The Desolate Village

Sweet Village! on thy pastoral hill Arrayed in sunlight sad and still, As if beneath the harvest-moon, Thy noiseless homes were sleeping! It is the merry month of June, And creatures all of air and earth Should now their holiday of mirth With dance and song be keeping. But, loveliest Village! silent Thou, As cloud wreathed o'er the Morning's brow, When light is faintly breaking, And Midnight's voice afar is lost, Like the wailing of a wearied ghost, The shades of earth forsaking.

'Tis not the Day to Scotia dear, A summer Sabbath mild and clear! Yet from her solemn burial-ground The small Kirk-Steeple looks around, Enshrouded in a calm Profound as fills the house of prayer, E'er from the band of virgins fair Is breathed the choral psalm. A sight so steeped in perfect rest Is slumbering not on nature's breast In the smiles of earthly day! 'Tis a picture floating down the sky, By fancy framed in years gone by, And mellowing in decay! That thought is gone!—the Village still With deepening quiet crowns the hill, Its low green roofs are there! In soft material beauty beaming, As in the silent hour of dreaming They hung embowered in air!

Is this the Day when to the mountains The happy shepherds go, And bathe in sparkling pools and fountains Their flocks made white as snow? Hath gentle girl and gamesome boy, With meek-eyed mirth or shouting joy, Gone tripping up the brae? Till far behind their town doth stand, Like an image in sweet Fairy Land, When the Elves have flown away! —O sure if aught of human breath Within these walls remain, Thus deepening in the hush of death, 'Tis but some melancholy crone, Who sits with solemn eyes Beside the cradle all alone, And lulls the infant with a strain Of Scotia's ancient melodies.

What if these homes be filled with life? 'Tis the sultry month of June, And when the cloudless sun rides high Above the glittering air of noon, All nature sinks opprest,— And labour shuts his weary eye In the mid-day hour of rest. Yet let the soul think what it will, Most dirge-like mourns that moorland rill! How different once its flow! When with a dreamy motion gliding Mid its green fields in love abiding, Or leaping o'er the mossy linn, And sporting with its own wild din, Seemed water changed to snow. Beauty lies spread before my sight, But grief-like shadows dim its light, And all the scene appears Like a church-yard when a friend is dying, In more than earthly stillness lying, And glimmering through our tears!

Sweet Woodburn! like a cloud that name Comes floating o'er my soul! Although thy beauty still survive, One look hath changed the whole. The gayest village of the gay Beside thy own sweet river, Wert Thou on Week or Sabbath day! So bathed in the blue light of joy, As if no trouble could destroy Peace doomed to last for ever. Now in the shadow of thy trees, On a green plat, sacred to thy breeze, The fell Plague-Spirit grimly lies And broods, as in despite Of uncomplaining lifelessness, On the troops of silent shades that press Into the church-yard's cold recess, From that region of delight.

Last summer, from the school-house door, When the glad play-bell was ringing, What shoals of bright-haired elves would pour, Like small waves racing on the shore, In dance of rapture singing! Oft by yon little silver well, Now sleeping hi neglected cell, The village-maid would stand, While resting on the mossy bank, With freshened soul the traveller drank The cold cup from her hand; Haply some soldier from the war, Who would remember long and far That Lily of the Land. And still the green is bright with flowers, And dancing through the sunny hours, Like blossoms from enchanted bowers On a sudden wafted by, Obedient to the changeful air, And proudly feeling they are fair, Glide bird and butterfly. But where is the tiny hunter-rout That revelled on with dance and shout Against their airy prey? Alas! the fearless linnet sings, And the bright insect folds its wings Upon the dewy flower that springs Above these children's clay. And if to yon deserted well Some solitary maid, As she was wont at eve, should go— There silent as her shade She stands a while—then sad and slow Walks home, afraid to think Of many a loudly-laughing ring That dipped their pitchers in that spring, And lingered round its brink.

On—on—through woful images My spirit holds her way! Death in each drooping flower she sees: And oft the momentary breeze Is singing of decay. —So high upon the slender bough Why hangs the crow her nest? All undisturbed her young have lain This spring-time in their nest; Nor as they flew on tender wing E'er fear'd the cross-bow or the sling. Tame as the purpling turtle-dove, That walks serene in human love, The magpie hops from door to door; And the hare, not fearing to be seen, Doth gambol on the village green As on the lonely moor. The few sheep wandering by the brook Have all a dim neglected look, Oft bleating in their dumb distress On her their sweet dead shepherdess. The horses pasturing through the range Of gateless fields, all common now, Free from the yoke enjoy the change, To them a long long Sabbath-sleep! Then gathering in one thunderous band, Across the wild they sweep, Tossing the long hair from their eyes— Till far the living whirlwind flies As o'er the desart sand. From human let their course is free— No lonely angler down the lea Invites the zephyr's breath— And the beggar far away doth roam, Preferring in his hovel-home His penury to death. On that green hedge a scattered row Now weather-stained—once white as snow— Of garments that have long been spread, And now belong unto the dead, Shroud-like proclaim to every eye, "This is no place for Charity!"

O blest are ye! unthinking creatures! Rejoicing in your lowly natures Ye dance round human tombs! Where gladlier sings the mountain lark Than o'er the church-yard dim and dark Or where, than on the churchyard wall, From the wild rose-tree brighter fall Her transitory blooms! What is it to that lovely sky If all her worshippers should die! As happily her splendours play On the grave where human forms decay, As o'er the dewy turf of Morn, Where the virgin, like a woodland Fa On wings of joy was borne. —Even now a soft and silvery haze Hill—Village—Tree—is steeping In the loveliness of happier days, Ere rose the voice of weeping! When incense-fires from every hearth To heaven stole beautiful from earth.

Sweet Spire! that crown'st the house of God! To thee my spirit turns, While through a cloud the softened light On thy yellow dial burns. Ah, me! my bosom inly bleeds To see the deep-worn path that leads Unto that open gate! In silent blackness it doth tell How oft thy little sullen bell Hath o'er the village toll'd its knell, In beauty desolate. Oft, wandering by myself at night, Such spire hath risen in softened light Before my gladdened eyes,— And as I looked around to see The village sleeping quietly Beneath the quiet skies,— Methought that mid her stars so bright, The moon in placid mirth, Was not in heaven a holier sight Than God's house on the earth. Sweet image! transient in my soul! That very bell hath ceased to toll When the grave receives its dead— And the last time it slowly swung, 'Twas by a dying stripling rung O'er the sexton's hoary head! All silent now from cot or hall Comes forth the sable funeral! The Pastor is not there! For yon sweet Manse now empty stands, Nor in its walls will holier hands Be e'er held up in prayer.

N.