Hark! from the village, distant far
Re-echoed, varied discords jar;
The busy hum, the social din,
That welcome gentle twilight in,
Come swelling, from the vale below,
Up the lone mountain’s craggy side;
Sweeping “in solemn tones and slow,”
Round the broad summit’s crested pride:
Gently o’er the water dashing,
Where the silver waves are flashing
Beneath the rays of yellow light,
That mark the near approach of night.
How lovely is the placid hour!
How soft and tranquil is its power,
Ere the sun’s last faint tints have faded,
While yet the tender radiance lingers,
In heaven’s softest colours shaded,
By gentle twilight’s fairy fingers.—
The swain from healthful labour turns
His lingering steps, as, dimly burns,
Upon yon western summit’s height,
Sol’s latest beams of golden light,
To the dear cot where labors cease,
And kind endearments whisper peace.
Around their smiling father’s knee,
In unassum’d and heartfelt glee,
The troop of little urchins press,
And clamour for his fond caress.
Nor slighted is the dame’s embrace,
Proud of her simple, virtuous race.—
XV
Soft smiling, in the burnish’d west,
Where Phoebus’ orb has sunk to rest,
Shines heavenly Venus’s goddess light,
(Propitious beam to lovers sight:)
Thick starry throngs pervade the skies,
And, on the gentle water lies
The semblance of the lovely heaven,
Drest in the hues of comeing even’;
And, as the Zephyr stirs the breast
On which the starry myriads rest,
The mighty band, in tumult tost,
Now glimmer, now they fade away;
In seeming, wild confusion lost,
Like glitt’ring spears in mortal fray.
Then, as the semblance struck my eye.
Came the long tale across my mind,
Of conq’ring hosts, and victory,
That proud ambition’s votries blind
To evils reason can descry.
XVI
Or upland, from the ocean’s surge,
I turn’d my eye, the landscape’s verge
(As twilight’s lovely hour come on,
And faint along the horizon,
Bland nature’s soft, and tender dye,
Seemed mingling with the hues of sky,)
“Was drest in softest livery.
When all around was sweet and still,
Its distant note the Whip-poor-will
Sigh’d on the zephyr’s airy sail,
That softly swept along the vale,
And o’er the stream, in magic swell,
The echo fondly loved to dwell;
As if, beneath its chrystal wave,
It sought a calm and tranquil grave;
’Till wak’d, the softly solemn strain
Renew’d its music wild again,
And echo, still, the note repeated,
And vale, and hill, its numbers greeted.
XVII
Far off, upon the village green,
The children at their sports are seen;
Beneath fair Cynthia’s argent ray,
In mazy squadrons mix’d, they play.
Now, to the ranks of mimic war
They rush, beneath the martial star,
Its red rays beaming from afar;
And brandish high the edgeless brand,
And poise the musket at command,
While every bosom, frought with ire,
Feels all a hero’s glowing fire:—
Or o’er the plain, in panting chace,
The football-sports provoke the race;
And hark! the wild and clam’rous shout,
That hails the victors of the rout,
The boyish note, of rapt’rous glee,
The joy of bloodless victory.—
XVIII
How happy! but they all must know
The poignant sting of human woe.
Short is the morning of delight,
And all its tints are sweetly bright;
No cloud tempestuous mars its peace,
Till sad conviction bids it cease,
And reason’s voice, in thund’ring sound,
Bids view each real object round;
The sorrows all are doom’d to brave—
Save those, who, where the cypress wave,
Have hap’ly found an early grave;
Oh, they in sweet unconsciousness,
Nought know of sorrow, woe, or care!
The sod, in infant thoughtlessness,
Cradles their forms in silence there;
And, in the fitful gusts of air,
The drooping willow,
Their turf with bending foilage sweeps;
Each branch, in dewy fragrance, weeps
O’er the cold grave, where childhood sleeps
On balmy pillow.
Blest lot, to reach the happy goal
When unpolluted was the soul;
Ere vice had dim’d the heavenly ray,
Or mix’d that spark with baser clay:
The goal of our short human course
No skill can pass; no giant force
Can change its being or its date;
All tread the downward path of fate!
O who would o’er their cold graves sigh!
Or shed one parting tear of sorrow,
They died in happy infancy,
They live in day that knows no morrow.