The scene is o'er--still seasons onward roll, And each revolve conducts me toward the goal; Yet all is blank, without one soft relief, One endless continuity of grief; And the tired soul, now led to thoughts sublime, Looks but for rest beyond the bounds of time. Toil on, toil on, ye busy crowds, that pant For hoards of wealth which ye will never want: And lost to all but gain, with ease resign The calms of peace and happiness divine! Far other cares be mine--Men little crave In this short journey to the silent grave; And the poor peasant, bless'd with peace and health, I envy more than Croesus with his wealth. Yet grieve not I, that Fate did not decree Paternal acres to await on me; She gave me more, she placed within my breast A heart with little pleased--with little bless'd: I look around me, where, on every side, Extensive manors spread in wealthy pride; And could my sight be borne to either zone, I should not find one foot of land my own. But whither do I wander? shall the muse, For golden baits, her simple theme refuse? Oh, no! but while the weary spirit greets The fading scenes of childhood's far gone sweets, It catches all the infant's wandering tongue, And prattles on in desultory song. That song must close--the gloomy mists of night Obscure the pale stars' visionary light, And ebon darkness, clad in vapoury wet, Steals on the welkin in primæval jet. The song must close.--Once more my adverse lot Leads me reluctant from this cherish'd spot: Again compels to plunge in busy life, And brave the hateful turbulence of strife. Scenes of my youth--ere my unwilling feet Are turn'd for ever from this loved retreat. Ere on these fields, with plenty cover'd o'er, My eyes are closed to ope on them no more, Let me ejaculate, to feeling due, One long, one last affectionate adieu. Grant that, if ever Providence should please To give me an old age of peace and ease, Grant that, in these sequester'd shades, my days May wear away in gradual decays: And oh! ye spirits, who unbodied play, Unseen upon the pinions of the day, Kind genii of my native fields benign, Who were.... * * * * * [1] This appears to be one of the Author's earliest productions: written when about the age of fourteen. THE CHRISTIAD. A DIVINE POEM. BOOK I. I. I sing the Cross!--Ye white-robed angel choirs, Who know the chords of harmony to sweep, Ye who o'er holy David's varying wires Were wont, of old, your hovering watch to keep, Oh, now descend! and with your harpings deep, Pouring sublime the full symphonious stream Of music, such as soothes the saint's last sleep, Awake my slumbering spirit from its dream, And teach me how to exalt the high mysterious theme. II.