Each lonely scene shall thee restore, For thee the tear be duly shed; Beloved till life can charm no more, And mourned till Pity's self be dead. ODE TO EVENING. IF aught of oaten stop or pastoral song May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear, Like thy own solemn springs, O nymph reserved, while now the brighthaired Sun Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts, With braid ethereal wove, Now air is hushed, save where the weakeyed bat, With short, shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing; Or where the beetle winds As oft he rises midst the twilight path, Now teach me, maid composed, Whose numbers, stealing through thy May not unseemly with its stillness suit; Thy genial, loved return! For when thy folding-star arising shows And many a Nymph who wreathes her i And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still, The pensive Pleasures sweet, Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene; Or find some ruin midst its dreary dells, Or, if chill, blustering winds, or driving rain, Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut That from the mountain's side Views wilds, and swelling floods, And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered spires; And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all Thy dewy fingers draw The gradual, dusky veil. While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest While Summer loves to sport While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves; Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air, Affrights thy shrinking train, So long, regardful of thy quiet rule, Thy gentlest influence own, JAMES MERRICK. [1720 - 1769.] THE CHAMELEON. OFT has it been my lot to mark A proud, conceited, talking spark, OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 65 Two travellers of such a cast, As o'er Arabia's wilds they passed, And on their way, in friendly chat, Now talked of this, and then of that, Discoursed awhile, 'mongst other mat ter, Of the chameleon's form and nature. "Hold there," the other quick replies; "T is green, I saw it with these eyes, As late with open mouth it lay, And warmed it in the sunny ray; Stretched at its ease the beast I viewed, And saw it eat the air for food.” "I've seen it, sir, as well as you, "T is green, 't is green, sir, I assure ye. "Green!" cries the other in a fury; "Why, sir, d'ye think I've lost my eyes?" "T were no great loss," the friend replies; "For if they always serve you thus, You'll find them but of little use." So high at last the contest rose, The creature 's neither one nor t' other. seen The reptile, you'll pronounce him green." 'Well, then, at once to ease the doubt," Replies the man, "I'll turn him out; And when before your eyes I've set him, If you don't find him black, I'll eat him.' He said; and full before their sight Produced the beast, and lo!-'t was white. 5 The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, The playful children just let loose from school; The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind, And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind, These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, And filled each pause the nightingale had made. But now the sounds of population fail, No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread, But all the bloomy flush of life is fled. All but yon widowed, solitary thing, That feebly bends beside the plashy spring; She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread, To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, To pick her wintry fagot from the thorn, To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn; She only left of all the harmless train, The sad historian of the pensive plain. Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, And still where many a garden flower grows wild, There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher's modest mansion rose. A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year; Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place; Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power, By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour; Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise. His house was known to all the vagrant train, He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain; The long-remembered beggar was his guest, Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed; The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, Sat by his fire, and talked the night away; Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done, Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won. Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow, And quite forgot their vices in their woe; Careless their merits or their faults to scan, His pity gave ere charity began. Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And even his failings leaned to virtue's side: But in his duty prompt at every call, He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all; And, as a bird each fond endearment tries To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. Beside the bed where parting life was laid, And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismayed, The reverend champion stood. At his control, Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, And his last, faltering accents whispered praise. At church, with meek and unaffected grace, His looks adorned the venerable place; Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray. The service past, around the pious man, With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran; Even children followed, with endearing wile, And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile. His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed, Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed; To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were given, But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head. Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, With blossomed furze unprofitably gay, There, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule, The village master taught his little school. A man severe he was, and stern to view; I knew him well, and every truant knew: THOMAS PERCY. Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace 67 Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart An hour's importance to the poor man's heart; Thither no more the peasant shall repair No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail; No more the siith his dusky brow shall clear, Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear. The host himself no longer shall be found Careful to see the mantling bliss go round; Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest, Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. |