FROM THE FAVOURITE VILLAGE.
THE sight of Winter's superb ocean left, Me pleases much the bustle of the port; The toil and clamour of the prosp'rous bark, Safe landing on the wharf with brisk dispatch Her sable cargo from the northern mine: The neater vessel her capacious lap Filling with grain, or (stowage ponderous) The mealy sack of the contiguous mill, Welcome supply to the far-distant camp, Or wind-bound fleet of war; the slothful barge Slug-like conveying from the sloop her deals, Another from the sloven brig her load Of nauseous grocery, abundant store
A TRUCE to thought,
And come, Alcanor, Julia, Isabel,
Eliza come, and let us o'er the fields,
Across the down, or through the shelving wood, Wind our uncertain way. Let fancy lead, And be it ours to follow, and admire, As well we may, the graces infinite Of nature. Lay aside the sweet resource Which winter needs, and may at will obtain, Of authors chaste and good, and let us read The living page, whose ev'ry character Delights and gives us wisdom. Not a tree,
A plant, a leaf, a blossom, but contains A folio volume. We may read, and read, And read again, and still find something new, Something to please, and something to instruct, E'en in the noisome weed. See, ere we pass Alcanor's threshold, to the curious eye A little monitor presents her page
Of choice instruction, with her snowy bells, The lily of the vale. She nor affects The public walk, nor gaze of mid-day sun.
She to no state or dignity aspires,
But silent and alone puts on her suit,
And sheds her lasting perfume, but for which We had not known there was a thing so sweet Hid in the gloomy shade. So when the blast Her sister tribes confounds, and to the earth Stoop their high heads that vainly were expos'd, She feels it not, but flourishes anew,
Still shelter'd and secure. And so the storm, That makes the high elm couch, and rends the oak, The humble lily spares. A thousand blows, Which shake the lofty monarch on his throne, We lesser folk feel not. Keen are the pains Advancement often brings. To be secure, Be humble; to be happy, be content.
Away, we loiter. Without notice pass The sleepy crocus, and the staring daisy,
The love-sick cowslip, which her head inclines To hide a bleeding heart. And here's the meek And soft-ey'd primrose. Dandelion this,
A college youth who flashes for a day All gold; anon he doffs his gaudy suit, Touch'd by the magic hand of some grave Bishop, And all at once, by commutation strange, Becomes a Reverend Divine. How sleek! How full of grace! and in that globous wig, So nicely trimm'd, unfathomable stores, No doubt, of erudition most profound. Each hair is learned, and his awful phiz, A well-drawn title-page, gives large account Of matters strangely complicate within. Place the two doctors each by each, my friends, Which is the better? say. I blame not you, Ye powder'd periwigs, which hardly hide, With glossy suit and well-fed paunch to boot, The understanding lean and beggarly. But let me tell you, in the pompous globe, Which rounds the dandelion's head, is couch'd Divinity most rare. I never pass
But he instructs me with a still discourse, That more persuades than all the vacant noise Of pulpit rhetoric; for vacant 'tis,
And vacant must it be, by vacant heads Supported.
Leave we them to mend, and mark
The melancholy hyacinth, that weeps
All night, and never lifts an eye all day.
How gay this meadow !—like a gamesome boy
New cloth'd, his locks fresh comb'd and powder'd, he
All health and spirits. Scarce so many stars
Shine in the azure canopy of heav'n,
As king-cups here are scatter'd, interspers'd With silver daisies.
With many a sturdy stroke cuts up at last
The tough and sinewy furze. How hard he fought
To fell the glory of the barren waste!
For what more noble than the vernal furze
With golden baskets hung? Approach it not,
For ev'ry blossom has a troop of swords Drawn to defend it. 'Tis the treasury
Of Fays and Fairies. Here they nightly meet, Each with a burnish'd king-cup in his hand, And quaff the subtil ether. Here they dance Or to the village chimes, or moody song Of midnight Philomel. The ringlet see Fantastically trod. There Oberon
His gallant train leads out, the while his torch The glow-worm lights, and dusky night illumes: And there they foot it featly round and laugh. The sacred spot the superstitious ewe Regards, and bites it not in reverence. Anon the drowsy clock tolls one-the cock
His clarion sounds, the dance breaks off, the lights Are quench'd, the music hush'd, they speed away Swifter than thought, and still the break of morn Outrun, and chasing midnight as she flies Pursue her round the globe.
But mark with how peculiar grace yon wood, That clothes the weary steep, waves in the breeze Her sea of leaves: thither we turn our steps, And as we pass attend the cheerful sound Of woodland harmony, which ever fills
The merry vale between. How sweet the song Day's harbinger performs! I have not heard Such elegant divisions drawn from art. And what is he that wins our admiration? A little speck which floats upon the sun-beam. What vast perfection cannot nature crowd Into a puny point! The nightingale, Her solo anthem sung, and all who heard Content, joins in the chorus of the day. She, gentle heart, thinks it no pain to please, Nor, like the moody songsters of the world, Displays her talent, pleases, takes affront, And locks it up in envy.
I love to see the little goldfinch pluck The groundsel's feather'd seed, and twit and twit, And soon in bower of apple blossoms perch'd, Trim his gay suit, and pay us with a song. I would not hold him pris'ner for the world. The chimney-haunting swallow too, my eye
How suddenly he skims the glassy pool, How quaintly dips, and with a bullet's speed Whisks by. I love to be awake, and hear His morning song twitter'd to dawning day. But most of all it wins my admiration, To view the structure of this little work, A bird's nest. Mark it well, within, without. No tool had he that wrought, no knife to cut, No nail to fix, no bodkin to insert,
No glue to join; his little beak was all. And yet how neatly finish'd! What nice hand, With ev'ry implement and means of art, And twenty years' apprenticeship to boot, Could make me such another? Fondly then We boast of excellence, whose noblest skill Instinctive genius foils.
The bee observe; She too an artist is, and laughs at man, Who calls on rules the sightly hexagon With truth to form; a cunning architect, Who at the roof begins her golden work,
And builds without foundation. How she toils, And still from bud to bud, from flow'r to flow'r, Travels the live-long day. Ye idle drones, Who rather pilfer than your bread obtain By honest means like these, behold and learn How good, how fair, how honourable 'tis To live by industry.
How peaceable and solemn a retreat This wood affords! I love to quit the glare Of sultry day for shadows cool as these: The sober twilight of this winding way Lets fall a serious gloom upon the mind,
Which checks, but not appals. Such is the haunt Religion loves, a meek and humble maid, Whose tender eye bears not the blaze of day. And here with Meditation hand in hand
She walks, and feels her often-wounded heart Renew'd and heal'd. Speak softly. We presume.. A whisper is too loud for solitude
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