Whose course hath been chang'd! yet my
soul can survey
The clear cloudless morn of that glorious day.
Yes! the wide silent forest is loud as of yore,
And the far-ebbed grandeur rolls back to
the shore.
I wake from my trance!-lo! the Sun is declining!
And the Black-mount afar in his lustre is
-One soft golden gleam ere the twilight prevail !
With what a pensive beauty fall
Across the mossy mouldering wall
That rose-tree's clustered arches! See
The robin-redbreast warily,
Bright through the blossoms, leaves his nest :
Sweet ingrate! through the winter blest
At the firesides of men-but shy
Through all the sunny summer-hours,
He hides himself among the flowers
In his own wild festivity.
What lulling sound, and shadow cool
Hangs half the darkened church-yard o'er,
From thy green depths so beautiful.
Thou gorgeous sycamore!
Oft hath the holy wine and bread
Been blest beneath thy murmuring tent,
Where many a bright and hoary head
twink-Bowed at that awful sacrament.
Then down let me sink to the cot in the dale,
Where sings the fair maid to the viol so
sweet,
Or the floor is alive with her white
ling feet.
Down, down like a bird to the depth of the
dell!
-Vanish'd Creature! I bid thy fair image
farewell!
How sweet and solemn, all alone,
With reverend steps, from stone to stone
In a small village-church-yard lying,
O'er intervening flowers to move!
And as we read the names unknown
Of young and old to judgment gone,
And hear in the calm air above
Time onwards softly flying,
To meditate, in Christian love,
Upon the dead and dying!
Across the silence seem to go
With dream-like motion, wavering, slow,
And shrouded in their folds of snow,
The friends we loved long long ago!
Gliding across the sad retreat,
How beautiful their phantom-feet!
What tenderness is in their eyes,
Turned where the poor survivor lies
'Mid monitory sanctities!
What years of vanished joy are fanned
From one uplifting of that hand
In its white stillness! when the Shade
Doth glimmeringly in sunshine fade
From our embrace, how dim appears
This world's life through a mist of tears!
Vain hopes! blind sorrows! needless fears!
Such is the scene around me now:
A little Church-yard on the brow
Of a green pastoral hill;
Its sylvan village sleeps below,
And faintly here is heard the flow
Of Woodburn's summer-rill;
A place where all things mournful meet,
And yet the sweetest of the sweet,
The stillest of the still!
Now all beneath the turf are laid
On which they sat, and sang, and prayed.
Above that consecrated tree
Ascends the tapering spire that seems
To lift the soul up silently
To heaven with all its dreams,
While in the belfry, deep and low,
From his heaved bosom's purple gleams
The dove's continuous murmurs flow,
A dirge-like song, half-bliss, half-woe,
The voice so lonely seems!
How beautiful the pastime of the Spring! Lo! newly waking from her wintry dream, She, like a smiling infant, timid plays On the green margin of this sunny lake, Fearing, by starts, the little breaking waves (If riplings rather known by sound than sight
May haply so be named) that in the grass
Soon fade in murmuring mirth; now seeming
proud
To venture round the edge of yon far point,
That from an eminence softly sinking down,
Doth from the wide and homeless waters
shape
A scene of tender, delicate repose,
Fit haunt for thee, in thy first hours of joy,
Delightful Spring!—nor less an emblem fair,
Like thee, of beauty, innocence, and youth.
On such a day, 'mid such a scene as this,
Methinks the poets who in lovely hymns
Have sung thy reign, sweet Power, and
wished it long,
In their warm hearts conceived those eulogies
That, lending to the world inanimate
A pulse and spirit of life, for aye preserve
The sanctity of Nature, and embalm
Her fleeting spectacles in memory's cell
In spite of time's mutations. Onwards roll
The ciroling seasons, and as each gives birth
To dreams peculiar, yea destructive oft
Of former feelings, in oblivion's shade
Sleep the fair visions of forgotten hours.
