And splendor dwells in the cowslip bells
While I kindle each nectar drop:
I speed on my wide refulgent path,
And nature's homage is given;
All tones are poured to greet me adored
As I reach the blue mid-heaven,
And the sweetest and boldest, the truly free,
The lark and the eagle come nearest to me.
The glittering train so praised by man,
The moon, night's worshipped queen,
The silvery scud, and the rainbow's span,
Snatch from me their colors and sheen.
I know when my radiant streams are flung,
Creation shows all that is bright,
But I'm jealous of naught save the face of the young,
Laughing back my noontide light:
I see nothing so pure or so dazzling on earth,
As childhood's brow with its halo of mirth.
My strength goes down in the crystal caves,
I gem the billow's wide curl,
I paint the dolphin and burnish the waves,
I tinge the coral and pearl.
Love ye the flowers? What power, save mine,
Can the velvet rose unfold?
Who else can purple the grape on the vine,
Or flush the wheat-ear with gold?
Look on the beam-lit wilderness spot
'Tis more fair than the palace, where I come not.
Though giant clouds ride on the whirlwind's tide.
And gloom on the world may fall,
I yet flash on in gorgeous pride,
Untarnished above them all.
So the pure warm heart for a while may appear,
In probations of sorrow and sin,
To be dimmed and obscured, but trial or tear
Cannot darken the spirit within.
Let the breast keep its truth, and life's shadows may roll,
But they quench not, they reach not the sun nor the soul.
WHILE THE CHRISTMAS LOG IS BURNING.
HAIL to the night when we gather once more
All the forms we love to meet;
When we've many a guest that's dear to our breast,
And the household dog at our feet.
Who would not be in the circle of glee
When heart to heart is yearning
When joy breathes out in the laughing shout
While the Christmas log is burning?
'Tis one of the fairy hours of life,
When the world seems all of light;
For the thought of wo, or the name of a foe,
Ne'er darkens the festive night.
When bursting mirth rings round the hearth,
Oh! where is the spirit that's mourning,
While merry bells chime with the carol rhyme,
And the Christmas log is burning?
Then is the time when the gray old man
Leaps back to the days of youth;
When brows and eyes bear no disguise,
But flush and gleam with truth.
Oh! then is the time when the soul exults,
And seems right heavenward turning;
When we love and bless the hands we press,
While the Christmas log is burning.
BEAUTIFUL germ! I have set thee low
In the dewy earth-strike, spring, and grow
Oh! cleave to the soil, and thou mayst be
The king of the woods, a brave e tree.
Acorn of England, thou mayst bear
Thy green head high in the mountain air.
Another age, and thy mighty form
May scowl. he sun and mock the storm.
A hundred yes, and the woodman's stroke
May fiercely fall on thy heart of oak;
Let time roll on, and thy planks may ride
In glorious state o'er the fathomless tide.
Thou mayst baffle the waters, and firmly take
The winds that sweep and waves that break;
And thy vaunted strength shall as nobly stand
The rage of the sea as the storm on the land.
A hundred years, and in some fair hall
Thou mayst shine as the polished wainscot wall;
And ring with the laugh and echo the jest
Of the happy host and the feasting guest.
Acorn of England! deep in the earth
Mayst thou live and burst in flourishing birth;
May thy root be firm and thy broad arms wave,
When the hand that plants thee is cold in the grave.
BLANDLY glowing, richly bright,
Cheering star of social light;
While I gently heap it higher,
How I bless thee, sparkling fire!
Who loves not the kindly rays
Streaming from the tempered blaze?
Who can sit beneath his hearth
Dead to feeling, stern to mirth?
Who can watch the crackling pile
And keep his breast all cold the while.
Fire is good, but it must serve:
Keep it thralled for if it swerve
Into freedom's open path,
What shall check its maniac wrath?
Where's the tongue that can proclaim
The fearful work of curbless flame?
Darting wide and shooting high,
It lends a horror to the sky;
It rushes on to waste, to scare,
Arousing terror and despair;
It tells the utmost earth can know
About the demon scenes below;
And sinks at last, all spent and dead,
Among the ashes it has spread.
Sure the poet is not wrong
To glean a moral from the song.
Listen, youth! nor scorn, nor frown,
Thou must chain thy passions down.
Well to serve, but ill to sway,
Like the fire they must obey.
They are good in subject state
To strengthen, warm, and animate;
But if once we let them reign,
They sweep with desolating train,
Till they but leave a hated name,
A ruined soul, and blackened fame.
'Tis June, 'tis merry smiling June;
'Tis blushing summer now:
The rose is red the bloom is dead
The fruit is on the bough.
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