Poems by Samuel Rogers Part 13

Dear is my little native vale, The ring-dove builds and murmurs there; Close by my cot she tells her tale To every pa.s.sing villager.

The squirrel leaps from tree to tree, And sh.e.l.ls his nuts at liberty.

In orange-groves and myrtle-bowers, That breathe a gale of fragrance round, I charm the fairy-footed hours With my lov'd lute's romantic sound; Or crowns of living laurel weave, For those that win the race at eve.

The shepherd's horn at break of day, The ballet danc'd in twilight glade, The canzonet and roundelay Sung in the silent green-wood shade; These simple joys, that never fail, Shall bind me to my native vale.

TO THE GNAT.

When by the green-wood side, at summer eve, Poetic visions charm my closing eye; And fairy-scenes, that Fancy loves to weave, s.h.i.+ft to wild notes of sweetest Minstrelsy; 'Tis thine to range in busy quest of prey, Thy feathery antlers quivering with delight, Brush from my lids the hues of heav'n away, And all is Solitude, and all is Night!

--Ah now thy barbed shaft, relentless fly, Unsheaths its terrors in the sultry air!

No guardian sylph, in golden panoply, Lifts the broad s.h.i.+eld, and points the glittering spear.

Now near and nearer rush thy whirring wings, Thy dragon-scales still wet with human gore.

Hark, thy shrill horn its fearful laram flings!

--I wake in horror, and 'dare sleep no more!'

AN INSCRIPTION.

Shepherd, or Huntsman, or worn Mariner, Whate'er thou art, who wouldst allay thy thirst, Drink and be glad. This cistern of white stone, Arch'd, and o'erwrought with many a sacred verse, This iron cup chain'd for the general use, And these rude seats of earth within the grove, Were giv'n by FATIMA. Borne hence a bride, 'Twas here she turn'd from her beloved sire, To see his face no more. [Footnote 1] Oh, if thou canst, ('Tis not far off) visit his tomb with flowers; And may some pious hand with water fill The two small cells scoop'd in the marble there, That birds may come and drink upon his grave, Making it holy! [Footnote 2] ---------

[Footnote 1: See an anecdote related by Pausanias. iii. 20.]

[Footnote 2: A Turkish superst.i.tion. See Clarke's Travels, I. 546.]

CAPTIVITY.

Caged in old woods, whose reverend echoes wake When the hern screams along the distant lake, Her little heart oft flutters to be free, Oft sighs to turn the unrelenting key.

In vain! the nurse that rusted relic wears, Nor mov'd by gold--nor to be mov'd by tears; And terraced walls their black reflection throw On the green-mantled moat that sleeps below.

A CHARACTER.

As thro' the hedge-row shade the violet steals, And the sweet air its modest leaf reveals; Her softer charms, but by their influence known, Surprise all hearts, and mould them to her own.

WRITTEN IN THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND, SEPTEMBER 1, 1812.

Blue was the loch, [Footnote 1] the clouds were gone, Ben-Lomond in his glory shone, When, Luss, I left thee; when the breeze Bore me from thy silver sands, Thy kirk-yard wall among the trees, Where, grey with age, the dial stands; That dial so well-known to me!

--Tho' many a shadow it had shed, Beloved Sister, since with thee The legend on the stone was read.

The fairy-isles fled far away; That with its woods and uplands green, Where shepherd-huts are dimly seen, And songs are heard at close of day; That too, the deer's wild covert, fled, And that, the Asylum of the Dead: While, as the boat went merrily, Much of ROB ROY [Footnote 2] the boat-man told; His arm that fell below his knee, His cattle-ford and mountain-hold.

Tarbet, [Footnote 3] thy sh.o.r.e I climb'd at last, And, thy shady region pa.s.s'd, Upon another sh.o.r.e I stood, And look'd upon another flood; [Footnote 4]

Great Ocean's self! ('Tis He, who fills That vast and awful depth of hills;) Where many an elf was playing round, Who treads unshod his cla.s.sic ground; And speaks, his native rocks among, As FINGAL spoke, and OSSIAN sung.

Night fell; and dark and darker grew That narrow sea, that narrow sky, As o'er the glimmering waves we flew.

The sea-bird rustling, wailing by.

And now the grampus, half descried, Black and huge above the tide; The cliffs and promontories there, Front to front, and broad and bare, Each beyond each, with giant-feet Advancing as in haste to meet; The shatter'd fortress, whence the Dane Blew his shrill blast, nor rush'd in vain, Tyrant of the drear domain; All into midnight-shadow sweep-- When day springs upward from the deep! [Footnote 5]

Kindling the waters in its flight, The prow wakes splendour; and the oar, That rose and fell unseen before, Flashes in a sea of light!

Glad sign, and sure! for now we hail Thy flowers, Glenfinart, in the gale; And bright indeed the path should be, That leads to Friends.h.i.+p and to Thee!

Oh blest retreat, and sacred too!

Sacred as when the bell of prayer Toll'd duly on the desert air, And crosses deck'd thy summits blue.

Oft, like some lov'd romantic tale, Oft shall my weary mind recall, Amid the hum and stir of men, Thy beechen grove and waterfall, Thy ferry with its gliding sail, And Her--the Lady of the Glen!

[Footnote 1: Loch-Lomond.]

[Footnote 2: A famous out-law.]

[Footnote 3: Signifying in the Erse language an Isthmus.]

[Footnote 4: Loch-Long.]

[Footnote 5: A phenomenon described by many navigators.]

A FAREWELL.

Once more, enchanting girl, adieu!

I must be gone while yet I may, Oft shall I weep to think of you; But here I will not, cannot stay.

The sweet expression of that face.

For ever changing, yet the same, Ah no, I dare not turn to trace.

It melts my soul, it fires my frame!

Yet give me, give me, ere I go, One little lock of those so blest, That lend your cheek a warmer glow, And on your white neck love to rest.

--Say, when to kindle soft delight, That hand has chanc'd with mine to meet, How could its thrilling touch excite A sigh so short, and yet so sweet?

O say--but no, it must not be.

Adieu! A long, a long adieu!

--Yet still, methinks, you frown on me; Or never could I fly from you.

TO THE b.u.t.tERFLY.

Child of the sun! pursue thy rapturous flight, Mingling with her thou lov'st in fields of light; And, where the flowers of paradise unfold, Quaff fragrant nectar from their cups of gold.

There shall thy wings, rich as an evening-sky, Expand and shut with silent ecstasy!

--Yet wert thou once a worm, a thing that crept On the bare earth, then wrought a tomb and slept!

And such is man; soon from his cell of clay To burst a seraph in the blaze of day!

VERSES WRITTEN IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. [Footnote 1]