BY CHEVIOT TICHBURN, ESQ.
WHEN the morning awakes in the valley, And the dew in the sun-beam is bright, Then, forth, with light foot, let him sally Whose heart-like his footstep-is light!
But he whose worn spirit is failing,
Whose heart but exists as a tomb,— Will roam when the mists are prevailing, In the cloud-woven veil of the gloom!
For the gloom to his spirit is meeter,
To the shade of his fortunes more true;And the scent of night's flowerets is sweeter, -Like the last faded hopes that he knew!
BY THE LATE JAMES THOMSON,
Author of " The Seasons."
In Murdoch's Life of Thomson, mention is made of his being frequently a visitor of Sir WILLIAM BENNET, of Grubbat. The following Lines were written when Thomson was about 14 years of age.
A POETICAL EPISTLE,
SIR WILLIAM BENNET, OF GRUBBAT, BARONET.
My trembling muse your honour does address !
That it's a bold attempt most humbly I confess.-
If you'll encourage her young fagging flight,
She'll upwards soar and mount Parnassus' height.
If little things with great may be compared,
In Rome, it so with divine Virgil fared;
The tuneful bard Augustus did inspire,
Made his great genius flash poetic fire!
But, if upon my flight your honour frowns,
The muse folds up her wings and-dying-justice
HAIL, power divine! who, by thy command,
From the dark empty space,
Made the broad sea and solid land
Smile with a heavenly grace!—
Made the high mountain and firm rock,
Where bleating cattle stray,
And the strong, stately spreading oak
That intercepts the day!
The rolling planets thou mad'st move,
By thy effective will,
And the revolving globes above
Their destined course fulfil!
His mighty power, ye thunders! praise,
As through the Heavens you roll,
And his great name, ye lightnings! blaze,
Unto the distant pole.
Ye seas! in your eternal war,
His sacred praise proclaim; While the inactive sluggish shore Re-echoes to the same!
Ye howling winds! howl out his praise,
And make the forests bow,
While through the air, the earth, and seas,
His solemn praise ye blow!
O, you high harmonious spheres!
Your powerful Mover sing,
To him your circling course that steers,
Your tuneful praises bring!
Ungrateful mortals! catch the sound,
And, in your numerous lays,
To all the listening world around
The God of nature praise!
AMONG the changing months, May stands confest
The sweetest, and in fairest colours drest!
Soft as the breeze that fans the smiling field;
Sweet as the breath that opening roses yield;
Fair as the colour lavish Nature paints
On Virgin flowers free from unodorous taints!—
To rural scenes thou tempt'st the busy crowd,
Who, in each grove, thy praises sing aloud!
THE MORNING IN THE COUNTRY.
WHEN from the opening chambers of the east,
The morning springs, in thousand luxuries drest,
The early lark his morning tribute pays,
And, in shrill note, salutes the blooming day.
Refreshed fields with pearly dew do shine,
And tender blades therewith their tops incline.
Their painted leaves the unblown flowers expand,
And with their odorous breath perfume the land.
The crowing cock and chattering hen awakes
Dull sleepy clowns, who know the morning breaks.
The herd his plaid around his shoulders throws,
Grasps his dear crook, calls on his dog, and goes
Around the fold: he walks with careful pace,
And fallen clods sets in their wonted place;
Then opes the door, unfolds his fleecy care,
And gladly sees them crop their morning fare!
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