Faithful if here their lineaments shall flow,
Oh Brydone! may the praise be thine alone!
Since in thy traits arise, thy colours glow,
The bright destroyers on their burning throne!
How raptured fancy burns, while warm in thought
I trace the pictured landscape; while I kiss,
With pilgrim lips devout, the sacred soil
Stain'd with the blood of heroes.
Cyrnus, hail!
Hail to thy rocky, deep indented shores,
And pointed cliffs, which hear the chafing deep
Incessant foaming round their shaggy sides.
Hail to thy winding bays, thy sheltering ports,
And ample harbours, which inviting stretch
Their hospitable arms to every sail:
Thy numerous streams, that bursting from the cliff's
Down the steep channel'd rock impetuous pour
With grateful murmur: on the fearful edge
Of the rude precipice, thy hamlets brown
And straw-roof'd cots, which, from the level vale
Scarce seen amongst the craggy hanging cliffs,
Seem like an eagle's nest aerial built.
Thy swelling mountains, brown with solemn shade
Of various trees, that wave their giant arms
O'er the rough sons of freedom; lofty pines,
And hardy fir, and ilex ever green,
And spreading chesnut, with each humbler plant,
And shrub of fragrant leaf, that clothes their sides
With living verdure; whence the clustering bee
Extracts her golden dews: the shining box,
And sweet leaved myrtle, aromatic thyme,
The prickly juniper, and the green leaf
Which feeds the spinning worm; while glowing
bright
Beneath the various foliage, wildly spreads
The arbutus, and rears his scarlet fruit
Luxuriant, mantling o'er the craggy steeps;
And thy own native laurel crowns the scene.
Hail to thy savage forests awful, deep;
Thy tangled thickets, and thy crowded woods,
The haunt of herds untamed; which sullen bound
From rock to rock with fierce unsocial air,
And wilder gaze, as conscious of the power
That loves to reign amid the lonely scenes
Of unquell'd nature: precipices huge,
And tumbling torrents, trackless deserts, plains
Fenced in with guardian rocks, whose quarries teem
With shining steel, that to the cultured fields
And sunny hills, which wave with bearded grain,
Defends their homely produce. Liberty,
The mountain goddess, loves to range at large
Amid such scenes, and on the iron soil
Prints her majestic step. For these she scorns
The green enamel'd vales, the velvet lap
Of smooth savannahs, where the pillow'd head Of luxury reposes; balmy gales
And bowers that breathe of bliss. For these, when This isle emerging like a beauteous gem
From the dark bosom of the Tyrrhene main Rear'd its fair front, she mark'd it for her own, And with her spirit warm'd.
AN AFRICAN NIGHT SCENE.
AMID the nightly prowlers of thy wilds,
Britain! man walks serene: in all their tribes
None found to bid him tremble, none to aim
Talon or fang against their rightful lord.
O, wretched he whom Senegambian shades
Inclose at eve! He, while a vault of flame
Smote on his brow, and scorch'd his gasping throat,
Day after day through sandy oceans toil'd,
Where deathlike silence brooded o'er the waste,
And boundless space seem'd but a larger grave:
No sign that ever foot the burning earth
Had track'd, or life inhaled the vapoury fire,
Save when some camel's bleaching ribs he pass'd,
Or corse of long-lost pilgrim parch'd to stone.
If to a bordering forest, when the sun
Kindles the west, his weary course draw nigh;
Soon as the orb its last red crescent dips,
At once the lion's desert-shaking roar,
The gaunt hyena's shriek, the panther's growl,
And yells of every tone that breathes dismay,
Strain'd from unnumber'd throats athirst for blood,
Join dissonant: with serpent hiss the gloom
Quivers: the herded elephants advance [woods
With thundering shock, and through opposing
Crush their wide way. Now the brief twilight
In agony he shudders; through the dusk [fades:
Sees fiery eyeballs glare, and hears the rout
Of countless antelopes, than tropic storms
More fleet, rush headlong from the gripe of death;
Hears famish'd monsters panting in the chase,
And cries and groans proclaim the arrested flight
Of victim after victim. Stretch'd on earth, Each limb with icy dread convulsed, he lies, Lies powerless, hopeless: and with vain regret Sighs for the horrors of the fervid noon,
Where deathlike silence brooded o'er the wild, And boundless space seem'd but a larger grave; Where late the camel's bleaching ribs he pass'd, And corse of long-lost pilgrim parch'd to stone. O wretch, whom noon shall never light again!
INSCRIPTION FOR A FOUNTAIN ON A HEATH.
THIS Sycamore, oft musical with bees,
Such tents the patriarchs loved! O, long unharmed May all its aged boughs o'ercanopy
The small round basin, which this jutting stone
Keeps pure from falling leaves! Long may the
Quietly as a sleeping infant's breath, [spring,
Send up cold waters to the traveller
With soft and even pulse! Nor ever cease
Yon tiny cone of sand its soundless dance,
Which at the bottom, like a fairy's page,
As merry and no taller, dances still,
Nor wrinkles the smooth surface of the fount.
Here twilight is and coolness: here is moss,
A soft seat, and a deep and ample shade.
Thou mayst toil far and find no second tree.
Drink, pilgrim, here! Here rest! and if thy heart
Be innocent, here too shalt thou refresh
Thy spirit, listening to some gentle sound,
Or passing gale, or hum of murmuring bees!
IN A DRAWING OF A LANDSCAPE.
AFTER a lonely course through yon deep woods,
And the green quietness of distant vales,
Now, gentle river, to the haunts of men
The rude stone arches stretching o'er thy flood
Note thine approach; and as with silent lapse
Thou glidest under them, the staid old cow
And lumpish horse above are driven afield
By time-worn herdsman. Then, in swifter course,
Thy lately tranquil streams, jocund and loud,
Rush down the Wier. Again,soon calm'd, they flow,
And the young day shines on their glassy train.
So dost thou wander by the pleasant base
Of a clean village, climbing up the steep
And shrubby knoll; while, bosom❜d in thick trees,
The church the hill top crowns. The day is young;
Closed yonder cottage door; the din and hum
Of clamorous infants and laborious man
Unheard as yet, though from the chimney top
The gray smoke, rising to the churchyard trees,
Curls its light vapour round the boughs, and gives
Promise of morning meal. Behold the cart
That late, well loaded, on thy pebbled bank
Had creak'd and crept, at the yet silent mill
Stopp'd, those full stores resigning, which shall soon
Employ thy loitering waters, and awake
The clattering hubbub of the busy scene.
Adown those rocky stairs, which to thy brink
Lead from the hamlet cots, erewhile shall step,
With cleanly pail light rocking on her head,
The rustic maid, new-risen; for she has seen,
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