ON WHIT-MONDAY.

Hark! how the merry bells ring jocund round,

And now they die upon the veering breeze

Anon they thunder loud

Full on the musing ear.

Wafted in varying cadence, by the shore

Of the still twinkling river, they bespeak

A day of jubilee,

An ancient holiday.

And lo! the rural revels are begun,

And gaily echoing to the laughing sky,

On the smooth shaven green

Resounds the voice of Mirth.

Alas! regardless of the tongue of Fate,

That tells them‘ tis but as an hour since they

Who now are in their graves

Kept up the Whitsun dance.

And that another hour, and they must fall

Like those who went before, and sleep as still

Beneath the silent sod,

A cold and cheerless sleep.

Yet why should thoughts like these intrude to scare

The vagrant Happiness, when she will deign

To smile upon us here,

A transient visitor?

Mortals! be gladsome while ye have the power,

And laugh and seize the glittering lapse of joy;

In time the bell will toll

That warns ye to your graves.

I to the woodland solitude will bend

My lonesome way — where Mirth's obstreperous shout

Shall not intrude to break

The meditative hour.

There will I ponder on the state of man,

Joyless and sad of heart, and consecrate

This day of jubilee

To sad reflection's shrine;

And I will cast my fond eye far beyond

This world of care, to where the steeple loud

Shall rock above the sod,

Where I shall sleep in peace.