FLEETLY hath passed the year; the seasons came Duly as they were wont, the gentle Spring,
And the delicious Summer, and the cool
Rich Autumn, with the nodding of the grain,
And Winter, like an old and hoary man,
Frosty and stiff, - and so are chronicled.
We have read gladness in the new green leaf,
And in the first-blown violets; we have drunk
Cool water from the rock, and in the shade
Sunk to the noontide slumber; we have plucked
The mellow fruitage of the bending tree,
And girded to our pleasant wanderings
When the cool winds came freshly from the hills;
And when the tinting of the Autumn leaves
Had faded from its glory, we have sat
By the good fires of Winter, and rejoiced
Over the fulness of the gathered sheaf.
"God hath been very good." 'Tis He whose hand Moulded the sunny hills, and hollowed out
The shelter of the valleys, and doth keep
The fountains in their secret places cool;
And it is He who leadeth up the sun,
And ordereth up the starry influences,
And tempereth the keenness of the frost;
And, therefore, in the plenty of the feast,
And in the lifting of the cup, let Him
Have praises for the well-completed year.
THE groves were God's first temples.
learned
To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave,
And spread the roof above them, -
The lofty vault, to gather and roll back
The sound of anthems, — in the darkling wood,
Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down
And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks
And supplications.
Here in the shadow of this aged wood,
Offer one hymn — thrice happy, if it find
Acceptance in his ear.
Hath reared these venerable columns; thou
Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look
Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose
All these fair ranks of trees. They in thy sun
Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze,
And shot toward heaven. The century-living crow
Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died
Among their branches, — till, at last, they stood,
As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark,
Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold
Communion with his Maker. These dim vaults,
These winding aisles, of human pomp or pride
Report not. No fantastic carvings show
The boast of our vain race to change the form
Of thy fair works. But thou art here; thou fill'st The solitude; thou art in the soft winds
That run along the summit of these trees
In music; thou art in the cooler breath,
That, from the inmost darkness of the place,
Comes, scarcely felt; the barky trunks, the ground,
The fresh, moist ground, are all instinct with thee.
I WALKED with him one melancholy night Down by the sea, upon the moon-lit strands, While in the silent heaven the Northern Light Beckoned with flaming hands!
Beckoned and vanished, like a woful ghost
That fain would lure us to some dismal wood, And tell us tales of ships that have been lost, Of violence and blood.
And where yon dædal rocks o'erhang the froth, We sat together, Lycidas and I,
Watching the great star-bear that in the North Guarded the midnight sky.
And while the moonlight wrought its miracles,
Drenching the world with silent silver rain,
He spoke of life and its tumultuous ills;
He told me of his pain,
He said his life was like the troubled sea
With autumn brooding over it; and then
Spoke of his hopes, of what he yearned to be,
And what he might have been.
"I hope," said Lycidas, "for peace at last;
I only ask for peace! my god is Ease:
Day after day some rude iconoclast
Breaks all my images.
"There is a better life than I have knownA surer, purer, sweeter life than this: There is another, a celestial zone,
Where I shall know of bliss."
Close his sad eyes and cross his helpless hands, And lay the flowers he loved upon his breast; For time and death have stayed the golden sands That ran with such unrest.
You weep: I smile: I know that he is dead!
So is his passion; and 'tis better so:
Take him, O earth, and round his lovely head
Let countless roses blow.
To give a cup of water; yet its draught
Of cool refreshment, drained by fevered lip,
May give a shock of pleasure to the frame
More exquisite than when nectarian juice
Renews the life of joy in happiest hours.
It is a little thing to speak a phrase
Of common comfort, which by daily use
Has almost lost its sense; yet on the ear
Of him who thought to die unrenowned, 'twill fall
Like choicest music; fill the glazing eye
With gentle tears; relax the knotted hand
To know the bonds of fellowship again;
And shed on the departing soul a sense,
(More precious than the benison of friends
About the honored death-bed of the rich),
To him who else were lonely, that another
Of the great family is near and feels.
How beautiful is night!
A dewy freshness fills the silent air;
No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain
Breaks the serene of heaven;
In full-orbed glory yonder moon divine
Rolls through the dark-blue depths.
Beneath her steady ray
The desert-circle spreads
Like the ocean girdled. with the sky.
How beautiful is night!
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