Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze,
Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees;
Lives through all life, extends through all extent;
Spreads undivided, operates unspent ;
Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part,
As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart;
As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns,
As the rapt seraph that adores and burns ;
To him no high, no low, no great, no small;
He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all.
Cease, then, nor order imperfection name : Our proper bliss depends on what we blame. Know thy own point: This kind, this true degree Of blindness, weakness, Heaven bestows on thee. Submit. In this or any other sphere, Secure to be as bless'd as thou canst bear, Safe in the hand of one disposing power, Or in the natal, or the mortal hour.
All nature is but art, unknown to thee;
All chance, direction, which thou canst not see;
All discord, harmony, not understood;
All partial evil, universal good.
Ir was a wild and strange retreat,
As e'er was trod by outlaw's feet.
The dell, upon the mountain's crest,
Yawn'd like a gash on warrior's breast;
Its trench had staid full many a rock,
Hurl'd by primeval earthquake shock
From Benvenue's gray summit wild;
And here, in random ruin piled,
They frown'd incumbent o'er the spot,
And form'd the rugged sylvan grot.
The oak and birch, with mingled shade,
At noontide there a twilight made,
Unless when short and sudden shone
Some straggling beam on cliff or stone,
With such a glimpse as prophet's eye
Gains on thy depth, Futurity.
No murmur waked the solemn still,
Save tinkling of a fountain rill;
But when the wind chafed with the lake,
A sullen sound would upward break,
With dashing hollow voice, that spoke
The incessant war of wave and rock.
Suspended cliffs, with hideous sway,
Seem'd nodding o'er the cavern gray.
From such a den the wolf had sprung,
In such the wild cat leaves her
young;
Yet Douglas and his daughter fair
Sought for a space their safety there.
Gray Superstition's whisper dread
Debarr'd the spot to vulgar tread ;
For there, she said, did fays resort,
And satyrs hold their sylvan court,
By moonlight tread their mystic maze,
And blast the rash beholder's gaze.
No tree in all the grove but has its charms,
Though each its hue peculiar; paler some,
And of a wannish gray; the willow such,
And poplar, that with silver lines his leaf;
And ash, far stretching his umbrageous arm.
Of deeper green the elm; and deeper still,
Lord of the woods, the long-surviving oak;
Some glossy-leaved, and shining in the sun;
The maple, and the beech, of oily nuts
Prolific; and the lime, at dewy eve
Diffusing odours; nor unnoted pass
The sycamore, capricious in attire,
Now
green, now tawny, and, ere autumn yet
Have changed the woods, in scarlet honours bright.
THE mist still hovers round the distant hills;
But the blue sky above us has a clear
And pearly softness; not a white speck lies
Upon its breast; it is a crystal dome.
There is a quiet charm about this morn
Which sinks into the soul. No gorgeous
Has the undraperied earth, but yet she shows
A vestal brightness: not the voice is heard
Of sylvan melody, whether of birds
Intent on song, or bees mingling their music
With their keen labour; but the twittering voice
Of chaffinch, or the wild, unfrequent note
Of the lone woodlark, or the minstrelsy
Of the blest robin, have a potent spell,
Chirping away the silence: not the perfume
Of violet scents the gale, nor apple-blossom,
Nor satiating bean-flower; the fresh breeze
Itself is purest fragrance. Light and air
Are ministers of gladness; where these spread
Beauty abides and joy: wherever life is
There is no melancholy.
HAIL to thee, shouting cuckoo! in my youth Thou wert long time the Ariel of my hope, The marvel of a summer! It did soothe To listen to thee on some sunny slope, Where the high oaks forbade an ampler scope Than of the blue skies upward,-and to sit Canopied, in the gladdening horoscope Which thou, my planet, flung-a pleasant fit Long time my hours endear'd, my kindling fancy smit.
And thus I love thee still-thy monotone
The selfsame transport flashes through my frame,
And when thy voice, sweet sibyl, all is flown
My eager ear, I cannot choose but blame.
O may the world these feelings never tame!
If Age o'er me her silver tresses spread,
I still would call thee by a lover's name,
And deem the spirit of delight unfled,
Nor bear, though gray without, a heart to nature dead!
|