THE lark has sung his carol in the sky; The bees have hummed their noon-tide lullaby; Still in the vale the village-bells ring round, Still in Llewellyn-hall the jests resound; For now the caudle-cup is circling there, Now, glad at heart, the gossips breathe their prayer, And, crowding, stop the cradle to admire
The babe, the sleeping image of his sire.
A few short years-and then these sounds shall hail The day again, and gladness fill the vale;
So soon the child a youth, the youth a man, Eager to run the race his fathers ran.
Then the huge ox shall yield the broad sirloin; The ale, new brewed, in floods of amber shine: And, basking in the chimney's ample blaze, 'Mid many a tale told of his boyish days, The nurse shall cry, of all her ills beguiled, "'Twas on these knees he sate so oft and smiled."
And soon again shall music swell the breeze! Soon, issuing forth, shall glitter through the trees Vestures of nuptial white; and hymns be sung, And violets scattered round; and old and young, In every cottage-porch with garlands green, Stand still to gaze, and, gazing, bless the scene; While, her dark eyes declining, by his side Moves in her virgin-veil the gentle bride.
And once, alas! nor in a distant hour, Another voice shall come from yonder tower; When in dim chambers long black weeds are seen, And weeping's heard where only joy has been;
When by his children borne, and from his door Slowly departing to return no more,
He rests in holy earth with them that went before.
And such is Human Life;-so gliding on,
It glimmers like a meteor, and is gone! Yet is the tale, brief though it be, as strange, As full methinks of wild and wondrous change, As any that the wandering tribes require, Stretched in the desert round their evening fire; As any sung of old in hall or bower
To minstrel-harps at midnight's witching hour!
Stamped with its signet that ingenuous brow; And 'mid his old hereditary trees,
Trees he has climb'd so oft, he sits and sees
His children's children playing round his knees: Then happiest, youngest, when the quoit is flung, When side by side the archers' bows are strung; His to prescribe the place, adjudge the prize, Envying no more the young their energies Than they an old man, when his words are wise; His a delight how pure,-without alloy; Strong in their strength, rejoicing in their joy!
Now in their turn assisting, they repay The anxious cares of many and many a day; And now by those he loves relieved, restored, His very wants and weaknesses afford A feeling of enjoyment. In his walks, Leaning on them, how oft he stops and talks, While they look up! Their questions, their replies, Fresh as the welling waters, round him rise, Gladdening his spirit: and, his theme the past, How eloquent he is! His thoughts flow fast;
And, while his heart (oh, can the heart grow old? False are the tales that in the world are told!) Swells in his voice, he knows not where to end; Like one discoursing of an absent friend.
RECOLLECTIONS OF YOUTH.
Aн, then, what honest triumph flush'd my breast! This truth once known-To bless is to be blest! We led the bending beggar on his way; (Bare were his feet, his tresses silver-gray,) Sooth'd the keen pangs his aged spirit felt, And on his tale with mute attention dwelt. As in his scrip we dropt our little store, And wept to think that little was no more;
He breath'd his prayer, "Long may such goodness live!" 'Twas all he gave, 'twas all he had to give.
But, hark! through those old firs, with sullen swell The church-clock strikes! ye tender scenes farewell! It calls me hence, beneath their shade to trace The few fond lines that time may soon efface.
On yon gray stone that fronts the chancel-door, Worn smooth by busy feet now seen no more, Each eve we shot the marble through the ring, When the heart danc'd and life was in its spring; Alas! unconscious of the kindred earth,
That faintly echoed to the voice of mirth.
The glow-worm loves her emerald light to shed, Where now the sexton rests his hoary head. Oft as he turn'd the green-sward with his spade, He lectur'd every youth that round him play'd; ́ And calmly pointing where his fathers lay, Rous'd him to rival each, the hero of his day.
INSTINCTIVE GENIUS AND DILIGENCE.
INSTINCTIVE GENIUS AND DILIGENCE.
I LOVE to see the little goldfinch pluck The groundsel's feather'd seed, and twit and twit, And soon in bower of apple blossom perch'd, Trim his gay suit, and pay us with a song; I would not hold him pris'ner for the world. The chimney-haunting swallow, too, my eye And ear well pleases. I delight to see How suddenly he skims the glassy pool, How quaintly dips, and with a bullet's speed, Whisks by. I love to be awake and hear His morning song twitter'd to dawning day, But most of all it wins my admiration, To view the structure of this little work, A bird's nest. Mark it well, within, without. No tool had he that wrought, no knife to cut, No nail to fix, no bodkin to insert,
No glue to join; his little beak was all, And yet how neatly finish'd! What nice hand, And ev'ry implement and means of art, And twenty years' apprenticeship to boot, Could make me such another? Fondly then We boast of excellence, whose noblest skill Instinctive genius foils.
The bee observe: She too an artist is, and laughs at man Who calls on rules the sightly hexagon With truth to form; a cunning architect, Who at the roof begins her golden work, And builds without foundation. How she toils, And still from bud to bud, from flow'r to flow'r, Travels the livelong day. Ye idle drones, Who rather pilfer than your bread obtain
By honest means like these, behold and learn How good, how fair, how honourable 'tis To live by industry. The busy tribes Of bees so emulous, are daily fed
With heaven's peculiar manna. 'Tis for them, Unwearied alchymists, the blooming world Nectarious gold distils. And bounteous heav'n, Still to the diligent and active, good, Their very labour makes the certain cause Of future wealth. The little traveller, Who toils so cheerfully from flow'r to flow'r, For ever singing as she goes, herself
Bears on her wings and thighs the genial dust The barren blossom needs, and the young seed Impregnates for herself, else unprolific.
And tell me, shall we to blind chance ascribe A scene so wonderful, so fair and good? Shall we no further search than sense will lead, To find the glorious cause which so delights The eye and ear, and scatters everywhere Ambrosial perfumes? Is there not a hand Which operates unseen, and regulates
The vast machine we tread on? Yes, there is; Who first created the great world, a work Of deep construction, complicately wrought, Wheel within wheel; though all in vain we strive To trace remote effects through the thick maze Of movements intricate, confused and strange, Up to the great Artificer who made
And guides the whole. What if we see him not? No more can we behold the busy soul
Which animates ourselves. Man to himself Is all a miracle I cannot see
« PreviousContinue » |