Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to The chest contrived a double debt to pay Where once the sign-post caught the pass- These simple blessings of the lowly train; ing eye, To me more dear, congenial to my heart, Low lies that house where nut-brown One native charm than all the gloss of art. Spontaneous joys, where Nature has its play, draughts inspired, Where gray-beard mirth and smiling toil retired, Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound, The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway; Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, And news much older than their ale went Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined; round. Imagination fondly stoops to trace The parlor splendors of that festive place: The whitewash'd wall, the nicely-sanded floor, The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door, But the long pomp, the midnight mas querade, With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, The toiling pleasure sickens into pain; And, e'en while fashion's brightest arts de- But when those charms are past-for coy, The heart, distrusting, asks if this be joy. Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen, who survey The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay! 'Tis yours to judge how wide the limits stand Between a splendid and a happy land. Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, And shouting Folly hails them from her shore; The mournful peasant leads his humble band; Hoards, e'en beyond the miser's wish, And while he sinks, without one arm to abound, night reign, As some fair female, unadorn'd and The dome where Pleasure holds her midplain, Secure to please while youth confirms her Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous reign, train; Slights every borrow'd charm that dress Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing Nor shares with art the triumph of her The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. eyes; Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy! Sure these denote one universal joy! Are these thy serious thoughts? Ah! turn thine eyes Where at each step the stranger fears to wake The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake; Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey, Where the poor, houseless, shivering fe- And savage men more murderous still male lies; She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest, than they; While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies. scene Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the Far different these from every former thorn: Now lost to all-her friends, her virtue The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green, fledThe breezy covert of the warbling grove, Near her betrayer's door she lays her That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love. head, And, pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the shower, Good Heaven! what sorrows gloom'd that parting day With heavy heart deplores that luckless That call'd them from their native walks hour When, idly first, ambitious of the town, She left her wheel, and robes of country brown. Do thine, sweet Auburn-thine the loveliest train Do thy fair tribes participate her pain? E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, At proud men's doors they ask a little bread. Ah, no! To distant climes, a dreary scene, Where half the convex world intrudes be tween, Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. Far different there, from all that charm'd before, The various terrors of that horrid shore: Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, And fiercely shed intolerable day; Those matted woods where birds forget to But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling; ance crown'd, Where the dark scorpion gathers death around; away; When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, Hung round their bowers, and fondly look'd their last, And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain For scats like these beyond the western main, And, shuddering still to face the distant deep, Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep! The good old sire the first prepared to go But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, grave. His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, woes, And bless'd the cot where every pleasure rose; And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear, And clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubly dear; Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief In all the silent manliness of grief. 1 O Luxury! thou curst by Heaven's decree, How ill exchanged are things like these for thee! How do thy potions, with insidious joy, Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy! Kingdoms by thee to sickly greatness grown Boast of a florid vigor not their own. At every draught more large and large they grow, A bloated mass of rank, unwieldy woe; Till, sapp'd their strength and every part unsound, Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. Even now the devastation is begun, And half the business of destruction done; Even now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, I see the rural virtues leave the land. Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail That, idly waiting, flaps with every gale- Contented toil, and hospitable care, Still first to fly where sensual joys invade- Dear, charming nymph, neglected and decried, My shame in crowds, my solitary pride! Thou source of all my bliss and all my woeThat found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so; Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel, Thou nurse of every virtue-fare thee well! Farewell!--and oh! where'er thy voice be tried, On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side— Whether where equinoctial fervors glow, Or winter wraps the polar world in snow NEVER AGAIN. THERE are gains for all our losses, We are stronger, and are better, RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. A PEAL OF BELLS. STRIKE the bells wantonly, Tinkle tinkle well; Bring me wine, bring me flowers, All my lamps burn scented oil, Shut out thinking, shut out pain, Strike the bells solemnly, Ding dong deep: My friend is passing to his bed, There's plaited linen round his head, While foremost go his feet His feet that cannot carry him. Be still, your music is not sweet,— His lights are out, his feast is done; His bowl that sparkled to the brim Is drain'd, is broken, cannot hold; My blood is chill, his blood is cold; His death is full, and mine begun. CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI THOSE EVENING BELLS. THOSE evening bells! those evening bells! Those joyous hours are pass'd away; And so 'twill be when I am gone,— THOMAS MOORE. |