There is no place so sweet as the greenwoodsIn summer, heaven and earth awake with soundsMelodial; the ripple of the breezeAmongst the sun-green leaves, and pliant boughs,Just like the rustle of young summer's dress;The songs of birds, and the low mystic humOf bees amongst their floral treasuries;Sweetest of all, the cool and liquid tonesOf brooks—nature's true-hearted bards, who drawBright inspirations from a pebbled ridge,And frame them into sweetest melody.There's poetry in every pendent leafIf we could read them truly; but our heartsGrow strange to nature's language in the world,Nor can translate their heaven lore. Ev'ry changeFrom bud to full-blown ripeness, thence againTo sereness and decay, is as the flowOf a short tale, whose moral is life's history.The woods were made for poets and all dreamers,Men who philosophize Time's hour-glass down,And younger grow, till with the last shot sand—They die. The very leaves are fanciful,And write their maxims on the sward in sunAnd shadow. Here I'll lay me down and dreamAn hour away amongst these violets!O my heart joys to gaze upon the skyGleaming athwart green leaves, like happinessAbove the gloom and shadow of the world!Then, thought first feels its attribute divine,And like a callow eagle spreads its wings,And makes its rest amid the lumin'd heavens.The lark sings poized above me in the sun,Like Moslem in his gilded minaretCalling the faithful unto matin prayer.There would my spirit follow thee, sweet bird,Ling'ring for ever in the midway air,Earth shrouded 'neath me by ascending mists,And sunny-crested cloudlets, like the baseOf bright Imagination's airy halls,Whose roof is the star-fretted empyrean:Thence let the world hear my full gushing joy,And thrill at pleasures they can never know,Hear the sweet tumult of my throbbing breast,Like a clear spring of joyance bubbling upAnd overflowing time and space with streams;Whilst I, wrapt in my own high blessedness,Drain the sweet nectar shareless and alone.
There is no place so sweet as the greenwoodsIn summer, heaven and earth awake with soundsMelodial; the ripple of the breezeAmongst the sun-green leaves, and pliant boughs,Just like the rustle of young summer's dress;The songs of birds, and the low mystic humOf bees amongst their floral treasuries;Sweetest of all, the cool and liquid tonesOf brooks—nature's true-hearted bards, who drawBright inspirations from a pebbled ridge,And frame them into sweetest melody.There's poetry in every pendent leafIf we could read them truly; but our heartsGrow strange to nature's language in the world,Nor can translate their heaven lore. Ev'ry changeFrom bud to full-blown ripeness, thence againTo sereness and decay, is as the flowOf a short tale, whose moral is life's history.The woods were made for poets and all dreamers,Men who philosophize Time's hour-glass down,And younger grow, till with the last shot sand—They die. The very leaves are fanciful,And write their maxims on the sward in sunAnd shadow. Here I'll lay me down and dreamAn hour away amongst these violets!O my heart joys to gaze upon the skyGleaming athwart green leaves, like happinessAbove the gloom and shadow of the world!Then, thought first feels its attribute divine,And like a callow eagle spreads its wings,And makes its rest amid the lumin'd heavens.The lark sings poized above me in the sun,Like Moslem in his gilded minaretCalling the faithful unto matin prayer.There would my spirit follow thee, sweet bird,Ling'ring for ever in the midway air,Earth shrouded 'neath me by ascending mists,And sunny-crested cloudlets, like the baseOf bright Imagination's airy halls,Whose roof is the star-fretted empyrean:Thence let the world hear my full gushing joy,And thrill at pleasures they can never know,Hear the sweet tumult of my throbbing breast,Like a clear spring of joyance bubbling upAnd overflowing time and space with streams;Whilst I, wrapt in my own high blessedness,Drain the sweet nectar shareless and alone.
The lark is beauteous in its skiey home,Amid the confluence of heaven's brightest raysSinging for heaven and earth undying hymnsOf beauty, and deep-hearted tenderness;But more, when sinking on its own sweet song,It flutter, jubilant, to its soft nestCouched in the lowly bosom of the earth.And so it is with life. Man may build upA pillar of misanthropy and self,Raising him, statue-like, above his kind,And emulate the monumental stoneIn coldness and stern-browed indifference,But in the paths of love, and sympathy,And lowly charity, true glory lies,The substance of all joy and happiness.Let not thy spirit spurn man's fellowship,And force the stream of kindness up life's steep,Till, 'mid the rocky peaks of Thought it flowUnmargined by the verdant bloom of Act.Shun Self! 'tis like the worm a rosy budFolds in its young embraces till it gnawThe heart out. Nature's is no volume writFor his interpreting who measures stillHer wisdom by the inverted standard ruleOf his own barrenness and blind conceit.There's not a flower but with its own sweet breathCries out on selfishness, the while it givesIts fragrant treasures to the summer air;And not a bird within the greenwood shade,The burden of whose gentle minstrelsieIs not of love and open-hearted joy.The blest of earth are they whose sympathiesAre free to all as streams by the wayside,Cheering, sustaining by their limpid tide,The weary and the footsore of the earth.O summer sunshine! floating round all things,Meadow and hill and leafy coverture,Steeping all Nature in most sweet delight,Till upward from the bosom of the earth,Before so cold and blank and unadorned,Spring fairest flowers to gladden and adore—That fillest the blue vault of heaven with smilesAs of a mother smiling on her child,Pure, holy, without guile or artifice,Melting the spirit of each fleeting cloudFrom darkness unto beauty and soft grace—Thou art the emblem of that perfect loveThat sheddeth joy around it evermore,And from whose sweetness rise all gentle thoughtsAs scent from vernal flowers; that in the heartWaketh all goodness by a magic spell,As the fine touch of blindness makes a pageStart into instant light and eloquence.Cherish thou kindness ever, for this lifeWould be most blissful if its sunshine cameTo strengthen on Endeavour to its aim.
