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The feeling heart, the searching soul,
The present works of present man-
FAINT gleams the evening radiance through the
sky, The sober twilight dimly darkens round; In short quick circles the shrill bat flits by,
And the slow vapour curls along the ground. Now the pleased eye from yon lone cottage sees
On the green mead the smoke long-shadowing The redbreast on the blossom'd spray [play ;
Warbles wild her latest lay,
When Ocean stills his waves to rest;
And whiten o'er his breast;
When the low gales of evening moan along,
I love with thee to feel the calm cool breeze, And roam the pathless forest wilds among,
Listening the mellow murmur of the trees Full foliaged, as they lift their arms on high, And wave their shadowy heads in wildest melody. Or lead me where, amid the tranquil vale,
The broken stream flows on in silver light,
O’er the bank of violets sighs,
And hearken the dull beetle's drowsy flight:
And mark where, radiant through the night, Moves in the grass-green hedge the glowworm's
living light. Thee, meekest Power! I love to meet, As oft with ever solitary pace
The scatter'd Abbey's hallow'd rounds I trace, And listen to the echoings of my feet.
Or on the half demolish'd tomb,
Mark the clear orb of night
light. Nor will I not in some more gloomy hour Invoke with fearless awe thine holier power, Wandering beneath the sainted pile When the blast moans along the darksome aisle, And clattering patters all around The midnight shower with dreary sound.
But sweeter 'tis to wander wild
O Contemplation! when to Memory's eyes
THE REV. JOHN IRELAND.
IMITATION OF HORACE, LIB. III. ODE XVI,
WHEN howling winds and louring skies
Near Orkney's boisterous seas,
To ask a little ease.
For ease the Turk ferocious, prays,
Which Palk could ne'er obtain ; Which Bedford lack'd amidst his store, And liberal Clive, with mines of ore,
Oft bade for-but in vain.
For not the liveried troop that wait
Can keep, my friend, aloof
Around the lordly roof.
• 0, well is he' to whom kind Heaven
Rich in the blessing sent,
And fattens on content.
• 0, well is he !' for life is lost,
Then why, dear Jack, should man,
Of his contracted span !
Why should he from his country run,
Serener hours to find ?
And left himself behind.
For, wing'd with all the lightning's speed,
An inmate of the breast:
The too tenacious guest.
They whom no anxious thoughts annoy,
Nor seek the next to know;
Anticipate the blow.
Something must ever be amiss-
Lives only in the brain :
What that has bęgg'd in vain.