AIREY FORCE.
Aye, underneath yon shadowy side,
I could be fain to fix my home;
Where dashes down the torrent’s pride,
In sparkling wave, and silver foam.
No other sound is waking there,
But that perpetual voice, which seems
Like spirit-music on the air,
An echo from the world of dreams.
They were more wise in other days;
Then turned the hermit to his cell,
And left a world where all betrays,
Apart with his own thoughts to dwell.
Content to curb the heart, to be
Indifferent, quiet, mournful, cold
With hopes turned into memory,
With feelings that had lost their hold.
Far better this, than such vain life
As is in crowded cities known;
Where care, repining, grief, and strife,
Make every passing hour their own.
There, by yon torrent’s rushing wave,
I’d pass what yet of time remain'd;
And feel the quiet of the grave
Long ere that grave itself were gain’d.
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