But Nature calls the poet to her aid,
And in his lays beholds her glory live
For ever. Thus, in winter's deepest gloom,
When all is dim before the outward eye,
Nor the ear catches one delightful sound,
They who have wander'd in their musing-
walks
With the great poets, in their spirits feel
No change on earth, but see the unalter'd
woods
Laden with beauty, and inhale the song
Of birds, airs, echoes, and of vernal showers.
So hath it been with me, delightful Spring! And now I hail thee as a friend who pays An annual visit, yet whose image lives From parting to return, and who is blest Each time with blessings warmer than before.
Oh! gracious Power! for thy beloved approach
The expecting earth lay wrapt in kindling
smiles,
Struggling with tears, and often overcome.
A blessing sent before thee from the heavens,
A balmy spirit breathing tenderness,
Prepared thy way, and all created things
Felt that the angel of delight was near.
Thou camest at last, and such a heavenly
smile
Send a soft bleating like an infant's voice,
Half happy, half afraid! () blessed things!
At sight of this your perfect innocence,
The sterner thoughts of manhood melt away
Into a mood as mild as woman's dreams.
The strife of working intellect; the stir
Of hopes ambitious; the disturbing sound
Of fame, and all that worshipp'd pageantry
That ardent spirits burn for in their pride,
Fly like disparting clouds, and leave the soul
Pure and serene as the blue depths of heaven.
Now, is the time in some meek solitude To hold communion with those innocent thoughts
That bless'd our earlier days;-to list the
voice
Of Conscience murmuring from her inmost
shrine,
And learn if still she sing the quiet tune
That fill'd the ear of youth. If then we feel,
That 'mid the powers, the passions, and
desires
Of riper age, we still have kept our hearts
Free from pollution and 'mid tempting scenes
Walk'd on with pure and unreproved steps,
Fearless of guilt, as if we knew it not;
Ah me! with what a new sublimity
Will the green hills lift up their sunny heads,
Ourselves as stately. Smiling will we gaze
On the clouds whose happy home is in the
heavens;
Nor envy the clear streamlet that pursues
His course 'mid flowers and music to the sea.
Shone round thee, as beseem'd the eldest-But dread the beauty of a vernal day,
Of Nature's guardian-spirits. The great Snn,
Scattering the clouds with a resistless smile,
Came forth to do thee homage; a sweet hymn
Was by the low Winds chaunted in the sky;
And when thy feet descended on the earth,
Scarce could they move amid the clustering
flowers
By Nature strewn o'er valley, hill, and field,
To hail her blest deliverer!- Ye fair Trees,
How are ye changed, and changing while I
gaze!
It seems as if some gleam of verdant light
Fell on you from a rainbow; but it lives
Amid your tendrils, brightening every hour
Into a deeper radiance. Ye sweet Birds,
Were you asleep through all the wintry
hours,
Beneath the waters, or in mossy caves?
There are, 'tis said, birds that pursue the
Spring,
Where'er she flies, or else in death-like sleep
Abide her annual reign, when forth they
Thou trembler before memory! To the saint
What sight so lovely as the angel-form
That smiles upon his sleep! The sinner veils
His face ashamed,-unable to endure
The upbraiding silence of the seraph's
eyes!-
Yet awful must it be, even to the best
And wisest man, when he beholds the sun
Prepared once more to run his annual round
Of glory and of love, and thinks that God
To him, though sojourning in earthly shades,
Hath also given an orbit, whence his light
May glad the nations, or at least diffuse
Peace and contentment over those he loves!
His soul expanded by the breath of Spring,
With holy confidence the thoughtful man
Renews his vows to virtue,-vows that bind
To purest motives and most useful deeds.
Thus solemnly doth pass the vernal day,
In abstinence severe from worldly thoughts;
Lofty disdainings of all trivial joys
Or sorrows; meditations long and deep
On objects fit for the immortal love
Of souls immortal; weeping penitence
For duties (plain though highest duties be)
Despised or violated; humblest vows,
With freshen'd plumage and enraptured song,
As ye do now, unwearied choristers,
Till the land ring with joy. Yet are ye not,
Sporting in tree and air, more beautiful
Than the young lambs, that from the valley-Though humble strong as death, henceforth
Elate in innocence; and, holier still,
Warm gushings of his spirit unto God
For all his past existence, whether bright,
As the spring-landscape sleeping in the sun,
Or dim and desolate like a wintry sea
Stormy and boding storms! Oh! such will be
Frequent and long his musings, till he feels
As all the stir subsides, like busy day
Soft-melting into eve's tranquillity,
How blest is peace when born within the soul.
