Fill up the furrows 'tween the hillock'd graves. But list that moan! 'tis the poor blind man's dog, Tho' bred to brave the deep: the lightning's flash eyes. He was a welcome guest thro' all his range; (It was not wide;) no dog would bay at him: Children would run to meet him on his way, And lead him to a 'sunny seat, and climb 1 His knee, and wonder at his oft-told tales. Peace to thy spirit, that now looks on me, To see thee wand'ring darkling on thy way. But let me quit this melancholy spot, That copes the sheepfold ring; and in the woods Flowers faintly ting'd, and breathing no perfume. But fruits, not blossoms, form the woodland wreath That circles Autumn's brow: The ruddy haws Now clothe the half-leaf'd thorn; the bramble bends Beneath its jetty load; the hazel hangs With auburn bunches, dipping in the stream That sweeps along, and threatens to o'erflow A WINTER SABBATH WALK. How dazzling white the snowy scene! deep, deep The stillness of the winter Sabbath day, Not ev'n a foot-fall heard. Smooth are the fields, High-ridg'd the whirl'd drift has almost reach'd H The powder'd key-stone of the church-yard porch. Mute hangs the hooded bell; the tombs lie buried; No step approaches to the house of prayer. THE flickering fall is o'er: the clouds disperse, And shew the sun, hung o'er the welkin's verge, Shooting a bright but ineffectual beam On all the sparkling waste. Now is the time |