Dark green was that spot, 'mid the brown mountain heather,
Where the pilgrim of nature lay stretch'd in decay,
Like the corpse of an outcast, abandon'd to weather,
Till the mountain-winds wasted the tenantless clay;
Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended,
For faithful in death, his mute favourite attended,
The much-lov'd remains of his master defended,
And chased the hill-fox and the raven away.
How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber?
When the wind wav'd his garment, how oft didst thou start?
How many long days and long weeks didst thou number?
Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart?
And oh! was it meet, that,-no requiem read o'er him,
No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him,
And thou, little guardian, alone stretch'd before him,—
Unhonour'd, the pilgrim from life should depart?
When a prince to the fate of the peasant has yielded,
The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall;
With escutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded,
And pages stand mute by the canopied pall;
Through the courts at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming,
In the proudly-arched chapel, the banners are beaming,
Far adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming,
Lamenting a chief of the people should fall.
But meeter for thee, gentle lover of Nature,
To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb,
When, wildered, he drops from some cliff, huge in stature,
And draws his last sob by the side of his dam :
And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying,
Thy obsequies sung by the grey plover flying,
With but one faithful friend to witness thy dying,
In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedecam.
ANIMALS HAPPY, A DELIGHTFUL SIGHT.
HERE unmolested, through whatever sign
The sun proceeds, I wander. Neither mist
Nor freezing sky nor sultry, checking me,
Nor stranger, intermeddling with my joy.
Ev'n in the spring and playtime of the year,
That calls th' unwonted villager abroad
With all her little ones, a sportive train,
To gather kingcups in the yellow mead,
And prink their hair with daisies, or to pick
A cheap but wholesome salad from the brook,
These shades are all my own. The timorous hare,
Grown so familiar with her frequent guest,
Scarce shuns me; and the stock-dove unalarm'd
Sits cooing in the pine-tree, nor suspends
His long-love ditty for my near approach.
Drawn from his refuge in some lonely elm,
That age or injury has hollowed deep,
Where on his bed of wool and matted leaves,
He has outslept the winter, ventures forth
To frisk a while, and bask in the warm sun,
The squirrel, flippant, pert, and full of play;
He sees me, and at once, swift as a bird,
Ascends the neighbouring beech; where whisks his brush
And perks his ears, and stamps and cries aloud
With all the prettiness of feign'd alarm,
And anger insignificantly fierce.
The heart is hard in nature, and unfit
For human fellowship, as being void
Of sympathy and therefore dead alike
To love and friendship both, that is not pleas'd
With sight of animals enjoying life,
Nor feels their happiness augment his own.
The bounding fawn that darts across the glade
When none pursues, through mere delight of heart,
And spirits buoyant with excess of glee;
The horse as wanton, and almost as fleet,
That skims the spacious meadow at full speed,
Then stops and snorts, and throwing high his heels,
Starts to the voluntary race again;
The very kine, that gambol at high noon,
The total herd receiving first from one,
That leads the dance, a summons to be gay,
Though wild their strange vagaries, and uncouth
Their efforts, yet resolv'd with one consent
To give such act and utterance, as they may,
To ecstacy too big to be suppress'd-
These, and a thousand images of bliss,
With which kind Nature graces every scene,
Where cruel man defeats not her design,
Impart to the benevolent, who wish
All that are capable of pleasure pleased;
A far superior happiness to theirs,
The comfort of a reasonable joy.
SWEET Labourer! 'mid the Summer's golden hour,
Full oft I trace thy little busy flight;
With pleasure see thee perch from flower to flower,
On violets, woodbines, roses, lilies light!
Yet what to thee, is Summer's golden smile?
And what to thee, the flower-enamelled plain?
Will gratitude reward thy daily toil?
No, no, thou workest for reward in vain!
Not long the hive of treasure will be thine,
Rapacity will force thy little door;
Those treasures with thy life must thou resign,
A breathless victim on thy fragrant store!
THOUGH numberless these insect tribes of air,
Though numberless each tribe and species fair,
Who wing the noon, and brighten in the blaze,
Innumerous as the sands which bind the seas;
These have their organs, arts, and arms, and tools,
And functions exercised by various rules ;
The saw, axe, auger, trowel, piercer, drill ;
The neat alembic, and nectareous still :
Their peaceful hours the loom and distaff know ;
But war, the force and fury of the foe,
the falchion, and the martial mail,
And artful stratagem, where strength may fail:
Each tribe peculiar occupations claim,
Peculiar beauties deck each varying frame;
Attire and food peculiar are assign'd
And means to propagate their varying kind.
Speaking of the formation of Insects, Derham, in his Physico-Theology thus instructively writes: "It is an amazing thing to reflect upon the surprising minuteness, art, and curiosity, of the joints, muscles, tendons, and nerves, necessary to perform all the motions of the legs, the wings, and every other part; and all these things concur in minute animals, even in the smallest mite and animalculæ ; and having named these animals, why should I mention only one part of their bodies, when we have in that compass a whole and complete body, as exquisitely formed, and (as far as our scrutiny can possibly reach) as neatly adorned, as the largest animals? Let us consider that they have eyes, a brain, a mouth, a stomach, entrails, and every other part of an animal body, as well as legs and feet, and that all those parts have each of them their necessary apparatus of nerves, of various muscles, and of every other part that other insects have, and that all is covered and guarded with a well-made tegument, beset with bristles, and adorned with neat imbrications, and many other fineries."
The contemplation of Nature should always be seasoned with a mixture of Devotion, the highest faculty of the human mind; by which alone contemplation is improved and dignified, and directed to its proper object.
WHEN day, declining, sheds a milder gleam,
What time the May-fly haunts the pool or stream;
When the still Owl skims round the grassy mead,
What time the timorous Hare limps forth to feed;
Then be the time to steal adown the dale,
And listen to the vagrant Cuckoo's tale;
To hear the clamorous Curlew call his mate,
Or the soft Quail his tender pain relate;
To see the Swallow sweep the darkening plain
Belated, to support her infant train;
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