And therefore do I sing these pensive
O Spring! to thee, though thou by some art call'd
Parent of mirth and rapture, worshipp'd best
With festive dances and a choral song.
No melancholy man am I, sweet Spring!
Who, filling all things with his own poor
griefs,
Sees nought but sadness in the character
Of universal Nature, and who weaves
Most doleful ditties in the midst of joy.
Yet knowing something, dimly though it be,
And therefore still more awful, of that
strange
And most tumultuous thing, the heart of man, It chanceth oft, that, mix'd with Nature's smiles,
My soul beholds a solemn quietness
That almost looks like grief, as if on earth
There were no perfect joy, and happiness
Still trembled on the brink of misery!
Yea! mournful thoughts like these even now arise,
While Spring, like Nature's smiling infancy, Sports round me, and all images of peace Seem native to this earth, nor other home Desire or know. Yet doth a mystic chain Link in our hearts foreboding fears of death With every loveliest thing that seems to us Most deeply fraught with life. Is there a child
More beauteous than its playmates, even more pure Than they? while gazing on its face, we think
That one so fair most surely soon will die! Such are the fears now beating at my heart. Ere long, sweet Spring! amid forgotten things
Thou and thy smiles must sleep: thy little lambs
Dead, or their nature changed; thy hymning
Mute;-faded every flower so beautiful;—
And all fair symptoms of incipient life
To fulness swollen, or sunk into decay!
Such are the melancholy dreams that
Whene'er they named the Spring. Thence, doubts and fears
Of what might be the final doom of man; Till all things spoke to their perplexed souls The language of despair; and, mournful sight!
Even hope lay prostrate upon beauty's grave!
Vain fears of death! breath'd forth in deathless lays!
O foolish bards, immortal in your works,
Yet trustless of your immortality!
Not now are they whom Nature calls her
bards
Thus daunted by the image of decay.
They have their tears, and oft they shed
them too,
By reason unreproach'd; but on the pale Cold cheek of death they see a spirit smile, Bright and still brightening, even like thee, oh Spring!
Stealing in beauty through the winter
Season, beloved of Heaven! my hymn is closed! And thou, sweet Lake! on whose retired banks
I have so long reposed, yet in the depth Of meditation scarcely seen thy waves, Farewell!-the voice of worship and of praise
Dies on my lips, yet shall my heart preserve Inviolate the spirit whence it sprung! Even as a harp, when some wild plaintive strain Goes with the hand that touch'd it, still retains
The soul of music sleeping in its strings.
THREE days ago Lord Ronald's child
Was singing o'er the mountain-wild,
Among the sunny showers
That brought the rainbow to her sight,
And bathed her footsteps in the light
Of purple heather-flowers.
But chilly came the evening's breath-
The silent dew was cold with death—
She reached her home with pain;
And from the bed where now she lies,
With snow-white face and closed eyes,
She ne'er must rise again.
Still is she as a frame of stone,
That in its beauty lies alone,
With silence breathing from its face,
For ever in some holy place!
Chapel or aisle! on marble laid-
In the elder time the songs of tenderest bards, | With pale hands o'er its pale breast spread
An image humble, meek, and low, Of one forgotten long ago!
Soft feet are winding up the stair—
And lo! a Vision passing fair!
All dress'd in white-a mournful show-
A band of orphan children come,
With footsteps like the falling snow,
To bear to her eternal home
The gracious Lady who look'd down
With smiles on their forlorn estate-
-But Mercy up to heaven is gone,
And left the friendless to their fate.
