Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good: Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow. There do I find a never-failing store Of personal themes, and such as I love best; Two will I mention, dearer than the rest; And heavenly Una with her milk-white Lamb. Nor can I not believe but that hereby Great gains are mine: for thus I live remote Rocks in its harbour, lodging peaceably. Blessings be with them, and eternal praise, Yes! full surely 'twas the Echo, Solitary, clear, profound, Answering to Thee, shouting Cuckoo! Giving to thee Sound for Sound. Whence the Voice? from air or earth? This the Cuckoo cannot tell; But a startling sound had birth, As the Bird must know full well; Like the voice through earth and sky By the restless Cuckoo sent; Like her ordinary cry, Like-but oh how different! Hears not also mortal Life? Hear not we, unthinking Creatures! Slaves of Folly, Love, or Strife, Voices of two different Natures? Have not We too? Yes we have Answers, and we know not whence; Echoes from beyond the grave, Recogniz'd intelligence? Such within ourselves we hear Listen, ponder, hold them dear; For of God, of God they are! TO THE SPADE OF A FRIEND, (AN AGRICULTURIST.) Composed while we were labouring together in his Pleasure-Ground. Spade! with which Wilkinson hath till'd his Lands, I press thee through the yielding soil with pride. Rare Master has it been thy lot to know; |