Part 3 (1/2)

Down the rough slope the ponderous waggon rings; Through rustling corn the hare astonished springs; Slow tolls the village-clock the drowsy hour; The partridge bursts away on whirring wings; Deep mourns the turtle in sequestered bower, And shrill lark carols clear from her aerial tour.

XL.

O Nature, how in every charm supreme!

Whose votaries feast on raptures ever new!

O for the voice and fire of seraphim, To sing thy glories with devotion due!

Blessed be the day I 'scaped the wrangling crew, From Pyrrho's maze, and Epicurus' sty; And held high converse with the G.o.dlike few, Who to the enraptured heart, and ear, and eye, Teach beauty, virtue, truth, and love, and melody.

XLI.

Hence! ye, who snare and stupify the mind, Sophists, of beauty, virtue, joy, the bane!

Greedy and fell, though impotent and blind, Who spread your filthy nets in Truth's fair fane, And ever ply your venomed fangs amain!

Hence to dark Error's den, whose rankling slime First gave you form! hence! lest the Muse should deign, (Though loath on theme so mean to waste a rhyme), With vengeance to pursue your sacrilegious crime.

XLII.

But hail, ye mighty masters of the lay, Nature's true sons, the friends of man and truth!

Whose song, sublimely sweet, serenely gay, Amused my childhood, and informed my youth.

O let your spirit still my bosom sooth, Inspire my dreams, and my wild wanderings guide!

Your voice each rugged path of life can smooth; For well I know, wherever ye reside, There harmony, and peace, and innocence, abide.

XLIII.

Ah me! abandoned on the lonesome plain, As yet poor Edwin never knew your lore, Save when against the winter's drenching rain, And driving snow, the cottage shut the door.

Then, as instructed by tradition h.o.a.r, Her legends when the Beldam 'gan impart, Or chant the old heroic ditty o'er, Wonder and joy ran thrilling to his heart; Much he the tale admired, but more the tuneful art.

XLIV.

Various and strange was the long-winded tale; And halls, and knights, and feats of arms, displayed; Or merry swains, who quaff the nut-brown ale, And sing, enamoured of the nut-brown maid; The moon-light revel of the fairy glade; Or hags, that suckle an infernal brood, And ply in caves the unutterable trade, 'Midst fiends and spectres, quench the moon in blood, Yell in the midnight storm, or ride the infuriate flood.

XLV.

But when to horror his amazement rose, A gentler strain the Beldam would rehea.r.s.e, A tale of rural life, a tale of woes, The orphan-babes, and guardian uncle fierce.

O cruel! will no pang of pity pierce That heart by l.u.s.t of lucre seared to stone!

For sure, if aught of virtue last, or verse, To latest times shall tender souls bemoan Those helpless orphan-babes by thy fell arts undone.

XLVI.

Behold, with berries smeared, with brambles torn, The babes, now famished, lay them down to die; 'Midst the wild howl of darksome woods forlorn, Folded in one another's arms they lie; Nor friend, nor stranger, hears their dying cry: 'For from the town the man returns no more.'

But thou, who Heaven's just vengeance darest defy, This deed with fruitless tears shalt soon deplore, When Death lays waste thy house, and flames consume thy store.