They pluck the honeysuckle's bloom,
That through the window fills the room
With mournful odours-and the rose
That in its innocent beauty glows,
Leaning its dewy golden head
Towards the pale face of the dead,
Weeping like a thing forsaken
Unto eyes that will not waken.
All bathed in pity's gentle showers
They place these melancholy flowers
Upon the cold white breast!
And there they lie! profoundly calm!
Ere long to fill with fading balm
A place of deeper rest!
By that fair Band the bier is borne
Into the open light of morn,—
And, till the parting dirge be said,
Upon a spot of sunshine laid
Beneath a grove of trees!
Bowed and uncovered every head,
Bright-tressed youth, and hoary age—
-Then suddenly before the dead
Lord Ronald's gather'd vassalage
Fall down upon their knees!
Glen-Etive and its mountains lie
All silent as the depth profound
Of that unclouded sunbright sky—
Low heard the melancholy sound
Of waters murmuring by.
Glides softly from the orphan-band
A weeping Child, and takes her stand
Close to the Lady's feet,
Then wildly sings a funeral hymn!
With overflowing eyes and dim
Fix'd on the winding-sheet!
O beautiful the streams
That through our vallies run, Singing and dancing in the gleams Of summer's cloudless sun.
The sweetest of them all
From its fairy banks is gone;
And the music of the waterfall
Hath left the silent stone!
THE hush of bliss was on the sunny hills, The clouds were sleeping on the silent sky, We travelled in the midst of melody Warbled around us from the mountain-rills. The voice was like the glad voice of a friend Murmuring a welcome to his happy home; We felt its kindness with our spirits blend, And said: This day no farther will we roam! The coldest heart that ever looked on heaven, Had surely felt the beauty of that day, And, as he paused, a gentle blessing given To the sweet scene that tempted him to stay. But we, who travelled through that region bright,
Were joyful pilgrims under Nature's care, From youth had loved the dreams of pure delight,
Descending on us through the lonely air, When Heaven is clothed with smiles, and Earth as Heaven is fair!
Seven lovely days had like a happy dream Died' in our spirits silently away, Since Grassmere, waking to the morning-ray, Met our last lingering look with farewell gleam.
I may not tell what joy our being filled, Wand'ring like shadows over plain and steep, What beauteous visions lonely souls can build When 'mid the mountain-solitude they sleep. I may not tell how the deep power of sound Can back to life long-faded dreams recall, * When lying 'mid the noise that lives around Through the hush'd spirit flows a waterfall. To thee, my WORDSWORTH! Whose inspired
Comes forth in pomp from Nature's inner shrine,
To thee by birth-right such high themes belong,
The unseen grandeur of the earth is thine! One lowlier simple strain of human love be mine.
How leapt our hearts, when from an airy height,
On which we paused for a sweet fountain's
sake,
With green fields fading in a peaceful lake,
A deep-sunk vale burst sudden on our sight!
We felt as if at home; a magic sound,
As from a spirit whom we must obey,
Bade us descend into the vale profound,
And in its silence pass the Sabbath-day.
The placid lake that rested far below,
Softly embosoming another sky,
Still as we gazed assumed a lovelier glow,
And seem'd to send us looks of amity.
Our hearts were open to the gracions love
Of Nature, smiling like a happy bride;
So following the still impulse from above,
Down the green slope we wind with airy
glide,
And pitch our snowy tent on that fair water's
side.
Ah me! even now I see before me stand,
Among the verdant holly-boughs half-hid,
The little radiant airy Pyramid,
Like some wild dwelling built in Fairy-land.
As silently as gathering cloud it rose,
And seems a cloud descended on the earth,
Disturbing not the Sabbath-day's repose,
Yet gently stirring at the quiet birth
Of every short-lived breeze: the sunbeams
greet
The beauteous stranger in the lonely bay;
Close to its shading tree two streamlets meet,
With gentle glide, as weary of their play.
And in the liquid lustre of the lake
Its image sleeps, reflected far below;
Such image as the clouds of summer make.
Clear seen amid the waveless water's glow.
As slumbering infant still and pure as April-
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