XXXVIII.

But who the melodies of morn can tell?

The wild brook babbling down the mountain side;
The lowing herd; the sheepfold's simple bell;
The pipe of early shepherd dim descried
In the lone valley; echoing far and wide
The clamorous horn along the cliffs above;
The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide;

The hum of bees, and linnet's lay of love,
And the full choir that wakes the universal grove.

XXXIX.

The cottage-curs at early pilgrim bark; Crown'd with her pail the tripping milkmaid sings; The whistling plowman stalks afield; and, hark! Down the rough slope the ponderous waggon rings; Through rustling corn the hare astonish'd springs; Slow tolls the village-clock the drowsy hour; The partridge bursts away on whirring wings; Deep mourns the turtle in sequester'd bower, And shrill lark carols clear from her aëreal tour.

XL.

O Nature, how in every charm supreme!
Whose votaries feast on raptures ever new!
O for the voice and fire of seraphim,

To sing thy glories with devotion due !
Blest be the day I 'scaped the wrangling crew,
From Pyrrho's maze, and Epicurus' sty;

And held high converse with the godlike few,
Who to th' enraptur'd heart, and ear, and eye,

Teach beauty, virtue, truth, and love, and melody.

XLI.

Hence! ye,

who snare and stupefy the mind,

Sophists, of beauty, virtue, joy, the bane!

Greedy and fell, though impotent and blind,

Who spread your filthy nets in Truth's fair fane,
And ever ply your venom'd fangs amain!

Hence to dark Error's den, whose rankling slime

First gave you form! hence! lest the Muse should deign, (Though loth on theme so mean to waste a rhyme), With vengeance to pursue your sacrilegious crime.

XLII.

But hail, ye mighty masters of the lay,

Nature's true sons, the friends of man and truth! Whose song, sublimely sweet, serenely gay, Amused my childhood, and inform'd my youth. O let your spirit still my boşom sooth,

Inspire my dreams, and my wild wanderings guide! Your voice each rugged path of life can smooth; For well I know, where-ever ye reside,

There harmony, and peace, and innocence, abide.

XLIII.

Ah me! abandon'd on the lonesome plain,
As yet poor Edwin never knew your lore,
Save when against the winter's drenching rain,
And driving snow, the cottage shut the door.
Then, as instructed by tradition hoar,
Her legends when the Beldam 'gan impart,
Or chant the old heroic ditty o'er,

Wonder and joy ran thrilling to his heart;

Much he the tale admired, but more the tuneful art.

XLIV.

Various and strange was the long-winded tale;
And halls, and knights, and feats of arms, display'd;
Or merry swains, who quaff the nut-brown ale,
And sing, enamour'd of the nut-brown maid;
The moon-light revel of the fairy glade;
Or hags, that suckle an infernal brood,

And ply in caves th' unutterable trade*,

'Midst fiends and spectres, quench the moon in blood, Yell in the midnight storm, or ride th' infuriate flood.

XLV.

But when to horror his amazement rose,

A gentler strain the Beldam would rehearse,
A tale of rural life, a tale of woes,
The orphan-babes, and guardian uncle fierce.
O cruel! will no pang of pity pierce
That heart by lust of lucre sear'd to stone!
For sure, if aught of virtue last, or verse,

To latest times shall tender souls bemoan

Those helpless orphan-babes by thy fell arts undone.

* Allusion to Shakespear.

Macbeth. How now, ye secret, black, and midnight hags,

What is't you do?

Witches. A deed without a name.

Macbeth, Act IV. Scene 1.

XLVI.

Behold, with berries smear'd, with brambles torn*,

The babes now famish'd lay them down to die,
'Midst the wild howl of darksome woods forlorn,
Folded in one another's arms they lie;

Nor friend, nor stranger, hears their dying cry:
"For from the town the man returns no more."
But thou, who Heaven's just vengeance darest defy,
This deed with fruitless tears shalt soon deplore,

When Death lays waste thy house, and flames consume thy

store.

XLVII.

A stifled smile of stern vindictive joy

Brighten'd one moment Edwin's starting tear.-
"But why should gold man's feeble mind decoy,
"And innocence thus die by doom severe ?"
O Edwin! while thy heart is yet sincere,
Th' assaults of discontent and doubt repel :
Dark even at noontide is our mortal sphere;
But let us hope,--to doubt, is to rebel,-
Let us exult in hope, that all shall yet be well.

* See the fine old ballad, called, The Children in the Wood.