LD noted oak! I saw thee in a mood
Of vague indifference; and yet with me. Thy memory, like thy fate, hath lingering stood For years, thou hermit, in the lonely sea Of grass that waves around thee !-Solitude Paints not a lonelier picture to the view, Burthorp than thy one melancholy tree, Age-rent, and shattered to a stump. Yet new Leaves come upon each rift and broken limb With every spring; and Poesy's visions swim Around it, of old days and chivalry;
And desolate fancies bid the eyes grow dim
With feelings, that earth's grandeur should decay, And all its olden memories pass away.
PRING comes anew, and brings each little pledge
That still, as wont, my childish heart deceives : stoop again for violets in the hedge,
Among the ivy and old withered leaves; And often mark, amid the clumps of sedge, The pooty-shells I gathered when a boy : But cares have claimed me many an evil day, And chilled the relish which I had for joy. Yet when crab-blossoms blush among the May, As erst in years gone by, I scramble now Up 'mid the bramble for my old esteems, Filling my hands with many a blooming bough; Till the heart-stirring past as present seems, Save the bright sunshine of those fairy dreams.
LOVE to wander at my idle will
In summer's joyous prime about the fields, To kneel when thirsty at the little rill, And sip the draught its pebbly bottom yields; And where the maple bush its fountain shields, To lie, and rest a sultry hour away,
Cropping the swelling peascod from the land; Or 'mid the sheltering woodland-walks to stray, Where oaks for aye o'er their old shadows stand; 'Neath whose dark foliage, with a welcome hand, I pluck the luscious strawberry, ripe and red As Beauty's lips ;-and in my fancy's dreams, As 'mid the velvet moss I musing tread, Feel Life as lovely as her picture seems.
THE LILIES OF THE FIELD.
'CONSIDER THE LILIES OF THE FIELd.'
"LOWERS! when the Saviour's calm, benignant eye
Fell on your gentle beauty; when from you
That heavenly lesson for all hearts He drew,
Eternal, universal, as the sky,
Then in the bosom of your purity
A voice He set as in a temple-shrine,
That life's quick travellers ne'er might pass you by
Unwarned of that sweet oracle divine.
And though too oft its low, celestial sound
By the harsh notes of work-day care is drowned, And the loud steps of vain, unlistening haste, Yet the great ocean hath no tone of power Mightier to reach the soul in thought's hushed hour, Than yours, ye Lilies! chosen thus and graced.
REPOSE OF A HOLY FAMILY.
FROM AN OLD ITALIAN PICTURE.
UNDER a palm-tree, by the green old Nile,
Lulled on his mother's breast, the fair child lies,
With dove-like breathings, and a tender smile Brooding above the slumber of his eyes;
While, through the stillness of the burning skies, Lo! the dread works of Egypt's buried kings, Temple and pyramid, beyond him rise,
Regal and still as everlasting things.
Vain pomps! from him with that pure flowery cheek, Soft shadow'd by his mother's drooping head,
A new-born spirit, mighty and yet meek,
O'er the whole world like vernal air shall spread, And bid all earthly grandeurs cast the crown, Before the suffering and the lowly, down.
ON A REMEMBERED PICTURE OF CHRIST :
AN ECCE HOMO BY LEONARDO DA VINCI.
MET that image on a mirthful day
Of youth; and, sinking with a stilled surprise,
The pride of life, before those holy eyes,
In my quick heart died thoughtfully away, Abashed to mute confession of a sway
Awful though meek; and now that from the strings Of my soul's lyre the tempest's mighty wings Have struck forth tones which then unwakened lay ; Now that around the deep life of my mind Affections deathless as itself have twined, Oft does the pale bright vision still float by; But more divinely sweet, and speaking now Of One whose pity, throned on that sad brow, Sounded all depths of love, grief, death, humanity.
THITHER, oh! whither wilt thou wing thy way? What solemn region first upon thy sight
Shall break, unveiled for terror or delight?
What hosts, magnificent in dread array, My spirit! when thy prison-house of clay After long strife is rent? Fond, fruitless quest ! The unfledged bird, within his narrow nest, Sees but a few green branches o'er him play, And through their parting leaves, by fits revealed, A glimpse of summer sky; nor knows the field Wherein his dormant powers must yet be tried. Thou art that bird!—of what beyond thee lies Far in the untracked, immeasurable skies Knowing but this-that thou shalt find thy Guide!
OW many blessèd groups this hour are bending,
Through England's primrose meadow-paths, their way Towards spire and tower, 'midst shadowy elms ascending, Whence the sweet chimes proclaim the hallowed day! The halls from old heroic ages gray
Pour their fair children forth; and hamlets low,
With whose thick orchard-blooms the soft winds play, Send out their inmates in a happy flow,
Like a freed vernal stream. I may not tread With them those pathways, to the feverish bed Of sickness bound; yet, O my God! I bless Thy mercy, that with Sabbath peace hath filled My chastened heart, and all its throbbings stilled To one deep calm of lowliest thankfulness.
SOLITUDE! if I must with thee dwell, Let it not be among the jumbled heap Of murky buildings: climb with me the steep,- Nature's observatory-whence the dell,
Its flowery slopes, its river's crystal swell,
May seem a span; let me thy vigils keep 'Mongst boughs pavilioned, where the deer's swift leap Startles the wild bee from the foxglove bell.
But though I'll gladly trace these scenes with thee, Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind, Whose words are images of thoughts refined, Is my soul's pleasure; and it sure must be Almost the highest bliss of human-kind, When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee.
O one who has been long in city pent 'Tis very sweet to look into the fair And open face of heaven, -to breathe a prayer Full in the smile of the blue firmament.
Who is more happy, when, with heart's content, Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair And gentle tale of love and languishment? Returning home at evening, with an ear Catching the notes of Philomel,-an eye Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career, He mourns that day so soon has glided by: Even like the passage of an angel's tear That falls through the clear ether silently.
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