But now came a scene worth the showing, The fireworks! midst langhs and huzzas, With explosions the sky was all glowing, Then down stream'd a million of stars; With a rush the bright rockets ascended, Wheels spurted blue fires like a rain; We turn'd with regret when 'twas ended, Then--star'd at each other again. There thousands of gay lamps aspir'd To the tops of the trees and beyond; And, what was most hugely admir'd, They look'd all up-side-down in a pond! The blaze scarce an eagle could bear; And an owl had most surely been slain; We return'd to the circle, and there-- And there we went round it again. 'Tis not wisdom to love without reason, Or to censure without knowing why: I had witness'd no crime, nor no treason, "O Life, 'tis thy picture," said I. 'Tis just thus we saunter along, Months and years bring their pleasures or pain; We sigh midst the _right_ and the _wrong_; --And then _we go round them again_! LOVE OF THE COUNTRY. Written At Clare-Hall, Herts. June 1804. Welcome silence! welcome peace! O most welcome, holy shade! Thus I prove as years increase, My heart and soul for quiet made. Thus I fix my firm belief While rapture's gushing tears descend; That every flower and every leaf Is moral Truth's unerring friend. I would not for a world of gold That Nature's lovely face should tire; Fountain of blessings yet untold; Pure source of intellectual fire! Fancy's fair buds, the germs of song, Unquicken'd midst the world's rude strife, Shall sweet retirement render strong, And morning silence bring to life. Then tell me not that I shall grow Forlorn, that fields and woods will cloy; From Nature and her changes flow An everlasting tide of joy. I grant that summer heats will burn, That keen will come the frosty night; But both shall please: and each in turn Yield Reason's most supreme delight. Build me a shrine, and I could kneel To Rural Gods, or prostrate fall; Did I not see, did I not feel, That one GREAT SPIRIT governs all. O heav'n permit that I may lie Where o'er my corse green branches ware; And those who from life's tumult fly With kindred feelings press my grave. THE WOODLAND HALLÓ. _(Perhaps) adapted for Music._ In our cottage, that peeps from the skirts of the wood, I am mistress, no mother have I; Yet blithe are my days, for my father is good, And kind is my lover hard by; They both work together beneath the green shade, Both woodmen, my father and Joe. Where I've listen'd whole hours to the echo that made So much of a laugh or--_Halló_. From my basket at noon they expect their supply, And with joy from my threshold I spring; For the woodlands I love, and the oaks waring high, And Echo that sings as I sing. Though deep shades delight me, yet love is my food, As I call the dear name of my Joe; His musical shout is the pride of the wood, And my heart leaps to hear the--Halló.