James Grahame Poems

Dear to my soul! ah, early lost!
Affection's arm was weak to save:
Now friendship's pride, and virtue's boast,
Have come to an untimely grave!
...

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.
...

Six days the heavenly host, in circle vast,
Like that untouching cincture which enzones
The globe of Saturn, compass'd wide this orb,
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How dazzling white the snowy scene! deep, deep,
The stillness of the winter Sabbath day, -
Not even a foot-fall heard. - Smooth are the fields,
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When homeward bands their several ways disperse,
I love to linger in the narrow field
Of rest, to wander round from tomb to tomb,
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Blind, poor, and helpless Bartimeus sat,
Listening the foot of the wayfaring man,
Still hoping that the next, and still the next,
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Who
is my mother, or my brethren?
He spake, and look'd on them who sat around,
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The long-piled mountain-snows at last dissolve,
Bursting the roaring river's brittle bonds.
Ponderous the fragments down the cataract shoot,
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While wind and rain drive through the half-stripped trees,
Fanners and flails go merrily in the barn.
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Through boughs still leafless, or through foliage thin,
The sloping primrose-bed lies fair exposed,
...