  At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, When naught but the torrent is heard on the hill, And naught but the nightingale's song in the grove, 'Twas thus, by the cave of the mountain afar, While his harp rang symphonious, a hermit began; No more with himself or with nature at war, He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man: "Ah! why, all abandoned to darkness and woe, Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall? For spring shall return, and a lover bestow, And sorrow no longer thy bosom enthrall. But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay,— Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn! O, soothe him whose pleasures like thine pass away! Full quickly they pass,—but they never return. "Now, gliding remote on the verge of the sky, The moon, half extinguished, her crescent displays; But lately I marked when majestic on high She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue The path that conducts thee to splendor again! But man's faded glory what change shall renew? Ah, fool! to exult in a glory so vain! "'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more. I mourn,—but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you; For morn is approaching your charms to restore, Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering with dew. Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn,— Kind nature the embryo blossom will save; But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn? O, when shall day dawn on the night of the grave? "'Twas thus, by the glare of false science betrayed, That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind, My thoughts wont to roam from shade onward to shade, Destruction before me, and sorrow behind. 'O pity, great Father of light,' then I cried, 'Thy creature, who fain would not wander from thee! Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride; From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free.' "And darkness and doubt are now flying away: No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn. So breaks on the traveller, faint and astray, The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn. And nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom! On the cold cheek of death smiles and roses are blending, And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb." James Beattie. |
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