To lie amid some sylvan scene, Where, the long drooping boughs between, Or where the denser grove receives Beneath some patriarchal tree A slumberous sound,- -a sound that brings The feelings of a dream, As of innumerable wings, As, when a bell no longer swings, Faint the hollow murmur rings O'er meadow, lake, and stream. And dreams of that which cannot die, Like ships upon the sea; PRELUDE. Dreams that the soul of youth engage Tales that have the rime of age, And chronicles of Eld. And, loving still these quaint old themes, Even in the city's throng I feel the freshness of the streams, That, crossed by shades and sunny gleams, Water the green land of dreams, The holy land of song. Therefore, at Pentecost, which brings The spring, clothed like a bride, When nestling buds unfold their wings, And bishop's-caps have golden rings, Musing upon many things, I sought the woodlands wide. The green trees whispered low and mild; They were my playmates when a child, Still they looked at me and smiled, As if I were a boy; And ever whispered, mild and low, Oh, I could not choose but go Into the woodlands hoar; Into the blithe and breathing air, Into the solemn wood, Solemn and silent everywhere! Nature with folded hands seemed there Kneeling at her evening prayer! Like one in prayer I stood. Before me rose an avenue Of tall and sombrous pines; Abroad their fan-like branches grew, And, where the sunshine darted through, Spread a vapour soft and blue, In long and sloping lines. And, falling on my weary brain, The dreams of youth came back again, Visions of childhood! Stay, oh stay! Thou art no more a child! "The land of Song within thee lies, Its clouds are angels' wings. |