The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch, Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, And share my meal, a welcome guest. Around my ivied porch shall spring Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing, In russet gown and apron blue. The village-church, among the trees, Where first our marriage-vows were giv'n, With merry peals shall swell the breeze, And point with taper spire to heav'n. Poetic visions charm my closing eye; And fairy-scenes, that Fancy loves to weave, Shift to wild notes of sweetest Minstrelsy; 'Tis thine to range in busy quest of prey, Thy feathery antlers quivering with delight, Brush from my lids the hues of heav'n away, And all is Solitude, and all is Night! -Ah now thy barbed shaft, relentless fly, Unsheaths its terrors in the sultry air! No guardian sylph, in golden panoply, Lifts the broad shield, and points the sparkling spear. Now near and nearer rush thy whirring wings, Thy dragon-scales still wet with human gore. -I wake in horror, and 'dare sleep no more!' TO THE BUTTERFLY. CHILD of the sun! pursue thy rapturous flight, Mingling with her thou lov'st in fields of light; -Yet wert thou once a worm, a thing that crept On the bare earth, then wrought a tomb and slept! And such is man; soon from his cell of clay To burst a seraph in the blaze of day! N CAPTIVITY. CAG'D in old woods, whose reverend echoes wake When the hern screams along the distant lake, Her little heart oft flutters to be free, Oft sighs to turn the unrelenting key. In vain! the nurse that rusted relic wears, Nor mov'd by gold-nor to be mov'd by tears; |