Classic Poem

IN A RURAL 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 stealest 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;
Clos'd yonder cottage door; the din and talk
Of clamorous infants and laborious man
Unheard as yet, tho' from the chimney tops
The grey smoke, rising to the church-yard trees,
Curls its light vapour round their boughs, and gives,
Promise of morning's meal. Behold the cart,
That late, well-loaded, on thy pebbled bank
Had creaked and crept, at the yet silent mill
Stopt; those full stores resigning, which shall soon
Employ thy silent 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,
Through lattice curtain'd by the briar rose,
Her cow slow pacing up thy left hand bank,
Intelligent of hour, the burden rich
Duteous to yield; and, yet more welcome, sees,
Not far behind, the youth belov'd, from cops'd
And hay-stack'd tenement down in the vale.
Yes! and thou soon shalt hear the tender vows
Of true love breath'd; and breath'd in sweeter sound
Than song of linnet, or the quiet tune
Of thine own streams when hush'd are all the woods.
Mark that clos'd door, for it shall open soon.
It is the good dame's school, and in shall throng
Like bees in spring time to their dusky hive,
The little troop, and in resembling hum
Mutter the morning task; but when yon tower
Shall tell, far heard, the welcome tale of noon,
Some striding and some tumbling o'er the sill,
The infant tribe releas'd, with prattle loud
Shall totter down, and on thy shelving bank
Shout, laugh, and squabble, strenuous while they hurl
The frequent stone; dividing thy smooth waves.
But, on the morrow, Sabbath bells shall ring,
And 'twixt the matin and the vesper hour,
And at the rosy setting of the sun,
That little lawless multitude, which late,
Noisy and wild, had clamour'd on thy bank,
In Sunday vestments, and with sober gait
Walk by their parents' side; while from each hand,
The varied posy, dappled pinks, and rose,
Woodbine, and fragrant southernwood, and thyme,
Scent the wide air. Leisure and quietness,
Apparel clean, and vacant looks, all speak
The sacred day of rest; and thou shalt bear,
From that wood-mantled tower, the holy chimes,
Silver'd and mellow'd on thy liquid course,
To neighbouring farm, and cot. There we may trust
Right welcome is the sound, more welcome still
The Pastor's voice persuasive, when he speaks
Of hopes eternal. Charitable deeds
Shedding a daily beauty on his life,
That makes his doctrine saintly; while, combin'd,
They form a picture, delicate of trait,
As the soft scene now mirror'd on thy breast;
While the soft scene, and thou its mirror fair,
Are all the sweet creation of his hand,
Whose touch is Genius , and whose life is Love .