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To greet the flowers and fruitage of a land,
Though cold as winter, gloomy as the grave,
"Slaves cannot breathe in England," - yet that
Is but a mockery! when from coast to coast,
Of sleepless Labor, 'mid whose dizzy wheels
The Power least prized is that which thinks and feels.
Then, for the pastimes of this delicate age, And all the heavy or light vassalage
Which for their sakes we fasten, as may suit
POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 293
Our varying moods, on human kind or brute,
Which nothing less than Infinite Power could give.
THE unremitting voice of nightly streams,
Nor unto silent leaves and drowsy flowers,
(For who what is shall measure by what seems To be, or not to be,
Or tax high Heaven with prodigality?)
To regulate the motion of our dreams
For kindly issues, as through every clime Was felt near murmuring brooks in earliest time; As at this day, the rudest swains who dwell Where torrents roar, or hear the tinkling knell Of water-breaks, with grateful heart could tell.
THOUGHTS ON THE SEASONS.
FLATTERED with promise of escape
Spring takes, O sprightly May! thy shape,
Less fair is Summer riding high
In fierce solstitial power,
Less fair than when a lenient sky
When earth repays with golden sheaves
The labors of the plough,
And ripening fruits and forest leaves
All brighten on the bough,
What pensive beauty Autumn shows,
Of Winter rushing in, to close
Such be our Spring, our Summer such;
With hoary Winter, and Life touch,
UPON THE BIRTH OF HER FIRST-BORN CHILD, MARCH, 1833.
"Tum porro puer, ut sævis projectus ab undis
LIKE a shipwrecked Sailor tost
And in tenderest nakedness,
Than the hands are free to implore:
Of sorrow that will surely come?
But, O Mother! by the close Duly granted to thy throes; By the silent thanks, now tending Incense-like to Heaven, descending Now to mingle and to move With the gush of earthly love, As a debt to that frail Creature, Instrument of struggling Nature For the blissful calm, the peace Known but to this one release, — Can the pitying spirit doubt That for human kind springs out From the penalty a sense
Of more than mortal recompense?
As a floating summer cloud, Though of gorgeous drapery proud, To the sun-burnt traveller,
Or the stooping laborer,
Ofttimes makes its bounty known