THERE is a quiet spirit in these woods, That dwells where'er the gentle south wind blows; Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade,
The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air, The leaves above their sunny palms outspread. With what a tender and impassioned voice It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought, When the fast-ushering star of morning comes. O'er-riding the gray hills with golden scarf; Or when the cowled and dusky-sandaled Eve, In mourning weeds, from out the western gate, Departs with silent pace! That spirit moves In the green valley, where the silver brook, From its full laver, pours the white cascade; And, babbling low amid the tangled woods,
Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter. And frequent, on the everlasting hills,
Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself
In all the dark embroidery of the storm,
And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid
The silent majesty of these deep woods,
Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth, As to the sunshine and the pure bright air,
Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades. For them there was an eloquent voice in all The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun, The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way, Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle wings,-
The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes,— Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in, Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale, The distant lake, fountains,-and mighty trees, In many a lazy syllable, repeating
Their old poetic legends to the wind.
And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill The world; and, in these wayward days of youth, My busy fancy oft embodies it,
As a bright image of the light and beauty That dwell in nature,-of the heavenly forms We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues
That stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the clouds When the sun sets. Within her eye
The heaven of April, with its changing light,
And when it wears the blue of May, is hung,
And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair
Is like the summer tresses of the trees,
When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek Blushes the richness of an autumn sky,
With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath, It is so like the gentle air of Spring,
As, from the morning's dewy flowers, it comes Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy
To have it round us,-and her silver voice
Is the rich music of a summer bird,
Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence.
SHEPHERD! that with thine amorous, sylvan song Hast broken the slumber which encompassed me,- That mad'st thy crook from the accursed tree, On which thy powerful arms were stretched so long! Lead me to mercy's ever-flowing fountains; For thou my shepherd, guard, and guide shalt be; I will obey thy voice, and wait to see
Thy feet all beautiful upon the mountains.
Hear, Shepherd!-Thou who for thy flock art dying, O, wash away these scarlet sins, for thou Rejoicest at the contrite sinner's vow.
O, wait!—to thee my weary soul is crying,
Wait for me!-Yet why ask it when I see,
With feet nailed to the cross, thou'rt waiting still for me!
FROM THE SPANISH OF LOPE DE VEGA.
LORD, what am I, that, with unceasing care, Thou didst seek after me,-that thou didst wait, Wet with unhealthy dews, before my gate, And pass the gloomy nights of winter there? O strange delusion!-that I did not greet Thy blest approach, and O, to Heaven how lost, If my ingratitude's unkindly frost
Has chilled the bleeding wounds upon thy feet.
How oft my guardian angel gently cried,
"Soul, from thy casement look, and thou shalt see
How he persists to knock and wait for thee!"
And, O! how often to that voice of sorrow,
"To-morrow we will open," I replied,
And when the morrow came I answered still, "To-morrow."
FROM THE SPANISH OF FRANCISCO DE ALDANA.
CLEAR fount of light! my native land on high, Bright with a glory that shall never fade! Mansion of truth! without a veil or shade,
Thy holy quiet meets the spirit's eye.
« PreviousContinue » |