And formal fellowship of petty things! -Oh! 'tis the heart that magnifies this life, Making a truth and beauty of her own; And moss-grown alleys, circumscribing shades, And gurgling rills, assist her in the work More efficaciously than realms outspread, As in a map, before the adventurer's gaze- Ocean and Earth contending for regard.
The umbrageous woods are left-how far beneath! But lo! where darkness seems to guard the mouth Of yon wild cave, whose jaggèd brows are fringed With flaccid threads of ivy, in the still
And sultry air, depending motionless. Yet cool the space within, and not uncheered (As whoso enters shall ere long perceive) By stealthy influx of the timid day
Mingling with night, such twilight to compose. As Numa loved; when, in the Egerian grot, From the sage Nymph appearing at his wish, He gained whate'er a regal mind might ask, Or need, of counsel breathed through lips divine. Long as the heat shall rage, let that dim cave Protect us, there deciphering as we may Diluvian records; or the sighs of Earth Interpreting; or counting for old Time His minutes, by reiterated drops,
Audible tears, from some invisible source That deepens upon fancy-more and more Drawn toward the centre whence those sighs creep forth
To awe the lightness of humanity:
Or, shutting up thyself within thyself,
There let me see thee sink into a mood
Of gentler thought, protracted till thine eye
Be calm as water when the winds are gone, And no one can tell whither. Dearest Friend! We too have known such happy hours together That, were power granted to replace them (fetched From out the pensive shadows where they lie) In the first warmth of their original sunshine, Loth should I be to use it: passing sweet Are the domains of tender memory!
THE sylvan slopes with corn-clad fields. Are hung, as if with golden shields, Bright trophies of the sun!
Like a fair sister of the sky,
Unruffled doth the blue lake lie,
The mountains looking on.
And, sooth to say, yon vocal grove, Albeit uninspired by love,
By love untaught to ring, May well afford to mortal ear An impulse more profoundly dear Than music of the Spring.
For that from turbulence and heat Proceeds, from some uneasy seat In nature's struggling frame, Some region of impatient life: And jealousy, and quivering strife, Therein a portion claim.
This, this is holy;-while I hear
These vespers of another year, This hymn of thanks and praise, My spirit seems to mount above The anxieties of human love, And earth's precarious days.
But list!-though winter storms be nigh, Unchecked is that soft harmony:
There lives Who can provide
For all his creatures; and in Him, Even like the radiant Seraphim,
These choristers confide.
DEPARTING summer hath assumed An aspect tenderly illumed, The gentlest look of spring; That calls from yonder leafy shade Unfaded, yet prepared to fade, A timely carolling.
No faint and hesitating trill,
Such tribute as to winter chill The lonely redbreast pays!
Clear, loud, and lively is the din, From social warblers gathering in Their harvest of sweet lays.
Nor doth the example fail to cheer Me, conscious that my leaf is sere, And yellow on the bough:- Fall, rosy garlands, from my head!
Ye myrtle wreaths, your fragrance shed Around a younger brow!
Yet will I temperately rejoice;
Wide is the range, and free the choice Of undiscordant themes;
Which, haply, kindred souls may prize Not less than vernal ecstasies, And passion's feverish dreams.
For deathless powers to verse belong, And they like Demi-gods are strong On whom the Muses smile;
But some their function have disclaimed, Best pleased with what is aptliest framed To enervate and defile.
Not such the initiatory strains Committed to the silent plains In Britain's earliest dawn:
Trembled the groves, the stars grew pale, While all-too-daringly the veil
Of nature was withdrawn !
Nor such the spirit-stirring note When the live chords Alcæus smote, Inflamed by sense of wrong;
Woe! woe to Tyrants! from the lyre Broke threateningly, in sparkles dire Of fierce vindictive song.
And not unhallowed was the page By winged Love inscribed, to assuage The pangs of vain pursuit ;
Love listening while the Lesbian Maid With finest touch of passion swayed Her own Eolian lute.
O ye, who patiently explore The wreck of Herculanean lore, What rapture! could ye seize Some Theban fragment, or unroll One precious, tender-hearted, scroll Of pure Simonides.
That were, indeed, a genuine birth Of poesy; a bursting forth
Of genius from the dust:
What Horace gloried to behold,
What Maro loved, shall we enfold ?
Can haughty Time be just!
A PEN to register; a key- That winds through secret wards; Are well assigned to Memory By allegoric Bards.
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