James Grahame

"How still the morning of the hallow'd day! Mute is the voice of rural labour, hush'd The ploughboy's whistle, and the milkmaid's song. The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers, That yestermorn bloom'd waving in the breeze: The faintest sounds attract the ear, — the hum Of early bee, the trickling of the dew, The distant bleating, midway up the hill."

"Nature gives a parting smile. As yet the blue-bells linger on the sod That copes the sheepfold ring; and in the woods A second blow of many flowers appears, Flowers faintly ting'd and breathing no perfume. But fruits, not blossoms, form the woodland wreath That circles Autumn's brow."

"How pleasant came thy rushing, silver Tweed! Upon my ear when, after roaming long In southern plains, I've reach'd thy lovely bank! How bright, renowned Sark, thy little stream, Like ray of column'd light chasing a shower, Would cross my homeward path! how sweet the sound When I, to hear the Doric tongue's reply, Would ask thy well-known name."

"'Tis thine to curb the passions' madd'ning sway, And wipe the mourner's bitter tear away; 'Tis thine to soothe when hope itself has fled, And cheer with angel smile the sufferer's bed; To give to earth its charm, to life its zest, One only task, — to bless, and to be blest."

"The helm may rust, the laurel bough may fade, Oblivion's grasp may blunt the victor's blade: But that bright holy wreath which learning gives, Untorn by hate, unharm'd by envy lives."