England's wild flowers are fair to view, Like balm is England's summer dew Like gold her sunset ray.
But the white violets, growing here, Are sweeter than I yet have seen, And ne'er did dew so pure and clear Distil on forest mosses green, As now, called forth by summer heat, Perfumes our cool and fresh retreat--
These fragrant limes between.
That sunset! Look beneath the boughs, Over the copse--beyond the hills;How soft, yet deep and warm it glows, And heaven with rich suffusion fills;With hues where still the opal's tint, Its gleam of prisoned fire is blent, Where flame through azure thrills!
Depart we now--for fast will fade That solemn splendour of decline, And deep must be the after-shade As stars alone to-night will shine;No moon is destined--pale--to gaze On such a day's vast Phoenix blaze, A day in fires decayed!
There--hand-in-hand we tread again The mazes of this varying wood, And soon, amid a cultured plain, Girt in with fertile solitude, We shall our resting-place descry, Marked by one roof-tree, towering high Above a farmstead rude.
Refreshed, erelong, with rustic fare, We'll seek a couch of dreamless ease;Courage will guard thy heart from fear, And Love give mine divinest peace:
To-morrow brings more dangerous toil, And through its conflict and turmoil We'll pass, as God shall please.
[The preceding composition refers, doubtless, to the scenes acted in France during the last year of the Consulate.]
FRANCES.
She will not sleep, for fear of dreams, But, rising, quits her restless bed, And walks where some beclouded beams Of moonlight through the hall are shed.
Obedient to the goad of grief, Her steps, now fast, now lingering slow, In varying motion seek relief From the Eumenides of woe.
Wringing her hands, at intervals--
But long as mute as phantom dim--
She glides along the dusky walls, Under the black oak rafters grim.