'Neath yon lowly roof he lies, The husbandman, with deep-seal'd eyes: He dreams of crowded barns, and round The yard he hears the flail resound; Oh! may no hurricane destroy His visionary views of joy! God of the winds! oh, hear his humble prayer, And while the Moon of Harvest shines, thy blustering whirlwind spare. Sons of luxury, to you Leave I sleep's dull power to woo; Press ye still the downy bed, While feverish dreams surround your head; I will seek the woodland glade, Penetrate the thickest shade, Wrapp'd in contemplation's dreams, Musing high on holy themes, While on the gale Shall softly sail The nightingale's enchanting tune, And oft my eyes Shall grateful rise To thee, the modest Harvest Moon! TO THE HERB ROSEMARY.[1] Sweet scented flower! who art wont to bloom On January's front severe, And o'er the wintry desert drear To waft thy waste perfume! Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now, And I will bind thee round my brow; And as I twine the mournful wreath, I'll weave a melancholy song; And sweet the strain shall be, and long, The melody of death. Come, funeral flower! who lovest to dwell With the pale corse in lonely tomb, And throw across the desert gloom A sweet decaying smell. Come, press my lips, and lie with me Beneath the lowly alder tree, And we will sleep a pleasant sleep, And not a care shall dare intrude To break the marble solitude, So peaceful and so deep. And hark! the wind god, as he flies, Moans hollow in the forest trees, And sailing on the gusty breeze, Mysterious music dies. Sweet flower! that requiem wild is mine, It warns me to the lonely shrine, The cold turf altar of the dead: My grave shall be in yon lone spot, Where as I lie, by all forgot, A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed. Footnotes: [1] The Rosemary buds in January. It is the flower commonly put in the coffins of the dead. TO THE MORNING. WRITTEN DURING ILLNESS. Beams of the daybreak faint! I hail Your dubious hues, as on the robe Of night, which wraps the slumbering globe, I mark your traces pale. Tired with the taper's sickly light, And with the wearying, number'd night, I hail the streaks of morn divine: And lo! they break between the dewy wreaths That round my rural casement twine; The fresh gale o'er the green lawn breathes, It fans my feverish brow,--it calms the mental strife, And cheerily re-illumes the lambent flame of life. The lark has her gay song begun, She leaves her grassy nest, And soars till the unrisen sun Gleams on her speckled breast. Now let me leave my restless bed, And o'er the spangled uplands tread; Now through the custom'd wood walk wend; By many a green lane lies my way, Where high o'er head the wild briers bend, Till on the mountain's summit gray, I sit me down, and mark the glorious dawn of day.