The lark is beauteous in its skiey home,Amid the confluence of heaven's brightest raysSinging for heaven and earth undying hymnsOf beauty, and deep-hearted tenderness;But more, when sinking on its own sweet song,It flutter, jubilant, to its soft nestCouched in the lowly bosom of the earth.And so it is with life. Man may build upA pillar of misanthropy and self,Raising him, statue-like, above his kind,And emulate the monumental stoneIn coldness and stern-browed indifference,But in the paths of love, and sympathy,And lowly charity, true glory lies,The substance of all joy and happiness.Let not thy spirit spurn man's fellowship,And force the stream of kindness up life's steep,Till, 'mid the rocky peaks of Thought it flowUnmargined by the verdant bloom of Act.Shun Self! 'tis like the worm a rosy budFolds in its young embraces till it gnawThe heart out. Nature's is no volume writFor his interpreting who measures stillHer wisdom by the inverted standard ruleOf his own barrenness and blind conceit.There's not a flower but with its own sweet breathCries out on selfishness, the while it givesIts fragrant treasures to the summer air;And not a bird within the greenwood shade,The burden of whose gentle minstrelsieIs not of love and open-hearted joy.The blest of earth are they whose sympathiesAre free to all as streams by the wayside,Cheering, sustaining by their limpid tide,The weary and the footsore of the earth.
O summer sunshine! floating round all things,Meadow and hill and leafy coverture,Steeping all Nature in most sweet delight,Till upward from the bosom of the earth,Before so cold and blank and unadorned,Spring fairest flowers to gladden and adore—That fillest the blue vault of heaven with smilesAs of a mother smiling on her child,Pure, holy, without guile or artifice,Melting the spirit of each fleeting cloudFrom darkness unto beauty and soft grace—Thou art the emblem of that perfect loveThat sheddeth joy around it evermore,And from whose sweetness rise all gentle thoughtsAs scent from vernal flowers; that in the heartWaketh all goodness by a magic spell,As the fine touch of blindness makes a pageStart into instant light and eloquence.Cherish thou kindness ever, for this lifeWould be most blissful if its sunshine cameTo strengthen on Endeavour to its aim.
Methinks there is no blessedness in lifeMore full than that which springs in solitude;A fount unruffled by the outer world,Unmingled with its honey or its gall;But welling through the spirit silently,Like a pure rill within a garden's bounds.Let my life float, like the sad Indian's lamp,Along the waves of Time, unpilotedSave by the breath of heaven, and the stirred tide,Till when its course be run it sink to restBeyond the ken and fathoming of man;Let me not be a legend mouthed aboutBy empty gossips o'er their clinking cups,Who tell the last sad tale and with a smackTurn to the merits of the passing wine.'Twere something to be wept for by the youngAnd beautiful, but tears are things that drySooner than dew upon the waking flowers,Leaving the heart e'en gladder for their flow.O could my life subside into a dreamRising amid the stillness of calm sleep,Filling the soul with radiant imagesOf love, and grace, and beauty, all sereneAnd shadowless as yon blue sky is now!—Would that the outward shows and forms of thingsCould melt away from cold realityTo the warm brightness of the spiritual,Losing the grossness of this present world,As a fair face doth mirror'd in a glass—And thus, reposing in seraphic trance,Let the few years of earth's existence pass,Like minutes in the quietness of sleep,And waken to the glorious dawn of Heaven,Refreshed, and scatheless from mortality.
Methinks there is no blessedness in lifeMore full than that which springs in solitude;A fount unruffled by the outer world,Unmingled with its honey or its gall;But welling through the spirit silently,Like a pure rill within a garden's bounds.Let my life float, like the sad Indian's lamp,Along the waves of Time, unpilotedSave by the breath of heaven, and the stirred tide,Till when its course be run it sink to restBeyond the ken and fathoming of man;Let me not be a legend mouthed aboutBy empty gossips o'er their clinking cups,Who tell the last sad tale and with a smackTurn to the merits of the passing wine.'Twere something to be wept for by the youngAnd beautiful, but tears are things that drySooner than dew upon the waking flowers,Leaving the heart e'en gladder for their flow.O could my life subside into a dreamRising amid the stillness of calm sleep,Filling the soul with radiant imagesOf love, and grace, and beauty, all sereneAnd shadowless as yon blue sky is now!—Would that the outward shows and forms of thingsCould melt away from cold realityTo the warm brightness of the spiritual,Losing the grossness of this present world,As a fair face doth mirror'd in a glass—And thus, reposing in seraphic trance,Let the few years of earth's existence pass,Like minutes in the quietness of sleep,And waken to the glorious dawn of Heaven,Refreshed, and scatheless from mortality.
Thy wish, attain'd, would brand thee deep with shame;Life was not made to rust in idle slothUntil the canker eat its gloss away,But like a falchion to grow bright with use,And hew a passage to eternal bliss!Canst thou stand 'fore that glory of the sun,That like God's beacon on EternityWakeneth up Creation unto Act,And sheddeth strength and hope, to cheer them on,Yet rebel-wise cast down thine untried arms,Ere foes assail thee, or thy work be done?No, there's a power within the soul that yearnsFor action, as the lark for liberty,Pursuing ever with insatiate thirstAnd aspiration, some unsubstant aim.There is assertion of the rule divine,That rest must follow labour as the nightCloseth the turmoil of the wakeful day;Then let the bright sun lead thee like a kingWith dauntless heart to struggle and o'ercome,Uncheck'd by mischance or poor discontent,That shrivels up a monarch to a clown,And rends his purple into beggar's rags.Let no alluring plea of sensuous easeDraw thee away from honour's rugged path,Till sleep fall on thee from the wings of death,And bear thee to sweet dreams and Paradise!
Thy wish, attain'd, would brand thee deep with shame;Life was not made to rust in idle slothUntil the canker eat its gloss away,But like a falchion to grow bright with use,And hew a passage to eternal bliss!Canst thou stand 'fore that glory of the sun,That like God's beacon on EternityWakeneth up Creation unto Act,And sheddeth strength and hope, to cheer them on,Yet rebel-wise cast down thine untried arms,Ere foes assail thee, or thy work be done?No, there's a power within the soul that yearnsFor action, as the lark for liberty,Pursuing ever with insatiate thirstAnd aspiration, some unsubstant aim.There is assertion of the rule divine,That rest must follow labour as the nightCloseth the turmoil of the wakeful day;Then let the bright sun lead thee like a kingWith dauntless heart to struggle and o'ercome,Uncheck'd by mischance or poor discontent,That shrivels up a monarch to a clown,And rends his purple into beggar's rags.Let no alluring plea of sensuous easeDraw thee away from honour's rugged path,Till sleep fall on thee from the wings of death,And bear thee to sweet dreams and Paradise!
How sweet it is to read fair Nature o'erReclining thus upon her gentle breast,Like a young child that in her mother's faceTraceth the motions of deep tenderness,Listing the murmurs of strange melodiesThat wander ever round her fresh and clear,Whence the sweet singers of our earth have caughtRapt harmonies and echoed them for aye!What study is like Nature's lumined page,So glorious with perfect excellence,That like the flowing of a mighty windIt fills the crevices and deeps of soul!No upper chamber and no midnight oilFor me, to throw dim light upon the scroll,Whose feeble pedantry dulls down the soulFrom high imaginings to senseless words;But for my lamp I'll have the summer sunSet in the brightness of the firmament;My chamber shall be canopied by heaven,Gemmed by the glory of the fixëd stars,And round it floating evermore the breathOf nascent flowers, and fragrant greenery:And for my books, all lovely things in EarthAnd air, and heaven, all seasons and all times.The Spring shall bring me all the thoughts of youth,Its budding hopes and buoyant happiness;'Twill sing me lays of tenderness and love,That are the first sweet flowers of childhood's days,And win me back to purity and joyWith the untainted current of its breath.Summer will be the volume of the heart,Expanded with the strength of growing life,Swelling with full brimm'd feeling evermore,And power and passion longing to be forth;'Twill tell of life quick with the seed of thought,Rising incessant into bud and bloom,And shedding hope and promise over Time,Like the sweet breath that tells the marinerOf fragrant shores fast rising in his course.Then Autumn, glorious with accomplishment,The harvest and the fruitage of the past,Stored with the gladness and the gain of life,Or sadden'd by its unproductiveness;And Winter like a prophecy would comeTo warn me of the end that draweth nigh.Each falling leaf that flutter'd from its bough,Pale with the sereness of keen-biting frosts,Would teach me that the ties of earth must loose,One after one, the interests and joysThat made life's excellent completeness up,Until the trunk, stripped of its verdant dress,Stand in the naked dreadfulness of death.Thus will my soul learn wisdom true and deep,Not in the school of petty prejudice,Where truth is measured out by interest,And duty shrinks into expediency;Not in the volumes of pedantic fools,Who bind up knowledge, mummy-like, with terms,That sunder'd, the enclosure turns to dust;Not in the false philosophy of man,Who speculates on causes and effects,Yet thrusts his hand into the scorching flame,And wonders that it singeth in the act—But from her teaching who can never err,The Pure, the Beautiful, the Mother mind,That in the fulness of her unsearch'd soul,Shrineth all knowledge and all loveliness!
How sweet it is to read fair Nature o'erReclining thus upon her gentle breast,Like a young child that in her mother's faceTraceth the motions of deep tenderness,Listing the murmurs of strange melodiesThat wander ever round her fresh and clear,Whence the sweet singers of our earth have caughtRapt harmonies and echoed them for aye!What study is like Nature's lumined page,So glorious with perfect excellence,That like the flowing of a mighty windIt fills the crevices and deeps of soul!
No upper chamber and no midnight oilFor me, to throw dim light upon the scroll,Whose feeble pedantry dulls down the soulFrom high imaginings to senseless words;But for my lamp I'll have the summer sunSet in the brightness of the firmament;My chamber shall be canopied by heaven,Gemmed by the glory of the fixëd stars,And round it floating evermore the breathOf nascent flowers, and fragrant greenery:And for my books, all lovely things in EarthAnd air, and heaven, all seasons and all times.The Spring shall bring me all the thoughts of youth,Its budding hopes and buoyant happiness;'Twill sing me lays of tenderness and love,That are the first sweet flowers of childhood's days,And win me back to purity and joyWith the untainted current of its breath.Summer will be the volume of the heart,Expanded with the strength of growing life,Swelling with full brimm'd feeling evermore,And power and passion longing to be forth;'Twill tell of life quick with the seed of thought,Rising incessant into bud and bloom,And shedding hope and promise over Time,Like the sweet breath that tells the marinerOf fragrant shores fast rising in his course.Then Autumn, glorious with accomplishment,The harvest and the fruitage of the past,Stored with the gladness and the gain of life,Or sadden'd by its unproductiveness;And Winter like a prophecy would comeTo warn me of the end that draweth nigh.Each falling leaf that flutter'd from its bough,Pale with the sereness of keen-biting frosts,Would teach me that the ties of earth must loose,One after one, the interests and joysThat made life's excellent completeness up,Until the trunk, stripped of its verdant dress,Stand in the naked dreadfulness of death.Thus will my soul learn wisdom true and deep,Not in the school of petty prejudice,Where truth is measured out by interest,And duty shrinks into expediency;Not in the volumes of pedantic fools,Who bind up knowledge, mummy-like, with terms,That sunder'd, the enclosure turns to dust;Not in the false philosophy of man,Who speculates on causes and effects,Yet thrusts his hand into the scorching flame,And wonders that it singeth in the act—But from her teaching who can never err,The Pure, the Beautiful, the Mother mind,That in the fulness of her unsearch'd soul,Shrineth all knowledge and all loveliness!
Ay! there are lessons of true wisdom writIn every page of Nature, from the flowerMan treads beneath him as he wanders past,The humblest and the weakest thing of earth,Yet with its sweet breath rising on the airTo make the fragrance of the summer full,Up to the rattle of the thunder cloud,The voice of heaven heard rolling through the spheresTill earth is dumb and stricken at the sound;Then let thy heart lean to them reverently,Knowing that action is the end of thought;And thus from Nature bring thou precepts stillTo guide thee nobly through this pilgrim world!One deed wrought out in holiness and loveIs richer than all vain imaginings!Let then her lore fulfil thee evermore,And like high inspiration send thee forthTo prophecy aloud unto mankindOf love, and peace, and verity sublime.Let not disaster daunt thee, nor reproach,No feeble yelpings of the toothless cursThat follow on the heels of all who walkThe highways of this world in faithfulness,And strength, but like a wild swan on the waveLet every billow swelling round thy breastRaise thee in spirit nigher unto heaven!
Ay! there are lessons of true wisdom writIn every page of Nature, from the flowerMan treads beneath him as he wanders past,The humblest and the weakest thing of earth,Yet with its sweet breath rising on the airTo make the fragrance of the summer full,Up to the rattle of the thunder cloud,The voice of heaven heard rolling through the spheresTill earth is dumb and stricken at the sound;Then let thy heart lean to them reverently,Knowing that action is the end of thought;And thus from Nature bring thou precepts stillTo guide thee nobly through this pilgrim world!One deed wrought out in holiness and loveIs richer than all vain imaginings!Let then her lore fulfil thee evermore,And like high inspiration send thee forthTo prophecy aloud unto mankindOf love, and peace, and verity sublime.Let not disaster daunt thee, nor reproach,No feeble yelpings of the toothless cursThat follow on the heels of all who walkThe highways of this world in faithfulness,And strength, but like a wild swan on the waveLet every billow swelling round thy breastRaise thee in spirit nigher unto heaven!
O, Earth is beautiful! In such a sceneThe everlasting curse that sin entailedStrikes on the heart by contrast, as though heavenRolled back its portals till the holy wrathOf God burst on Creation. All is stillSave the rapt nightingale, that sings to restEarth's warring multitudes, and this bright rillWhose voice is eloquent as poesy.The very breeze is hush'd that stirr'd the leavesTo pleasure, and the golden clouds float onAs though an angel steered them o'er the plainOf heaven. It is a blessed thing to feelThe melody of silence in the woods,When outer life is hushed, and in the heartThe echo of its murmurous sweetness sounds,As in the pauses of a song the harpStill vibrates. 'Tis a test by which the soulLies open unto Nature, for its frame,Impure or guilty, unto discord turnsThose tones of peace and harmony. PerchanceThese woods ne'er heard the voice of man till now,Nor know the motion of his jarring thoughts.I feel the weight of judgment o'er my headIf, Adam-like, I bring the brand of guiltOn this unfallen Paradise. In soothThis scene is rich in Eden loveliness,And peace, and the rude din of jabbering crowdsUnheard as when Earth's generations yetLay in the womb of Time. How soft the airBreathes with the scent of flow'rs, o'er which the dewHangs like a charm of sweetness! Ah, fair Earth!'Tis sad to die and leave thee e'en for heaven;Yet the blue sky above is glorious,And brings the spirit visions of bright scenesYet lovelier than this. There is a veilOf dreamy beauty o'er it, from whose woofThe mystic star-eyes glimmer like a bride's.In such an hour peace steals upon the soul,Like the soft twilight o'er the toiling world;There is no room for passion—strife would blushAs at the chiding of a gentle glance.
O, Earth is beautiful! In such a sceneThe everlasting curse that sin entailedStrikes on the heart by contrast, as though heavenRolled back its portals till the holy wrathOf God burst on Creation. All is stillSave the rapt nightingale, that sings to restEarth's warring multitudes, and this bright rillWhose voice is eloquent as poesy.The very breeze is hush'd that stirr'd the leavesTo pleasure, and the golden clouds float onAs though an angel steered them o'er the plainOf heaven. It is a blessed thing to feelThe melody of silence in the woods,When outer life is hushed, and in the heartThe echo of its murmurous sweetness sounds,As in the pauses of a song the harpStill vibrates. 'Tis a test by which the soulLies open unto Nature, for its frame,Impure or guilty, unto discord turnsThose tones of peace and harmony. PerchanceThese woods ne'er heard the voice of man till now,Nor know the motion of his jarring thoughts.I feel the weight of judgment o'er my headIf, Adam-like, I bring the brand of guiltOn this unfallen Paradise. In soothThis scene is rich in Eden loveliness,And peace, and the rude din of jabbering crowdsUnheard as when Earth's generations yetLay in the womb of Time. How soft the airBreathes with the scent of flow'rs, o'er which the dewHangs like a charm of sweetness! Ah, fair Earth!'Tis sad to die and leave thee e'en for heaven;Yet the blue sky above is glorious,And brings the spirit visions of bright scenesYet lovelier than this. There is a veilOf dreamy beauty o'er it, from whose woofThe mystic star-eyes glimmer like a bride's.In such an hour peace steals upon the soul,Like the soft twilight o'er the toiling world;There is no room for passion—strife would blushAs at the chiding of a gentle glance.
Eve brings forth bright thoughts from the soul, like starsFrom the blue heavens. Its sweet serenityIs as a boon of mercy from above,Restoring rest unto a toil-doomed world.Dost thou not turn from this to the pure calmOf Heaven as by a spell?
Eve brings forth bright thoughts from the soul, like starsFrom the blue heavens. Its sweet serenityIs as a boon of mercy from above,Restoring rest unto a toil-doomed world.Dost thou not turn from this to the pure calmOf Heaven as by a spell?
Ay! yonder cloud,Bright with the last faint glances of the sun,Bears my soul thither.
Ay! yonder cloud,Bright with the last faint glances of the sun,Bears my soul thither.
All the BeautifulPoints like the pilot-flower, magnetically,To Heaven, where beauty is accomplish'd. EarthIs but the reproduction of one form,Whose perfectness is heaven, and thus the mind,Unblinded by the blighting mist of sin,Sees emblems of its everlasting hopeIn Nature's loveliness. This quiet hourWhen the calm'd heart cries truce unto itself,And lays the weapons of resentment down,And bitterness and anger, yields the blissThat in completeness is the bliss of Heaven.The Earth is ne'er so sweet as when it seemsBy intuition to the soul like Heaven,And in the spirit earthliness dissolvesLike mist before the sunshine.
All the BeautifulPoints like the pilot-flower, magnetically,To Heaven, where beauty is accomplish'd. EarthIs but the reproduction of one form,Whose perfectness is heaven, and thus the mind,Unblinded by the blighting mist of sin,Sees emblems of its everlasting hopeIn Nature's loveliness. This quiet hourWhen the calm'd heart cries truce unto itself,And lays the weapons of resentment down,And bitterness and anger, yields the blissThat in completeness is the bliss of Heaven.The Earth is ne'er so sweet as when it seemsBy intuition to the soul like Heaven,And in the spirit earthliness dissolvesLike mist before the sunshine.
There's a powerWithin the soul that makes it yearn to soarUp to the Infinite, and, eagle-like,Bask in the unveiled glory of the sun;But this frame clogs its aspirations all,Like gyves that press the struggling captive down.Tell me of other worlds?
There's a powerWithin the soul that makes it yearn to soarUp to the Infinite, and, eagle-like,Bask in the unveiled glory of the sun;But this frame clogs its aspirations all,Like gyves that press the struggling captive down.Tell me of other worlds?
There is a worldBright as yon star that flecks the wing of night,And sheds its glory o'er the Universe,Made up of such pure loveliness within,That like a gem it glistens through the crust,And makes heaven luminous. A chasten'd soundOf never failing melody still floatsAbout it, like an ocean, undulatingTo the sweet breath of summer scented airs,From hill to dale and leafy-tufted woods,That catch the humours of the golden sun,And deck them in his livery. There fallsFrom the soft twilight gloom of sparry grots,And crystal pillar'd caverns, many a streamThat breaks in light and music on the soul,And like a diamond-sandall'd spirit glidesIn beauty through the land, margined by flowersThat mirror in its tide, and seem like starsIn heaven. There are flowers everywhere, in valeHill-side and woodland, in the sun and shade,That whether dreams be on them, or they wake,Send evermore sweet incense to the heavens.Sun-crested mountains, softened into graceBy the blue tints of distance, lend new charmsTo verdant swarded valleys, in whose lapAs in a mother's bosom, waters lieAnd ripple to the wooing of the winds.The very clouds that scan the blue of heaven,Fused sometimes by the sunshine as with soul,Or flaked by the light fancies of the gale,Form to the vision labyrinths of graceAnd beauty, that melt into space, and spreadA hemisphere of magic o'er the orb—And thro' this world at morning, noon, and night,A dreamy sweetness wanders, varyingFrom blessing unto blessing, that the senseOf pleasure dull not with satiety.
There is a worldBright as yon star that flecks the wing of night,And sheds its glory o'er the Universe,Made up of such pure loveliness within,That like a gem it glistens through the crust,And makes heaven luminous. A chasten'd soundOf never failing melody still floatsAbout it, like an ocean, undulatingTo the sweet breath of summer scented airs,From hill to dale and leafy-tufted woods,That catch the humours of the golden sun,And deck them in his livery. There fallsFrom the soft twilight gloom of sparry grots,And crystal pillar'd caverns, many a streamThat breaks in light and music on the soul,And like a diamond-sandall'd spirit glidesIn beauty through the land, margined by flowersThat mirror in its tide, and seem like starsIn heaven. There are flowers everywhere, in valeHill-side and woodland, in the sun and shade,That whether dreams be on them, or they wake,Send evermore sweet incense to the heavens.Sun-crested mountains, softened into graceBy the blue tints of distance, lend new charmsTo verdant swarded valleys, in whose lapAs in a mother's bosom, waters lieAnd ripple to the wooing of the winds.The very clouds that scan the blue of heaven,Fused sometimes by the sunshine as with soul,Or flaked by the light fancies of the gale,Form to the vision labyrinths of graceAnd beauty, that melt into space, and spreadA hemisphere of magic o'er the orb—And thro' this world at morning, noon, and night,A dreamy sweetness wanders, varyingFrom blessing unto blessing, that the senseOf pleasure dull not with satiety.
And it is habited?
And it is habited?
By beings framedAfter the model of all perfectness.In some the majesty of strength sublime,Rejoicing on the nervous power of lifeLike the broad noontide sun, with glances boldAnd open as the soul lies unto God,And brows that thought wreathes with a glorious crownOf fadeless immortality, which shinesLike lightning, playing round the arc of heaven.And some there are as gentle and as fairAs flowers made animate, whose motions areMore graceful than the sweep of evening galesO'er moonlit waters; and whose beauty fillsThe air they breathe with sweetness, and to lifeIs what the sunshine is to summer. AllAre filled with deathless spirits, capableOf joy, and love, and holiness, that make,Together, heaven's felicity. The strong,Tho' they be trenchëd round with mighty thoughts,Without one breach for weakness, in their soulsFeel the sweet want for love's pure tenderness,That, like the dew, may soothe the eagle's breast,And send it soaring nigher to the sun.Thus to their lives they graft the fragile blossom,Whose sweetness is an amulet to layLife's else perturbëd spirit; so that allHave oneness of necessity and good.
By beings framedAfter the model of all perfectness.In some the majesty of strength sublime,Rejoicing on the nervous power of lifeLike the broad noontide sun, with glances boldAnd open as the soul lies unto God,And brows that thought wreathes with a glorious crownOf fadeless immortality, which shinesLike lightning, playing round the arc of heaven.And some there are as gentle and as fairAs flowers made animate, whose motions areMore graceful than the sweep of evening galesO'er moonlit waters; and whose beauty fillsThe air they breathe with sweetness, and to lifeIs what the sunshine is to summer. AllAre filled with deathless spirits, capableOf joy, and love, and holiness, that make,Together, heaven's felicity. The strong,Tho' they be trenchëd round with mighty thoughts,Without one breach for weakness, in their soulsFeel the sweet want for love's pure tenderness,That, like the dew, may soothe the eagle's breast,And send it soaring nigher to the sun.Thus to their lives they graft the fragile blossom,Whose sweetness is an amulet to layLife's else perturbëd spirit; so that allHave oneness of necessity and good.
O! I can compass spirit that could graspA star and dash it from its orbit, tillIt flew through space eternally, and whelmedMyriads of spheres in flaming ruin, yetCannot consummate that which is so light,One hour's emancipation from this clodTo wander thro' such worlds. Which brightest orbIn heaven's wide treasury shines in thy tale?
O! I can compass spirit that could graspA star and dash it from its orbit, tillIt flew through space eternally, and whelmedMyriads of spheres in flaming ruin, yetCannot consummate that which is so light,One hour's emancipation from this clodTo wander thro' such worlds. Which brightest orbIn heaven's wide treasury shines in thy tale?
Listen! e'en in this paradise there worksA mighty power of evil, conjured thereBy acts of foreknown consequence. This rearsA standard of rebellion against God,And whirls a giddy tide of interestAnd pleasure to suck souls unto itself,The centre—dashing sorrow like salt foamTo sterilize humanity. Yet stillThere is a virtue, given to make its guilesShrink into ruin, like a withered leaf,And pass the spirit scatheless. 'Tis a strifeOf spirit against spirit, whose resultOf loss or gain fashions eternity.
Listen! e'en in this paradise there worksA mighty power of evil, conjured thereBy acts of foreknown consequence. This rearsA standard of rebellion against God,And whirls a giddy tide of interestAnd pleasure to suck souls unto itself,The centre—dashing sorrow like salt foamTo sterilize humanity. Yet stillThere is a virtue, given to make its guilesShrink into ruin, like a withered leaf,And pass the spirit scatheless. 'Tis a strifeOf spirit against spirit, whose resultOf loss or gain fashions eternity.
O! it is fine to brace the spirit up,To struggle with its foes, and feel it swellTill it could shake a thousand demons offAs lightly as a lion doth the dropsThat eve sheds on him. There's no joy like thatOf danger met, and danger overcome.The soul is like a sword that rusts to lieInglorious in its scabbard, but will flashBright as the lightning in the battle field.Spirit! will death transport to such a world?
O! it is fine to brace the spirit up,To struggle with its foes, and feel it swellTill it could shake a thousand demons offAs lightly as a lion doth the dropsThat eve sheds on him. There's no joy like thatOf danger met, and danger overcome.The soul is like a sword that rusts to lieInglorious in its scabbard, but will flashBright as the lightning in the battle field.Spirit! will death transport to such a world?
Thou art upon it—It is earth—ItselfAll lovely, but man's soul so warped and blindHe scarce can see her beauty, but still scansThe stars of heaven for that which lies displayedBeneath his feet. The heart rears phantoms upTo overthrow reality, and makeIntention stand for Act. 'Tis well to boastOf spirit warfare in another sphere,Yet like a craven slight the trumpet callThat bids man up and strive in this. In lifeThere is a struggle evermore, whereinThe spirit grapples with such subtle foes,That victory is glory infinite.No crumbling stone to whet ambition on,That 'neath the sapping of one wave of Time,Melts to the substance of oblivion.It is nobility to walk through lifeWith a stout heart and cheerful courage on—To look on sorrow with undaunted mien,And smile away the fears that trouble brings—To bear unto the stricken solace sweetAs water to the wounded, and to beA strength and an assurance to the weak.Ay! life, like matter, is atomic, andMan blows unto the winds what multipliedMakes up the universe. This radiant earth,Which, in its penitential moods the heartFeels were a paradise if guilt were not,Sprung from the womb of space, in perfectnessCo-equal with the fairest orb that holdsVice-royalty in heaven for the sun;Form, substance, seeming, and that vivid charmWhich is the soul of matter like in each.Mind differs only, making fair seem dullWith what it glances through, and thus yon starViewed with man's callous nature, would resolveInto reality as cold as Earth.O Earth! thou Beauty! and thou Wonderful!That from thy bosom like a living wombBringest all forms of loveliness and graceInto the gladness of the summer air—That givest to the winds that are the breathAnd heaving of thy passion, wingëd thoughtsTo root, seed-like, into the ground, and spring,Bud, blossom, nourish'd ever by young showers,And moon-distillëd dews, until they makeThine utterance odorous. That from thy soul,As from an unseen presence of divinest light,Dartest into the spirit subtle raysThat quicken life to blessing, as the breathOf being stirreth the inanimate,Making existence joy, and love, and power.O woods! and rustling forests! Ye that sendSoft murmurs ever to the ends of heaven,And from your breast, as from a poet's soul,Issue all sweetest melodies of birdsAnd leafy eloquence. O springs! and streams!Blithe hearted wanderers throughout the earth,Tracing your footsteps still with flowers that riseLike stars beneath the feet of Night. O hills!O mighty mountains! round whose hoary browsGather the mystic clouds of heaven, like thoughtsOf unimagined wisdom, that are rockedTo slumber by the deep-songed hurricanes,Sons of Destruction, and whose waking voiceIs the eternal thunder. O wide ocean!Swelling for ever with the mighty throesOf Nature's agony and ceaseless Act;Emblem of Time and of Eternity!Time the great worker, the Implacable,That with the roll of human will and deed,And hopes, and joys, and shatter'd purposesDashes relentless on! Eternity—The Pauseless, the Insatiate! the gulfWhereto all motion, all existence flows,Enters and ends. O sunshine! and cool shade,And all that makes earth beautiful and sweet!Soft moonlight! life's pure maidenhood, whose dreamsAre gleams of antenatal blessedness,Witness for Earth's equality, and bidThe sister orbs of heaven cry "Hail!" to her.
Thou art upon it—It is earth—ItselfAll lovely, but man's soul so warped and blindHe scarce can see her beauty, but still scansThe stars of heaven for that which lies displayedBeneath his feet. The heart rears phantoms upTo overthrow reality, and makeIntention stand for Act. 'Tis well to boastOf spirit warfare in another sphere,Yet like a craven slight the trumpet callThat bids man up and strive in this. In lifeThere is a struggle evermore, whereinThe spirit grapples with such subtle foes,That victory is glory infinite.No crumbling stone to whet ambition on,That 'neath the sapping of one wave of Time,Melts to the substance of oblivion.It is nobility to walk through lifeWith a stout heart and cheerful courage on—To look on sorrow with undaunted mien,And smile away the fears that trouble brings—To bear unto the stricken solace sweetAs water to the wounded, and to beA strength and an assurance to the weak.Ay! life, like matter, is atomic, andMan blows unto the winds what multipliedMakes up the universe. This radiant earth,Which, in its penitential moods the heartFeels were a paradise if guilt were not,Sprung from the womb of space, in perfectnessCo-equal with the fairest orb that holdsVice-royalty in heaven for the sun;Form, substance, seeming, and that vivid charmWhich is the soul of matter like in each.Mind differs only, making fair seem dullWith what it glances through, and thus yon starViewed with man's callous nature, would resolveInto reality as cold as Earth.
O Earth! thou Beauty! and thou Wonderful!That from thy bosom like a living wombBringest all forms of loveliness and graceInto the gladness of the summer air—That givest to the winds that are the breathAnd heaving of thy passion, wingëd thoughtsTo root, seed-like, into the ground, and spring,Bud, blossom, nourish'd ever by young showers,And moon-distillëd dews, until they makeThine utterance odorous. That from thy soul,As from an unseen presence of divinest light,Dartest into the spirit subtle raysThat quicken life to blessing, as the breathOf being stirreth the inanimate,Making existence joy, and love, and power.O woods! and rustling forests! Ye that sendSoft murmurs ever to the ends of heaven,And from your breast, as from a poet's soul,Issue all sweetest melodies of birdsAnd leafy eloquence. O springs! and streams!Blithe hearted wanderers throughout the earth,Tracing your footsteps still with flowers that riseLike stars beneath the feet of Night. O hills!O mighty mountains! round whose hoary browsGather the mystic clouds of heaven, like thoughtsOf unimagined wisdom, that are rockedTo slumber by the deep-songed hurricanes,Sons of Destruction, and whose waking voiceIs the eternal thunder. O wide ocean!Swelling for ever with the mighty throesOf Nature's agony and ceaseless Act;Emblem of Time and of Eternity!Time the great worker, the Implacable,That with the roll of human will and deed,And hopes, and joys, and shatter'd purposesDashes relentless on! Eternity—The Pauseless, the Insatiate! the gulfWhereto all motion, all existence flows,Enters and ends. O sunshine! and cool shade,And all that makes earth beautiful and sweet!Soft moonlight! life's pure maidenhood, whose dreamsAre gleams of antenatal blessedness,Witness for Earth's equality, and bidThe sister orbs of heaven cry "Hail!" to her.
O Mother Earth! methinks I hear a voiceSound 'mid the surging of the stars of heaven,Like a clear trump athwart the mighty roarOf falling waters."Oh thou beautiful,"Frail daughter of Immensity! that hangest"Upon the bosom of dim night, at once"A glory, and a brightness, and a shame—"That from the urn of everlasting love"Drinkest of light and immortality,"Like a fair child in waywardness and mirth,"Triumphing in her loveliness; the swell"Of thy rapt harmonies is mute in heaven,"That once rang through the arches of all space,"A wonder and an ecstasy; but still"Thy path is with the glorious and pure,"Spanning the empyrean with a jewelled zone,"Making heaven beautiful, and with thy grace"Charming to goodness, though thou act it not."Arise, O lovely fondling of the skies!"Wake from the silence of thy fallen doom,"Breathe forth thy sweetness to the longing air;"The angels are about thee evermore,"Like watchers o'er a stricken one, that hold"A glass to catch the life-mist from her lips."Arise! and don thy bridal vestments pure,"And lead the train of heaven to the morn!"Art thou not beautiful, Daughter of Heaven?—"Beautiful as a bride before the sun,"Gliding along the blue serene of space,"Pensive and glorious; showering soft light"Upon the path of heaven, as from the eyes"Of downward-glancing cherubim. Arise!"Stand in the light of lights, and bare thy soul"Unto the searching of the undimmed spheres!"O, Spirit! are there angels hovering nowIn the dim ocean of this twilight air?
O Mother Earth! methinks I hear a voiceSound 'mid the surging of the stars of heaven,Like a clear trump athwart the mighty roarOf falling waters."Oh thou beautiful,"Frail daughter of Immensity! that hangest"Upon the bosom of dim night, at once"A glory, and a brightness, and a shame—"That from the urn of everlasting love"Drinkest of light and immortality,"Like a fair child in waywardness and mirth,"Triumphing in her loveliness; the swell"Of thy rapt harmonies is mute in heaven,"That once rang through the arches of all space,"A wonder and an ecstasy; but still"Thy path is with the glorious and pure,"Spanning the empyrean with a jewelled zone,"Making heaven beautiful, and with thy grace"Charming to goodness, though thou act it not."Arise, O lovely fondling of the skies!"Wake from the silence of thy fallen doom,"Breathe forth thy sweetness to the longing air;"The angels are about thee evermore,"Like watchers o'er a stricken one, that hold"A glass to catch the life-mist from her lips."Arise! and don thy bridal vestments pure,"And lead the train of heaven to the morn!"Art thou not beautiful, Daughter of Heaven?—"Beautiful as a bride before the sun,"Gliding along the blue serene of space,"Pensive and glorious; showering soft light"Upon the path of heaven, as from the eyes"Of downward-glancing cherubim. Arise!"Stand in the light of lights, and bare thy soul"Unto the searching of the undimmed spheres!"
O, Spirit! are there angels hovering nowIn the dim ocean of this twilight air?
There are pure angels ever round the earth,As stars are round the azure dome of heaven,In sunshine and in twilight and in gloom,That with the sweetness of an unseen loveCircle humanity, and like the larkHid in the glory of the noonday sun,Pour o'er the world heaven's constant tenderness.Some in the soft-hued glimmering of dreams,Through the unfolded lattices of sleep,Steal to the soul in visions of delight,Pure and benignant as the evening dewThat cools the bosom of the blushing rose.Some all unseen, save in the blessed care,That like a lover's arm, from life's rough wayPresses the serried thorns that choke it up;But all as with an atmosphere of love,And peace and strength encircling man, alikeWithin him and without, that the foul breathOf pestilent corruption touch him not.Some are there who have loved and suffered muchFor earth, as a fond mother doth who seesHer babe die in her bosom; who have tracedMan to the precipital brink of ruin,With open arms to charm him back from death,Rejected and despised; who on the scrollOf conscience, as with words of living light,Stamp the pure precepts of a holy lore,That sin obliterates and sets at naught.
There are pure angels ever round the earth,As stars are round the azure dome of heaven,In sunshine and in twilight and in gloom,That with the sweetness of an unseen loveCircle humanity, and like the larkHid in the glory of the noonday sun,Pour o'er the world heaven's constant tenderness.Some in the soft-hued glimmering of dreams,Through the unfolded lattices of sleep,Steal to the soul in visions of delight,Pure and benignant as the evening dewThat cools the bosom of the blushing rose.Some all unseen, save in the blessed care,That like a lover's arm, from life's rough wayPresses the serried thorns that choke it up;But all as with an atmosphere of love,And peace and strength encircling man, alikeWithin him and without, that the foul breathOf pestilent corruption touch him not.Some are there who have loved and suffered muchFor earth, as a fond mother doth who seesHer babe die in her bosom; who have tracedMan to the precipital brink of ruin,With open arms to charm him back from death,Rejected and despised; who on the scrollOf conscience, as with words of living light,Stamp the pure precepts of a holy lore,That sin obliterates and sets at naught.
Oh! how polluted must man's spirit showIn contrast with these ministers of heaven,That e'en beneath frail woman's purityDims like a taper 'neath the light of day!—Methinks if from our eyes sin's blindness fell,And gave pure angels to our ravish'd sight,Gliding around us clad in the bright robesOf love and immortality, this earthWould be like heaven. O! 'twere a blessed change,And perfect as when Death's exulting sighSwoons through the empty chambers of the soulHis note of liberty.
Oh! how polluted must man's spirit showIn contrast with these ministers of heaven,That e'en beneath frail woman's purityDims like a taper 'neath the light of day!—Methinks if from our eyes sin's blindness fell,And gave pure angels to our ravish'd sight,Gliding around us clad in the bright robesOf love and immortality, this earthWould be like heaven. O! 'twere a blessed change,And perfect as when Death's exulting sighSwoons through the empty chambers of the soulHis note of liberty.
'Tis man aloneMakes Earth less Paradise; its frame is fullOf perfect blessedness, which to the pureWere Heaven in all its fulness; but mankindAre crimsoned o'er with sin, which like blood-stainsA soundless ocean could not cleanse away.And thus all flesh must thaw back to the dustFrom which it sprang, as ice doth unto water,Before the soul is purified for heaven.Men little dream how near heaven is to themIn possibility, how far in deed.As little as they dream amid their mirth,Death stalks beside them; that his shadow fallsIn the same mirror where the maiden seesThe image of her loveliness, and flitsAmongst the whirl of revelry and show.
'Tis man aloneMakes Earth less Paradise; its frame is fullOf perfect blessedness, which to the pureWere Heaven in all its fulness; but mankindAre crimsoned o'er with sin, which like blood-stainsA soundless ocean could not cleanse away.And thus all flesh must thaw back to the dustFrom which it sprang, as ice doth unto water,Before the soul is purified for heaven.Men little dream how near heaven is to themIn possibility, how far in deed.As little as they dream amid their mirth,Death stalks beside them; that his shadow fallsIn the same mirror where the maiden seesThe image of her loveliness, and flitsAmongst the whirl of revelry and show.
A rock and the wild waters! 'Tis a spotTo moralize on life, and strip the worldOf all its gaudy trappings and false gloss,That like the daubing on a wanton's cheek,Crimsons the paleness of disease and shame,And with life's semblance mocks a rotten heart.O wild, wild sea! eternal wildernessOf strife and toil and fruitless energy!Birthplace and Tomb! whence unto being springSuccessive myriads to run their race,Rage, labour, and grow hoar, then pass awayWith all their deeds and memories, and cedeTheir petty sphere of inches to another.O wild, wild sea! thou bosom of all passion,And thought, and hope, and longing infinite!That struggling ever from the riven caves,And fathomless abysses of the Earth,As from the cells of an awakened soul,Fling your hoarse murmurs and aspiring groansTo the strong wingëd winds, that puff them onIn sport and in derision; that art stirredTo tumult and to madness by the breathOf unseen currents, unsubstantial air,That passes on, and leaves a foaming trainTo wonder at the thing that angered them.O wild, wild sea! soul of indifference!Lashing eternally the rifted sandsAnd lonely shores about ye; swallowingThe wreck of man's dependence, and the lifeThat struggles with ye for the prize of love,And joy, and sorrow, clinging round its soul;That flowest on in coldness and self-aimO'er the dissolving frames of countless waves,That sink like generations, and so rise,Pausing or stilling never, numb'ring upA myriad selfish interests to makeThy sum of being perfect. Man may readThe lore of human nature in thee, writNot with the pen of flattery, that gildsThe base past recognition, but all plainAnd coloured only by its truthfulness;The good and ill alike displayed, that lieWithin the sounding of its inmost soul.O! thought might wander o'er this briny waste,Dove-like, without one Ark whereon to restFrom the interminable ebb and flow,As many a soul has flutter'd o'er the earth,Weary and faint, as mine did till it foundA haven in the bosom of sweet love.
A rock and the wild waters! 'Tis a spotTo moralize on life, and strip the worldOf all its gaudy trappings and false gloss,That like the daubing on a wanton's cheek,Crimsons the paleness of disease and shame,And with life's semblance mocks a rotten heart.
O wild, wild sea! eternal wildernessOf strife and toil and fruitless energy!Birthplace and Tomb! whence unto being springSuccessive myriads to run their race,Rage, labour, and grow hoar, then pass awayWith all their deeds and memories, and cedeTheir petty sphere of inches to another.O wild, wild sea! thou bosom of all passion,And thought, and hope, and longing infinite!That struggling ever from the riven caves,And fathomless abysses of the Earth,As from the cells of an awakened soul,Fling your hoarse murmurs and aspiring groansTo the strong wingëd winds, that puff them onIn sport and in derision; that art stirredTo tumult and to madness by the breathOf unseen currents, unsubstantial air,That passes on, and leaves a foaming trainTo wonder at the thing that angered them.O wild, wild sea! soul of indifference!Lashing eternally the rifted sandsAnd lonely shores about ye; swallowingThe wreck of man's dependence, and the lifeThat struggles with ye for the prize of love,And joy, and sorrow, clinging round its soul;That flowest on in coldness and self-aimO'er the dissolving frames of countless waves,That sink like generations, and so rise,Pausing or stilling never, numb'ring upA myriad selfish interests to makeThy sum of being perfect. Man may readThe lore of human nature in thee, writNot with the pen of flattery, that gildsThe base past recognition, but all plainAnd coloured only by its truthfulness;The good and ill alike displayed, that lieWithin the sounding of its inmost soul.O! thought might wander o'er this briny waste,Dove-like, without one Ark whereon to restFrom the interminable ebb and flow,As many a soul has flutter'd o'er the earth,Weary and faint, as mine did till it foundA haven in the bosom of sweet love.