« ForrigeFortsett »
The air salubrious of her lofty hills,
The cheering fragrance of her dewy vales*
And music of her woods-^no works of man
May rival these; these all bespeak a power
Peculiar, and exclusively her own.
Beneath the open sky she spreads the feast;
"Tis free to alU—'tis every duy renewed;
Who scorns it starves deservedly at home.
He does not scorn it, who, imprisoned long
In some unwholesome dungeon, and a prey
To sallow sickness, which the vapours, dank
And clammy, of his dark abode have bred,
Escapes at last to liberty and light:
His cheek recovers soon its healthful hue;
His eye relumines its extinguished fires;
He walks, he leaps* he runs—-is winged with joy >
And riots in the sweets of every breeze.
He does not scorn it, who has long endured
A fever's agonies, and fed on drugs.
Nor yet the mariner, his blood inflamed
With acrid salts; his very heart athirst
To gaze at nature in her green array,
Upon the ship's tall side he stands, possessed
With visions prompted by intense desire:
Fair fields appear below, such as he left
Far distant, such as he would die to find—
He seeks them headlong, and is seen no more.
The spleen is seldom felt where Flora reigns; The lowering eye, the petulence, the frown, And sullen sadness, that overshade, distort, And mar, the face of beauty, when no cause For such immeasurable woe appears, These Flora banishes, and gives the fair Sweet smiles, and bloom less transient than her own. It is the constant revolution, stale And tasteless, of the same repeated joys, That palls and satiates, and makes languid life A pedlar's pack, that bows the bearer down. Health suffers, and the spirits ebb; the heart Recoils from its own choice—at the full feast Is famished—finds no music in the song, No smartness in the jest; and wonders why. Yet thousands still desire to journey on, Though halt, and weary of the path they tread. The paralytic, who can hold her cards, But cannot play them, borrows a friend's hand To deal and shuffle, to divide and sort Her mingled suits and sequences; and sits, Spectatress both and spectacle, a sad And silent cypher, while her proxy plays. Others are dragged into the crowded room Between supporters; and, once seated, sit, Through downright inability to rise, Till the stont bearers lift the corpse again.
These speak a loud memento. Yet even those
Themselves love life, and cling to it, as he
That overhangs a torrent to a twig.
They love it, and yet loath it; fear to die,
Yet scorn the purposes for which they live.
Then wherefore not renounce them? No—the dread.
The slavish dread of solitude, that breeds
Reflection and remorse, the fear of shame,
And their inveterate habits, all forbid.
Whom call we gay? That honour has been long
The earth was made so various, that the mind
Prospects, however lovely, may be seen
, VOL. II. C
iv better clad, in cloak of satin trimmed
Kh lace, and hat with splendid ribband bound.
serving maid was she, and fell in love
ith one who left her, went to sea, and died.
r fancy followed him through foaming waves
distant shores; and she would sit and weep
what a sailor suffers; fancy too
lusive most where warmest wishes are,
3uld oft anticipate his glad return,
d dream of transports she was not to know.
j heard the doleful tidings of his death—
d never smiled again I and now she roams
e dreary waste; there spends the livelong day,
d there, unless when charity forbids,
e livelong night. A tattered apron hides,
irn as a cloak, and hardly hides, a gown
ire tattered still; and both but ill conceal
wsom heaved with never ceasing sighs.
: begs an idle pin of all she meets,
d hoards them in her sleeve; but needful food,
ough pressed with hunger oft, or comelier clothe
ough pinched with cold, asks never.—Kate
see a column of slow rising smoke [craza
ertop the lofty wood, that skirts the wild,