While such thy prayer, it climbs above
In vain the golden key
Of God's rich treasure-house of love,
Thine own will never be.
THE sweet season that bud and bloom forth brings,
With green hath clad the hill, and eke the vale;
The nightingale with feathers new she sings;
The turtle to her mate hath told her tale.
Summer is come, for every spray now springs,
The hart has hung his old head on the pale,
The buck in brake his winter coat he flings,
The fishes fleet with new-repairèd scale;
The adder all her slough away she flings,
The swift swallow pursues the fliës small,
The busy bee her honey now she mings;
Winter is worn that was the flower's bale.
And thus I see, among those pleasant things,
Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs.
WHAT was't awaken'd first the untried ear
Of that sole man who was all humankind?
Was it the gladsome welcome of the wind,
Stirring the leaves that never yet were sere?
The four mellifluous streams which flow'd so near,
Their lulling murmurs all in one combined?
The note of bird unnamed? The startled hind
Bursting the brake-in wonder, not in fear
THE WONDERS OF THE CREATION.
Of her new lord? Or did the holy ground
Send forth mysterious melody to greet
The gracious presence of immaculate feet?
Did viewless seraphs rustle all around,
Making sweet music out of air as sweet?
Or his own voice awake him with its sound?
THE WONDERS OF THE CREATION.
FAR as creation's ample range extends,
The scale of sensual, mental powers ascends:
Mark how it mounts, to man's imperial race,
From the green myriads in the peopled grass.
What modes of sight betwixt each wide extreme,
The mole's dim curtain, and the lynx's beam:
Of smell, the headlong lioness between,
And hound sagacious on the tainted green;
Of hearing, from the life that fills the flood,
To that which warbles through the vernal wood.
The spider's touch, how exquisitely fine!
Feels at each thread, and lives along the line:
In the nice bee, what sense so subtly true
From poisonous herbs extracts the healing dew?
How instinct varies in the grovelling swine,
Compared, half-reasoning elephant, with thine!
"Twixt that and reason what a nice barrier!
For ever separate, yet for ever near!
Who taught the nations of the field and wood
To shun their poison, and to choose their food?
Prescient the tides or tempests to withstand,
Build on the wave, or arch beneath the sand?
Who made the spider parallels design,
Sure as Demoivre, without rule or line?
Who bid the stork, Columbus-like, explore
Heavens not his own, and worlds unknown before?
Who calls the councils, states the certain day?
Who forms the phalanx, and who points the way?
God, in the nature of each being, founds
Its proper bliss, and sets its proper bounds:
But as He framed a whole, the whole to bless,
On mutual wants built mutual happiness;
So from the first, eternal order ran,
And creature link'd to creature, man to man.
Thus then to man the voice of Nature spake—
Go, from the creatures thy instructions take:
Learn from the birds what food the thickets yield;
Learn from the beast the physic of the field.
Thy arts of building from the bee receive;
Learn of the mole to plough, the worm to weave;
Learn of the little nautilus to sail,
Spread the thin oar, and catch the driving gale.
Here too all forms of social union find,
And hence let reason, late, instruct mankind:
Here subterranean works and cities see;
There towns aërial on the waving tree.
Learn each small people's genius, policies,
The ants' republic, and the realm of bees;
How those in common all their wealth bestow,
And anarchy without confusion know;
And these for ever, though a monarch reign,
Their separate cells and properties maintain.
SWEET day! so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky;
The dews shall weep thy fall to-night-
For thou must die.
ON HEARING A THRUSH SING.
Sweet rose! whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye;
Thy root is ever in its grave-
Sweet spring! full of sweet days and roses;
A box where sweets compacted lie;
Thy music shows ye have your closes-
And all must die.
Only a sweet and virtuous soul,
Like season'd timber never gives;
But, though the whole world turn to coal,
Then chiefly lives.
LINES ON HEARING A THRUSH SING IN A
MORNING WALK IN JANUARY.
SING on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough;
Sing on, sweet bird; I listen to thy strain:
See, aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign,
At thy blithe carol clears his furrow'd brow.
So in lone poverty's dominion drear,
Sits meek content with light, unanxious heart,
Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part,
Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear.
I thank thee, Author of this opening day!
Thou whose bright sun now gilds the orient skies!
Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys,
What wealth could never give nor take away!
Yet come, thou child of poverty and care;
The mite high Heaven bestow'd, that mite with thee
WARSAW's last champion from her height survey'd,
Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid;—
"Oh, heaven!" he cried, "my bleeding country save!
Is there no hand on high to shield the brave?—
Yet, though destruction sweep these lovely plains,
Rise, fellow-men! our country yet remains!
By that dread name we wave the sword on high,
And swear for her to live!-with her to die!"
He said, and on the rampart-heights array'd
His trusty warriors, few, but undismay'd;
Firm paced and slow, a horrid front they form,
Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm;
Low murmuring sounds along their banners fly,
Revenge or death, the watchword and reply;
Then peal'd the notes omnipotent to charm,
And the loud tocsin toll'd their last alarm!
In vain, alas! in vain, ye gallant few!
From rank to rank your volley'd thunder flew ;—
Oh! bloodiest picture in the book of Time,
Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime;
Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe,
Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe!
Dropped from her nerveless grasp the shatter'd spear,
Closed her bright eye, and curb'd her high career;
Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell,
And Freedom shriek'd, as Kosciusko fell!
The sun went down,-nor ceased the carnage there;
Tumultuous murder shook the midnight air;
On Prague's proud arch the fires of ruin glow,
His blood-dyed waters murmuring far below;
The storm prevails, the rampart yields a way,
Bursts the wild cry of horror and dismay!-
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