Holland; to thee this humble ballad’s sent, Who for the poor man’s welfare oft hast pray’d; Whose tongue did ne’er belie its good intent, Preacher, as well in practice, as in trade-- Alas, too often money’s business made! O may the wretch, that’s still in darkness living, The Bible’s comforts hear by thee display’d; And many a woodman’s family, forgiven, Have cause for blessing thee that led their way to heaven. RURAL EVENING The sun now sinks behind the woodland green, And twittering spangles glow the leaves between, So bright and dazzling on the eye it plays As if noon’s heat had kindled to a blaze, But soon it dims in red and heavier hues, And shows wild fancy cheated in her views. A mist-like moisture rises from the ground, And deeper blueness stains the distant round. The eye each moment, as it gazes o’er, Still loses objects which it mark’d before; The woods at distance changing like to clouds, And spire-points croodling under evening’s shrouds; Till forms of things, and hues of leaf and flower, In deeper shadows, as by magic power, With light and all, in scarce-perceiv’d decay, Put on mild evening’s sober garb of grey. Now in the sleepy gloom that blackens round Dies many a lulling hum of rural sound, From cottage door, farm-yard and dusty lane, Where home the cart-house tolters with the swain. Or padded holm, where village boys resort, Bawling enraptur’d o’er their evening sport, Till night awakens superstition’s dread And drives them prisoners to a restless bed. Thrice happy eve of days no more to me! Whoever thought such change belong’d to thee? When, like to boys whom now thy gloom surrounds, I chas’d the stag, or play’d at fox-and-hounds, Or wander’d down the lane with many a mate To play at see-saw on the pasture-gate, Or on the threshold of some cottage sat To watch the flittings of the shrieking bat, Who, seemly pleas’d to mock our treacherous view, Would even swoop and touch us as he flew, And vainly still our hopes to entertain Would stint his route, and circle us again,-- Till, wearied out with many a coaxing call Which boyish superstition loves to bawl, His shrill song shrieking he betook to flight, And left us puzzled in short-sighted night. Those days have fled me, as from them they steal: And I’ve felt losses they must shortly feel; But sure such ends make every bosom sore, To think of pleasures we must meet no more.