,
As pearls upon an Ethiop's arm.

See on the mountain's southern side,
Where the prospect opens wide,
Where the evening gilds the tide;
How close and small the hedges lie!
What streaks of meadow cross the
eye!

A step methinks may pass the stream,
So little distant dangers seem;
So we mistake the Future's face,
Eyed through Hope's deluding glass;
As yon summits, soft and fair,
Clad in colors of the air,
Which to those who journey near,
Barren, brown, and rough appear;
Still we tread the same coarse way,
The present's still a cloudy day.

O, may I with myself agree,
And never covet what I see;
Content me with an humble shade,
My passions tamed, my wishes laid;
For while our wishes wildly roll,
We banish quiet from the soul:
'Tis thus the busy beat the air,
And misers gather wealth and care.

Now, even now, my joys run high,
As on the mountain-turf I lie;
While the wanton Zephyr sings,
And in the vale perfumes his wings;
While the waters murmur deep;
While the shepherd charms his sheep;
While the birds unbounded fly,
And with music fill the sky,
Now, even now, my joys run high.

Be full, ye courts; be great who
will;

Search for Peace with all your skill:
Open wide the lofty door,
Seek her on the marble floor.
In vain you search; she is not there!
In vain you search the domes of Care!
Grass and flowers Quiet treads,
On the meads and mountain-heads,
Along with Pleasure, close allied,
Ever by each other's side;
And often, by the murmuring rill,
Hears the thrush, while all is still
Within the groves of Grongar Hill.

'Tis he, the comely swain I slew Upon the duleful Braes of Yarrow.

Wash, O, wash his wounds, his wounds in tears,

His wounds in tears with dule and

sorrow,

And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds, And lay him on the Braes of Yarrow.

Then build, then build, ye sisters sisters sad,

Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow, And weep around in waeful wise,

His helpless fate on the Braes of Yarrow.

Curse ye, curse ye his useless useless shield, My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow, The fatal spear that pierced his breast, His comely breast, on the Braes of Yarrow.

Did I not warn thee not to lo'e,

And warn from fight, but to my sorrow; O'er rashly bauld a stronger arm

Thou met'st, and fell on the Braes of
Yarrow.

Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the grass,

Yellow on Yarrow bank the gowan, Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,

Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan.

Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet flows Tweed,

As green its grass, its gowan as yellow, As sweet smells on its braes the birk,

The apple frae the rock as mellow.

Fair was thy love, fair fair indeed thy love,

In flowery bands thou him didst fetter; Though he was fair and weil beloved again, Than me he never lo'ed thee better.

Busk ye, then busk, my bonny bonny bride, Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow ! Busk ye, and lo'e me on the banks of Tweed,

And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow.

"How can I busk a bonny bonny bride,

How can I busk a winsome marrow, How lo'e him on the banks of Tweed,

That slew my love on the Braes of Yarrow?

571

And crown my careful head with willow.

"Pale though thou art, yet best, yet best beloved,

O, could my warmth to life restore thee! Ye'd lie all night between my breasts, No youth lay ever there before thee.

"Pale pale, indeed, O lovely lovely youth, Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter, And lie all night between my breasts, No youth shall ever lie there after."

Return, return, O mournful mournful bride,

Return and dry thy useless sorrow: Thy lover heeds naught of thy sighs, He lies a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow.

ISAAC WATTS.

[1674-1748.]

THE HEAVENLY LAND. THERE is a land of pure delight,

Where saints immortal reign; Infinite day excludes the night, And pleasures banish pain. There everlasting spring abides,

And never-withering flowers;
Death, like a narrow sea, divides
This heavenly land from ours.
Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood
Stand dressed in living green;
So to the Jews old Canaan stood,
While Jordan rolled between.
But timorous mortals start and shrink
To cross this narrow sea,
And linger shivering on the brink,
And fear to launch away.

O, could we make our doubts remove,
These gloomy doubts that rise,
And see the Canaan that we love
With unbeclouded eyes, -

Could we but climb where Moses stood,
And view the landscape o'er,
Not Jordan's stream, nor death's cold
flood,

Should fright us from the shore.