But most on some peculiar nook
That our own hands have drest,
Thou and thy train are proud to look,
And seem to love it best.
7 And yet how pleased we wander forth
When May is whispering, "Come!
Choose from the bowers of virgin earth
The happiest for your home;
Heaven's bounteous love through me is spread
From sunshine, clouds, winds, waves,
Drops on the mouldering turret's head,
And on your turf-clad graves!"
8 Such greeting heard, away with sighs
For lilies that must fade,
Or "the rathe primrose as it dies
Forsaken" in the shade!
Vernal fruitions and desires
Are link'd in endless chase;
While, as one kindly growth retires,
Another takes its place.
9 And what if thou, sweet May, hast known Mishap by worm and blight;
If expectations newly blown
Have perish'd in thy sight;
If loves and joys, while up they sprung,
Were caught as in a snare :
Such is the lot of all the young,
However bright and fair.
10 Lo! streams that April could not check
Are patient of thy rule;
Gurgling in foamy water-break,
Loitering in glassy pool:
By thee, thee only, could be sent
Such gentle mists as glide,
Curling with unconfirm'd intent
On that green mountain's side.
11 How delicate the leafy veil
Through which yon house of God
Gleams 'mid the peace of this deep dale
By few but shepherds trod !
And lowly huts, near beaten ways,
No sooner stand attired
In thy fresh wreaths, than they for praise
Peep forth, and are admired.
12 Season of fancy and of hope,
Permit not for one hour,
A blossom from thy crown to drop,
Nor add to it a flower!
Keep, lovely May, as if by touch
Of self-restraining art,
This modest charm of not too much,
Part seen, imagined part!
"Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow."-ST. MATTHEW, vi. 28.
1 SWEET nurslings of the vernal skies,
Bathed in soft airs, and fed with dew,
What more than magic in you lies
To fill the heart's fond view!
In childhood's sports, companions gay;
In sorrow, on Life's downward way,
How soothing! in our last decay
Memorials prompt and true.
2 Relics ye are of Eden's bowers,
As pure, as fragrant, and as fair,
As when ye crown'd the sunshine hours
Of happy wanderers there.
Fall'n all besides, — the world of life,
How is it stain'd with fear and strife!
In Reason's world what storms are rife,
What passions range and glare!
3 But cheerful and unchanged the while
Your first and perfect form ye show,
The same that won Eve's matron smile
In the world's opening glow.
The stars of heaven a course are taught
Too high above our human thought;
Ye may be found if ye are sought,
And, as we gaze, we know.
4 Ye dwell beside our paths and homes,
Our paths of sin, our homes of sorrow;
And guilty man, where'er he roams,
Your innocent mirth may borrow.
The birds of air before us fleet,
They cannot brook our shame to meet;
But we may taste your solace sweet,
And come again to-morrow.
5 Ye fearless in your nests abide ;
Nor may we scorn, too proudly wise,
Your silent lessons, undescried
By all but lowly eyes:
For ye could draw th' admiring gaze
Of Him who worlds and hearts surveys:
Your order wild, your fragrant maze,
He taught us how to prize.
6 Ye felt your Maker's smile that hour, As when He paused and own'd you good; His blessing on Earth's primal bower,
Ye felt it all renew'd.
What care ye now, if Winter's storm
Sweep ruthless o'er each silken form?
Christ's blessing at your heart is warm,
Ye fear no vexing mood.
7 Alas! of thousand bosoms kind
That daily court you and caress,
How few the happy secret find
Of your calm loveliness !.
ON LEAVING A DEAR OLD HOME.
"Live for to-day! to-morrow's light
To-morrow's cares shall bring to sight;
Go sleep like closing flowers at night,
And Heaven thy morn will bless."
ON LEAVING A DEAR OLD HOME.
Low was our pretty cot: our tallest rose
Peep'd at the chamber-window. We could hear
At silent noon, and eve, and early morn,
The sea's faint murmur. In the open air
Our myrtles blossom'd; and across the porch
Thick jasmins twined: the little landscape round
Was green and woody, and refresh'd the eye.
It was a spot which you might aptly call
The Valley of Seclusion. Once I saw
(Hallowing his Sabbath-day by quietness)
A wealthy son of commerce saunter by,
Bristowa's citizen: methought it calm'd
His thirst of idle gold, and made him muse
With wiser feelings; for he paused, and look'd
With a pleased sadness, and gazed all around,
Then eyed our cottage, and gazed round again,
And sigh'd, and said it was a blessed Place.
And we were blessèd. Oft with patient ear
Long-listening to the viewless sky-lark's note,
(Viewless, or haply for a moment seen
Gleaming on sunny wings,) in whisper'd tones
I've said to my beloved, "Such, sweet girl,
The inobtrusive song of happiness,
Unearthly minstrelsy! then only heard
When the soul seeks to hear; when all is hush'd,
And the heart listens."
From that low dell steep up the stony mount
I climb'd with perilous toil, and reach'd the top,
O, what a goodly scene! Here the bleak mount,
The bare bleak mountain speckled thin with sheep;
Gray clouds, that shadowing spot the sunny fields;
And river, now with bushy rocks o'erbrow'd,
Now winding bright and full, with naked banks;
And seats, and lawns, the abbey, and the wood,
And cots, and hamlets, and faint city-spire;
The channel there, the islands and white sails,
Dim coasts, and cloud-like hills, and shoreless Ocean, -
It seem'd like Omnipresence. God, methought,
Had built Him there a temple: the whole world
Seem'd imaged in its vast circumference.
No wish profaned my overwhelmèd heart.
Blest hour! It was a luxury-to be!
Ah, quiet dell, dear cot, and mount sublime!
I was constrain'd to quit you. Was it right,
While my unnumber'd brethren toil'd and bled,
That I should dream away th' intrusted hours
On rose-leaf beds, pampering the coward heart
With feelings all too delicate for use?
Sweet is the tear that from some Howard's eye
Drops on the cheek of one he lifts from earth:
And he that works me good with unmoved face
Does it but half; he chills me while he aids,
My benefactor, not my brother man.
Yet even this, this cold beneficence,
Praise, praise it, O my Soul! oft as thou scann'st
The sluggard Pity's vision-weaving tribe,
Who sigh for wretchedness, yet shun the wretched,
Nursing in some delicious solitude
Their slothful loves and dainty sympathies.
I therefore go, and join head, heart, and hand,
Active and firm, to fight the bloodless fight
Of science, freedom, and the truth in Christ.
Yet oft, when after honourable toil
Rests the tired mind, and waking loves to dream,
My spirit shall revisit thee, dear cot,
Thy jasmin and thy window-peeping rose,
And myrtles fearless of the mild sea-air.
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