And hark, how merrily, from distant tow'r,
Ring round the village bells! now on the gale
They rise with gradual swell, distinct and loud;
Anon they die upon the pensive ear,
Melting in faintest music. They bespeak
A day of jubilee, and oft they bear
Commixt along the unfrequented shore,
The sound of village dance and tabor loud,
Startling the musing ear of Solitude.

Such is the jocund wake of Whitsuntide,
When happy Superstition, gabbling eld!
Holds her unhurtful gambols. All the day
The rustic revellers ply the mazy dance
On the smooth-shaven green, and then at eve
Commence the harmless rites and auguries;
And many a tale of ancient days goes round.
They tell of wizard seer, whose potent spells
Could hold in dreadful thrall the labouring moon,
Or draw the fix'd stars from their eminence,
And still the midnight tempest.
Tell of uncharnell'd spectres, seen to glide
Along the lone wood's unfrequented path,
Startling the 'nighted traveller; while the sound
Of undistinguish'd murmurs, heard to come
From the dark centre of the deep'ning glen,-
Struck on his frozen ear.

Then anon

Oh, Ignorance,

Thou art fall'n man's best friend! With thee he speeds

Burn down his scorching cheek; or the keen steel Of wounded feeling penetrate his breast.

E'en now, as leaning on this fragrant bank,

I taste of all the keener happiness

Which sense refin'd affords

Ev'n now my heart

Would fain induce me to forsake the world,

Throw of these garments, and in shepherd's weeds,
With a small flock, and short suspended reed,
To sojourn in the woodland. - Then my thought
Draws such gay pictures of ideal bliss,

That I could almost err in reason's spite,
And trespass on my judgment.

Such is life:

The distant prospect always seems more fair,
And when attain'd, another still succeeds,

Far fairer than before, yet compass'd round

With the same dangers, and the same dismay.
And we poor pilgrims in this dreary maze,
Still discontented, chase the fairy form
Of unsubstantial Happiness, to find,
When life itself is sinking in the strife,
'Tis but an airy bubble and a cheat.

ODE,

WRITTEN ON WHIT MONDAY.

HARK, how the merry bells ring jocund round, And now they die upon the veering breeze; Anon they thunder loud

Full on the musing ear.

Wafted in varying cadence, by the shore
Of the still twinkling river, they bespeak
A day of jubilee,

An ancient holiday.

And lo! the rural revels are begun,

And gaily echoing to the laughing sky,
On the smooth-shaven green,

Resounds the voice of Mirth.

Alas! regardless of the tongue of Fate,

That tells them 'tis but as an hour since they,

Who now are in their graves,

Kept up the Whitsun dance.

And that another hour, and they must fall
Like those who went before, and sleep as still
Beneath the silent sod,

A cold and cheerless sleep.

Yet why should thoughts like these intrude to scare
The vagrant Happiness, when she will deign
To smile upon us here,

A transient visitor?

Mortals! be gladsome while ye have the power,
And laugh and seize the glittering lapse of joy ;
In time the bell will toll

That warns ye to your graves.

I to the woodland solitude will bend

My lonesome way- where Mirth's obstreperous shout Shall not intrude to break

The meditative hour.

There will I ponder on the state of man,
Joyless and sad of heart, and consecrate
This day of jubilee

To sad reflection's shrine;

And I will cast my fond eye far beyond

This world of care, to where the steeple loud
Shall rock above the sod,

Where I shall sleep in peace.

CANZONET.

1.

MAIDEN! wrap thy mantle round thee,
Cold the rain beats on thy breast:

Why should Horror's voice astound thee?
Death can bid the wretched rest!

All under the tree

Thy bed may be,

And thou mayst slumber peacefully.

2.

Maiden! once gay pleasure knew thee;
Now thy cheeks are pale and deep :

Love has been a felon to thee

Yet, poor maiden, do not weep:

There's rest for thee

All under the tree,

Where thou wilt sleep most peacefully.

COMMENCEMENT OF A POEM

ON DESPAIR.

SOME to Aonian lyres of silver sound
With winning elegance attune their song,
Form'd to sink lightly on the soothed sense,
And charm the soul with softest harmony: