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are there wanting frequent falls of water, with the most pure and crystal springs, sweet to drink, and wholesome to the bather. The thrush, the wood lark, and the nightingale, procreate in the thickets, and with their songs shorten the way, and soothe the ears of the traveller; who finds, in every path, arbors and grottos, and seats of repose. The Peneus still continues through the vale, idly, as it were, and with a glassy smoothness; while the depending boughs which crowd over its surface, yield an almost constant shade to those who navigate the river.” In the vale of Tempe, Ford has laid the scene of a contest between a nightingale and a lutanist; finely imitated from a passage in Strada's Prolusions.
“Passing from Italy to Greece, the tales,
This contest was begun by a nightingale, who, chancing to hear a lutanist play several airs, upon his lute, endeavored to surpass them. In this attempt, however, the unfortunate bird failed : on which—
&g Down dropt she on the lute,
MOV*D by a strange mysterious power,
Dark roll’d his cheerless eye around,
Malignant triumph fill’d his eyes,
The works of God! and man I spoil,
Hold! ruthless phantom—hold! I cried, If thou canst mock the dreams of pride, And meaner hopes devour, Virtue! beyond thy reach shall bloom, When other charms sink to the tomb, She scorns thy envious power.
Not a drum was heard nor a funeral note,
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot,
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
By the trembling moon-beams’ misty light,
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
But like a warrior taking his rest, -
Few and short were the prayers we said,
But steadfastly gaz'd on the face of the dead,
We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
Lightly they’ll speak of the spirit that’s gone,
In the grave where his comrades have laid him.
Not the half of our heavy task was done,
And we knew by the distant random gun,
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
We carv'd not a line, we raised not a stone,
THE SAILOR-BOY S DREAM.
In slumbers of midnight the sailor-boy lay, His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind: But, watchworn and weary, his eares flew away, And visions of happiness danc'd o'er his mind. He dreamt of his home, of his dear native bow’rs, And pleasures that waited on life's merry morn; While Memory stood sideways, half cover'd with flow’rs, And displayed ev'ry rose, but secreted its thorn. Then fancy her magical pinions spread wide, And bade the young dreamer in ecstacy rise, Now far, far behind him the green waters glide, And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes: The jessamine clambers, in flow'r, o'er the thatch, And the swallow sings sweet from her nest in the wall, All trembling with transport, he raises the lateh, And the voices of lov’d ones reply to his call; A Father bends o'er him with looks of delight— His cheek is impearl’d with a mother’s warm tear; And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear. The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast, Joy quickens his pulse—all his hardships seem o'er, And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest— “Kind fate thou hast blest me—I ask for no more.” Ah! whence is that flame which now bursts on his eye? Ah! what is that sound which now larums his ear? 'Tis the lightning’s red glare painting hell on the sky,+ 'Tis the crashing of thunders, the groan of the sphere. He springs from his hammock—he flies to the deck, Amazement confronts him with images dire; Wild winds and waves drive the vessel a wreck, The masts fly in splinters, the shrouds are on fire. Like mountains the billows tremendously swell: In vain the lost wretch calls on Mercy to save, Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell, And the death-angel flaps his broad wing o'er the wave.
Oh! sailor-boy, woe to thy dream of delight, In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss. Where now is the picture that Fancy touch'd bright— Thy parents' fond pressure, and love's honied kiss? o Oh, sailor-boy! sailor-boy! never again Shall home, love, or kindred thy wishes repay ! Unblest and unhonor’d, down deep in the main, Full many a score fathom thy frame shall decay: No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee, Or redeem form or fame from the merciless surge; But the white foam of waves shall thy winding sheet be, And winds in the midnight of winter thy dirge; On beds of green sea flow’rs thy limbs shall be laid, Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow; Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be made; And ev'ry part suit to thy mansion below. Days, months, years, and ages shall circle away, And still the vast waters above thee shall roll, Earth loses thy pattern for ever and aye :— Oh, sailor-boy! sailor-boy!—peace to thy soul!
The south wind is breathing most sweetly to-day,
A narrow wild path through the forest is here,