ANCIENT of days! that midst the dead Thy verdant crest still rears, Tell us thy wondrous history, Sage of a thousand years! Hid in thy forest sanctuary, Thou may'st have view'd the unholy rites Wild tribes of wandering strangers seen Seen Dane and Saxon pass; Till, by the rural Swale, The conquering Norman paused, entranced, And claim'd the lovely vale. Then shone the axe, the forest falls; Slow rise the massy piles; The lordly castle crowns the hill; Below, the cloister smiles. THE ABBOT'S ELM. Thine, the safe home of sacred walls And oft, beneath thy veil, ; Rose the deep sigh from burthen'd heart, In these calm, hallow'd bowers, For contemplation made, Has many a lofty thought had birth, To wither in thy shade. And thou hast shadow'd worldly schemes, Ambition's dreams! that heard unmoved And now the crumbling walls decay, While monumental ivy hangs Its mournful garlands round. Thou, midst the wreck, in changeless youth, And though the levelling scythe of Time Woe to the wretch, whose caitiff hand 203 MAN. CAN he be fair, that withers at a blast? Why bragg'st thou then, thou worm of five feet long, young. QUARLES. AUTUMN. THE warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing, On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead, Come, months, come away, From November to May, In your saddest array; Of the dead cold year, And, like dim shadows, watch by her sepulchre. The chill rain is falling, the night-worm is crawling, For the year; The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each gone To his dwelling; Come, months, come away; Put on white, black, and gray, Let your light sisters play, Ye follow the bier Of the dead cold year, And make her grave green with tear on tear. SHELLEY. LAKE LEMAN. CLEAR, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake, With the wide world I dwelt in, is a thing Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring. This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing To waft me from distraction; once I loved Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved That I with stern delights should e'er have been so moved. It is the hush of night, and all between There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, He is an evening reveller, who makes |