192 "my native village/' 



tion of being exquisitely written, it discloses the poet's 

 feeling for the beautiful of nature, the influences that 

 withered his aspirations, and a melancholy prophecy — 

 so soon fulfilled — of his ultimate fate. 



" Bard of the village ! o'er thy peaceful grave 

 The bay should brighten, and the laurel wave ; — 

 Thy lyre no more shall charm tlie sylvan bower 

 Or soothe the hearth in winter's dreary hour. 

 Harewood ; thy bard's was still the usual lot 

 Of genius, to be praised — and be forgot; — 

 To pour to wealth and rank the dulcet strain. 

 Yet dwell with penury and shrink with pain ; — 

 With Labour still to live from day to day, 

 And walk with Toil along life's rugged way. 

 Yet when blest freedom came with accents kind, 

 And brief repose refreshed his sinking mind, 

 How many a simple pleasure was his own ! 

 How many a joy to vulgar minds unknown ! 

 For Nature op'd to him — her darling child 

 The beautiful, the wonderful, the wild. 

 And he would wander forth where quiet dwells 

 In the dim depths of woods and forest dells. 

 Musing the hour away; and where the shades 

 Grow darker, and the baffled sun-ray fades, 

 Amid the dark-wove foliage of the grove 

 He ever liad a strange delight to rove. 

 Yet sometimes, where our loved Devonia yields 

 The noblest treasures of her southern fields. 

 He stray 'd, and gave to memory loveliest themes 

 And swept his lyre to hail — The Land of Streams ! 

 Anon the wayward wight would fearless scale 

 The black-brow'd cliff that overhung the dale, 

 And careless resting on that mountain throne, 

 Make the vast wealth of Prospect all his own 

 With rich appropriation. Far below 

 Rushed the loud moorland torrent, dashed to snow 

 By the rude rocks, and he would deeply pore 

 On that mad stream, and listen to its roar 

 Till haply the bold falcon, sweeping by, 

 W^ould scare him from some noon-day phantasy — 

 Some wild and wondrous fancies that retain 

 A strange and deep possession of the brain, 

 Ere Reason reassume her empire there, 

 And dash the mystic visions into air. 



His wanderings and his musings, — hopes and fears, 

 His keen-felt pleasures, and his heart-wrung tears 

 Arc past ; — the grave closed on him ere those days 

 Had come when on the scalp the snow-wreath plays ; 



