At their own vices. We have been too long All change from change of constituted power; On which our vice and wretchedness were tagg'd robe Like fancy-points and fringes, with the rob Pull'd off at pleasure. Fondly these attach Poor drudges of chastising Providence, Who borrow all their hues and qualities From our own folly and rank wickedness, Which gave them birth and nurse them. Others, mean while, Dote with a mad idolatry; and all Who will not fall before their images, And yield them worship, they are enemies Even of their country! Such have I been deem'd- But, O dear Britain! O my Mother Isle! Needs must thou prove a name most dear and holy To me, a son, a brother, and a friend, A husband, and a father! who revere All bonds of natural love, and find them all Within the limits of thy rocky shores. O native Britain! O my Mother Isle ! How shouldst thou prove aught else but dear and holy Thy clouds, thy quiet dales, thy rocks and seas, All sweet sensations, all ennobling thoughts, All lovely and all honorable things, May my fears, My filial fears, be vain! and may the vaunts Pass like the gust, that roar'd and died away In the distant tree: which heard, and only heard. In this low dell, bow'd not the delicate grass. But now the gentle dew-fall sends abroad The fruit-like perfume of the golden furze: The light has left the summit of the hill, Though still a sunny gleam lies beautiful Aslant the ivied beacon. Now farewell, Farewell, awhile, O soft and silent spot! In such a quiet and surrounded nook, This burst of prospect, here the shadowy Main, Of that huge amphitheatre of rich Thy church-tower, and, methinks, the four huge elms Clustering, which mark the mansion of my friend; And close behind them, hidden from my view, Is my own lowly cottage, where my babe And my babe's mother dwell in peace! With light And quicken'd footsteps thitherward I tend, Remembering thee, O green and silent dell! And grateful, that by nature's quietness And solitary musings, all my heart Is soften'd, and made worthy to indulge Love, and the thoughts that yearn for human kind. RECANTATION. Illustrated in the Story of the Mad Ox. I. AN Ox, long fed with musty hay, Was turn'd out on an April day, When fields are in their best array, And growing grasses sparkle gay At once with Sun and rain. II. The grass was fine, the Sun was bright: With truth I may aver it; The Ox was glad, as well he might, Thought a green meadow no bad sight, And frisked, to shew his huge delight, Much like a beast of spirit. |