Of the sun peeping through the clouds can spy, There, to the porch, belike with jasmine bound And oh, fair France! though now the traveller sees Thy three-striped banner fluctuate on the breeze; power Beyond the cottage-hearth, the cottage-door: * An insect so called, which emits a short, melancholy cry, heard at the close of the summer evenings, on the banks of the Loire. When from October clouds a milder light Rocked the charmed thought in more delightful dreams; Chasing those pleasant dreams, the falling leaf The measured echo of the distant flail Wound in more welcome cadence down the vale; With more majestic course* the water rolled, And ripening foliage shone with richer gold. But foes are gathering, — Liberty must raise Red on the hills her beacon's far-seen blaze; Must bid the tocsin ring from tower to tower! Nearer and nearer comes the trying hour! Rejoice, brave Land, though pride's perverted ire Rouse hell's own aid, and wrap thy fields in fire : Lo, from the flames a great and glorious birth; As if a new-made heaven were hailing a new earth! - All cannot be: the promise is too fair For creatures doomed to breathe terrestrial air: Yet not for this will sober reason frown Upon that promise, nor the hope disown; * The duties upon many parts of the French rivers were so exorbitant, that the poorer people, deprived of the benefit of water carriage, were obliged to transport their goods by land. She knows that only from high aims ensue Great God! by whom the strifes of men are weighed In an impartial balance, give thine aid To the just cause; and, oh! do thou preside Brood o'er the long-parched lands with Nile-like wings! And grant that every sceptred child of clay, May in its progress see thy guiding hand, To-night, my Friend, within this humble cot Be scorn and fear and hope alike forgot In timely sleep; and when, at break of day, On the tall peaks the glistening sunbeams play, With a light heart our course we may renew, The first whose footsteps print the mountain dew. 1791, 1792. VII. LINES LEFT UPON A SEAT IN A YEW-TREE, WHICH STANDS NEAR THE LAKE OF ESTHWAITE, ON A DESOLATE PART OF THE SHORE, COMMANDING A BEAUTIFUL PROSPECT. NAY, Traveller! rest. This lonely Yew-tree stands That piled these stones and with the mossy sod No common soul. In youth by science nursed, Of lofty hopes, he to the world went forth Which genius did not hallow; 'gainst the taint against all enemies prepared, All but neglect. The world, for so it thought, Owed him no service; wherefore he at once With indignation turned himself away, And with the food of pride sustained his soul In solitude. Stranger! these gloomy boughs The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper: And, lifting up his head, he then would gaze Thou seest, and he would gaze till it became Far lovelier, that his heart could not sustain The world, and human life, appeared a scene Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep vale If Thou be one whose heart the holy forms Of young imagination have kept pure, Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know that pride, |