No image more dear than the thoughts of these baubles
Ghigs, Pegtops and Whiptops, and infantine games; The Grassplot for Ball, and the Yewwalk for Marbles. That leads to a temple which nobody names. Those three renowned Poplars, by Summer winds waved, By Tom, Ben, and Ned, that were planted of yore, "Twixt the times that these wights were first breeched and first [shaved,
May now be hewn down, and may waver no more! How well remember, when Spring flowers were blowing, With rapure I cropt the first Crocuses there Life seemed like a Lamp in eternity glowing,
Nor dreamt I that all the green boughs would be sear. In summer, while feasting on Currents and Cherries,
And roving through Strawberry beds with delight, 30
I thought not of Autumn's Grapes, Nuts, and Blackberries,
Nor of Ivy decked Winter cold shivering in white
E'en in that frosty season, my Grand father's Hall in.
I used to sit turning the Electric Machine,
And taking, from shock bottles, shocks much less galling,
If sharper, than those of my manhood I ween.
The Chenuts I picked up and flung in the fires,
The evergreens gathered the hot coals to choke
Made reports that were emblens of blown up desires,
And warm glowing hopes that have ended in smoke. 40
How oft have I sat on the green bench astonished,
To gaze at orion and Might's shady car,
By the starpangled sky's magic lantern admonished,
Of time and of space that were distant afar!
But now, when embarked on Life's rough troubled ocean,
While Hope with her anchor stands up on the bow,
May Fortune take care of my skiff put in motion,
Nor sink me when coyly she steps on the prow.
10. TO THE BLESSED VIRGIN.
O how quickly, O how fleeting,
Doth each flowery season pass,
Time is alwaye mortals cheating,
Swiftly runs life's hourglas;
That which whylome seem'd the morning,
Present time, we now call night,
Soon another day'll be dawning,
Soon will set another light.
O how quikly, O how fleeting,
Recreant Spring has passed away,
Daffodillies, Snowdrops, Lilies
And sweet Violets, all decay:
That which whylome seem'd the springtime,
Budding hedges, hawthorn bloom,
All are gone; and who can bring time
Back, dispelling wintery gloom.
O how quickly, O how fleeting,
Glowing Summer roll'd along,
Lilies Posies, Pinks and Roses;
Nightless days and milk maid's song. That which once was frolic haytime, Now is winter's morning drear,
What was whylome Nature's daytime,
Seems the evening of the year.
O how quickly, O how fleeting,
Autumn's golden fruits are fled,
Scarce they're tasted but they're wasted.
And the bough that bore them dead.
What just now was harvest feasting
When the Horn of Plenty blew,
Vintage mirth, and merry jesting,
Ceas'd when Brumal whirlwinds blew.
O how quickly, O how fleeting,
Will dark Winter's reign be o'er;
Other springs, our senses cheating,
Soon will bloom to bloom more.
What now is is always waning,
Flying Time will no more fly,
But the eternal self remaining,
Seeks its mansion in the sky.
Ah while each successive season
Steals some friend, till all are gone,
Time is spinning, we are sinning,
Life's pale lamp is burning on.
Cares oppressing, fools caressing,
Toiling till our span be spun;
Hope we find the only blessing
Waiting the eternal Sun.
Hail then, Lady Star of Heaven,
Hear thy pilgrim's votive prayer,
Balm of woes whom God has given
To the mourner in despair;
That which once was giddy Pleasue's,
Passing time, shall now be thine;
Thee I'll praise in deftest measures,
Virgin, now thine ear incline.
For since changeable and fleeting
Are all wordly pleasures here,
Spring and Summer always cheating,
Autumn waning, Winter near.
Brightest Star, for ever shining,
Round whose feet sweet Angels sing,
Help my soul, to God inclining,
To obtain the eternal Spring.
ΤΟ THE BELLFLOWERS THAT GREW ROUND A
SAINT'S PILLAR.
O little drooping bells of blue, Like rosaries of azure hue,
That catch the palmer's passing view,
To some saint's shrine; at evening hour
I'll sit beneath thy mantled tower.
To tell my beads, while pelts the shower
To which thou'rt bending.
When high aloft in accents fair,
The pillar'd martyr makes his prayer,
And carols to the ambient air,
As if revealing.
Some mystery of God on high.
Pensive and motionles I'll try
To catch the prophet's words that fly
Neath Heaven's high ceiling.
INSCRIBED BY FORSTER ON A SKULL.
O empty vault of former glory!
Whate'er thou wert in time of old,
Thy surface tells thy living story,
Though now so hollow, dead, and cold;
For in thy form is yet descried
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