Cottage Poems — A Closer Reading

Mild was the lovely night, Nor stirred a whispering breeze. Smooth was the glassy lake, And still the leafy trees; No sound in air Was heard afloat, Save Philomel's Sweet warbling note.

My thoughts were on the wing, And back my fancy fled To where contentment dwelt In the neat humble shed; To shining courts From thence it ran, Where restless pride Oppresses man.

In fame some search for bliss, Some seek content in gain, In search of happiness Some give the slackened rein To passions fierce, And down the stream Through giddy life, Of pleasures dream.

These all mistake the way, As many more have done: The narrow path of bliss Through God's Eternal Son Directly tends; And only he Who treads this path Can happy be.

Who anchors all above Has still a happy lot, Though doomed for life to dwell E'en in a humble cot, And when he lays This covering down He'll wear a bright Immortal crown.

The shower is past, and the sky O'erhead is both mild and serene, Save where a few drops from on high, Like gems, twinkle over the green: And glowing fair, in the black north, The rainbow o'erarches the cloud; The sun in his glory comes forth, And larks sweetly warble aloud.

That dismally grim northern sky Says God in His vengeance once frowned, And opened His flood-gates on high, Till obstinate sinners were drowned: The lively bright south, and that bow, Say all this dread vengeance is o'er; These colours that smilingly glow Say we shall be deluged no more.

Ever blessed be those innocent days, Ever sweet their remembrance to me; When often, in silent amaze, Enraptured, I'd gaze upon thee! Whilst arching adown the black sky Thy colours glowed on the green hill, To catch thee as lightning I'd fly, But aye you eluded my skill.

From hill unto hill your gay scene You shifted--whilst crying aloud, I ran, till at length from the green, You shifted, at once to the cloud! So, vain worldly phantoms betray The youths who too eager pursue, When ruined and far led astray, Th' illusion escapes from their view.

Those peaceable days knew no care, Except what arose from my play, My favourite lambkin and hare, And cabin I built o'er the way. No cares did I say? Ah! I'm wrong: Even childhood from cares is not free: Far distant I see a grim throng Shake horrible lances at me!

One day--I remember it still-- For pranks I had played on the clown Who lived on the neighbouring hill, My cabin was trod to the ground. Who ever felt grief such as I When crashed by this terrible blow? Not Priam, the monarch of Troy, When all his proud towers lay low.

And grief upon grief was my lot: Soon after, my lambkin was slain; My hare, having strayed from its cot, Was chased by the hounds o'er the plain. What countless calamities teem From memory's page on my view!-- How trifling soever you seem, Yet once I have wept over you.

Then cease, foolish heart, to repine; No stage is exempted from care: If you would true happiness find, Come follow! and I'll show you where. But, first, let us take for our guide The Word which Jehovah has penned; By this the true path is descried Which leads to a glorious end.

How narrow this path to our view! How steep an ascent lies before! Whilst, foolish fond heart, laid for you Are dazzling temptations all o'er. What bye-ways with easy descent Invite us through pleasures to stray! Whilst Satan, with hellish intent, Suggests that we ought to obey.

But trust not the father of lies, He tempts you with vanity's dream; His pleasure, when touched, quickly dies, Like bubbles that dance on the stream. Look not on the wine when it glows All ruddy, in vessels of gold; At last it will sting your repose, And death at the bottom unfold. {208}

But lo! an unnatural night Pours suddenly down on the eye; The sun has withdrawn all his light, And rolls a black globe o'er the sky! And hark! what a cry rent the air! Immortal the terrible sound!-- The rocks split with honible tear, And fearfully shakes all the ground!

The dead from their slumbers awake, And, leaving their mouldy domain, Make poor guilty mortals to quake As pallid they glide o'er the plain! Sure, Nature's own God is oppressed, And Nature in agony cries;-- The sun in his mourning is dressed, To tell the sad news through the skies!