Where safe and happily he might have lurk'd,) Elate upon ambition's gaudy wings, Forgetful of his origin, and worse, Unthinking of his end, flies to the stream, Mistakes th' inverted image of the sky For heav'n itself, and sinking meets his fate. Now, let me trace the stream up to its source Among the hills: its runnel by degrees Diminishing, the murmur turns a tinkle. Closer and closer still the banks approach, Into the open air: grateful the breeze That fans my throbbing temples! smiles the plain That thousands, and ten thousands of the sons Of rest, of peace, of viewing hill and dale, AGAIN I turn me to the hill, and trace The wizard stream, now scarce to be discern'd, Woodless its banks, but green with ferny leaves, And thinly strew'd with heath-bells up and down. Now, when the downward sun has left the glens, Each mountain's rugged lineaments are trac’d How deep the hush! the torrent's channel dry, But hark a plaintive sound floating along! Which He, who listens to the halleluiahs Of choiring Seraphim-delights to hear; It is the music of the heart, the voice The grandsire and the saint; his silvery locks open book, His comfort, stay, and ever-new delight; While, heedless at a side, the lisping boy Fondles the lamb that nightly shares his couch. AN AUTUMN SABBATH WALK. WHEN homeward bands their sev'ral ways dis perse, I love to linger in the narrow field Of rest, to wander round from tomb to tomb, Sad sighs the wind that from these ancient elms Shakes showers of leaves the wither'd grass: upon The sere and yellow wreaths, with eddying sweep, |