Classic Poem

ODE XXXIX.

AFTER VISITING DRYBURGH ABBEY, IN BERWICKSHIRE, THE SEAT OF LORD AND LADY BUCHAN .

I.

While June, in rosy vestments gay,
Swells beauteous on the sight,
While yet the cuckoo cheers the day,
And slowly comes the night;
How sweet, on shelter'd bank reclin'd,
To sing (for song can charm the mind)
When noontide's feverish heats prevail!
Or, near some oak's thick branches laid,
To muse within the silent shade,
And taste meek evening's mellow gale!

II.

Ah! Pleasure, whither wouldst thou lead?
To hill, or clover'd dell?
To woodland scene, or flowery mead? —
Or hermit's moss-grown cell?
To rosy nymphs, and tawny swains,
Go, breathe thy soul in rapt'rous strains;
And ply thy feet in sprightly dance;
Or, if the hermit-haunt delight,
Assist some pious Votary's sight,
And wrap him in seraphic trance.

III.

If Fancy, nymph of elfin race,
Thy rural walk attend,
Then hie thee to the circle's space,
Where sportive fairies bend:
And, when the night-winds slowly rise,
When moon-light slumbers thro' the skies,
Their little forms shall start to view;
And they shall sing and dance and play,
Till twinkles light the eye of day; —
Then disappear — like morning dew.

IV.

But, oh! if soul of earthly mould,
Of heav'n not yet secure,
For vision'd ecstasies too cold,
May yet thy smile ensure;
Blest Power, disdain not thou his prayer!
For thou canst, with a matron's care,
More sober joys around diffuse;
Give him to glow with soul of fire,
Teach him to strike the rapt'rous lyre,
The humblest votary of the Muse.

V.

His passions, when they restless grow,
Song, like some god, should chain;
And, when his bosom melts with woe,
Should ev'n endear his pain.
Where Tweed swift rolls his sounding tide,
Fair Dryburgh's sainted walls beside,
Should such a pilgrim bend his feet,
Him would Ascanius bid to share,
Kind hermit-host, his hermit-fare,
And fair Emilia's smiles should greet.

VI.

And they should hail his pilgrim-song,
(They love the tuneful race)
And shew him where the bardic throng
Each holds a sainted place:
And where, amid the valley gay,
The silver Eden loves to stray,
Would shew the village-pastor's cot,
Whence he, the bard of modest mien,
First peep'd to catch the living scene; —
And he would bless the favourite spot.

VII.

But thou, hoar pile, where bigot Zeal
Could fix her baneful seat;
And Sloth her hideous form conceal
Within the Saint's retreat, —
Here Wisdom still shall find her cell,
And Love, with her associate, dwell;
The Muse shall raise her temple here;
And while Ascanius gazes 'round
Still shall he call it holy ground,
His hallow'd bards shall still revere.

VIII.

" Generous they were of soul, and yet
" From greatness liv'd retir'd;
" Living they charm'd; — and paid the debt;
" And, not unmourn'd, expir'd.
" Traveller, within thy gentle breast
" Does Kindness dwell, a virgin-guest?
" Forbear to breathe thy pity here.
" Survey the tribes of human kind: —
" — Canst thou no living mourner find?
" — Then look around, and drop a tear. "