Immovable by generous sighs, Who drag, beneath our native skies, Pine not like them with arms across, How the fast-rooted trees can toss The humblest rivulet will take Its own wild liberties; And, every day, the imprisoned lake Then, crouch no more on suppliant knee, But scorn with scorn outbrave; A Briton, even in love, should be Look at the fate of summer flowers, Which blow at daybreak, droop ere even-song; If human Life do pass away, Perishing yet more swiftly than the flower, What space hath Virgin's beauty to disclose The deepest grove whose foliage hid Then shall love teach some virtuous Youth That dreads not age, nor suffers from the worm, 1824. XII. THE FORSAKEN. THE peace which others seek they find; When will my sentence be reversed? O weary struggle ! silent years XIII. 'T IS said, that some have died for love: His love was such a grievous pain. And there is one whom I five years have known: He dwells alone Upon Helvellyn's side: He loved, the pretty Barbara died; And thus he makes his moan: Three years had Barbara in her grave been laid When thus his moan he made : "O move, thou Cottage, from behind that oak! Or let the aged tree uprooted lie, That in some other way yon smoke The clouds pass on; they from the heavens depart: I know not what I trace; But when I cease to look, my hand is on my heart. “O, what a weight is in these shades! Ye leaves, That murmur once so dear, when will it cease ? Your sound my heart of rest bereaves, It robs my heart of peace. Thou Thrush, that singest loud—and loud and free, Into yon row of willows flit, Upon that alder sit; Or sing another song, or choose another tree. "Roll back, sweet Rill! back to thy mountain bounds, And there for ever be thy waters chained! For thou dost haunt the air with sounds That cannot be sustained; If still beneath that pine-tree's ragged bough O let it then be dumb! Beanything, sweet Rill, but that which thou art now. Thou Eglantine, so bright with sunny showers, Thou one fair shrub, O, shed thy flowers, For thus to see thee nodding in the air, To see thy arch thus stretch and bend, Disturbs me till the sight is more than I can bear." The Man who makes this feverish complaint 1800. XIV. A COMPLAINT. THERE is a change, - and I am poor; What happy moments did I count ! |