176 LINES WRITTEN IN A HIGHLAND GLEN. The violet by the mossed gray stone But thou, wild bramble! back dost bring, The fresh, green days of life's fair spring, Scorned bramble of the brake! once more To gad with thee the woodlands o'er, LINES WRITTEN IN A HIGHLAND GLEN. To whom belongs this valley fair, The heavens appear to love this vale; By that blue arch, this beauteous earth, O, that this lovely vale were mine! THE EVENING RAINBOW. There would unto my soul be given, And thoughts would come of mystic mood, Eternity of time! And did I ask to whom belonged She spreads her glories o'er the earth, Yea, long as Nature's humblest child Earth's fairest scenes are all his own; THE EVENING RAINBOW.- Southey. MILD arch of promise! on the evening sky 177 178 THE SKYLARK. Such is the smile that piety bestows On the good man's pale cheek, when he in peace, Departing gently from a world of woes, Anticipates the realm where sorrows cease. BOOK OF THE WORLD.- Drummond. Of this fair volume which we "World" do name, We clear might read the art and wisdom rare, - His providence, extending everywhere, His justice, which proud rebels doth not spare,- Well pleased with colored vellum, leaves of gold, THE SKYLARK. — Hogg. BIRD of the wilderness, Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea! Blest is thy dwelling-place, O, to abide in the desert with thee! TO DAFFODILS. Wild is thy lay, and loud, Where art thou journeying? Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. O'er moor and mountain green, O'er the red streamer that heralds the day, Over the rainbow's rim, Musical cherub, soar, singing away! Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be Blest is thy dwelling-place, O, to abide in the desert with thee! TO DAFFODILS.- Herrick.* FAIR Daffodils, we weep to see Until the hast'ning day But to the even-song; N *Born in 1591. 179 We have short time to stay, as you; As quick a growth to meet decay, As your hours do; and dry Like to the summer's rain; Or as the pearls of morning dew, THE HERMIT. - Beattie. Ar the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, "Ah! why thus abandoned to darkness and woe, Why thus, lonely Philomel, flows thy sad strain? For spring shall return, and a lover bestow, And thy bosom no trace of misfortune retain. Yet, if pity inspire thee, O, cease not thy lay! Mourn, sweetest companion! man calls thee to mourn; O, soothe him, whose pleasures, like thine, pass away, Full quickly they pass, but they never return! |