« PreviousContinue »
A few appear by morning light,
Preserved upon the tall mast's height :
Oft in my soul I see that sight;
But one dear remnant of the night
For him in vain I seek.
Six weeks, beneath the moving sea,
He lay in slumber quietly ;
Unforced, by wind or wave,
To quit the ship for which he died
(All claims of duty satisfied);
And there they found him at her side,
And bore him to the grave.
Vain service ! yet not vainly done,
For this, if other end were none,
That he, who had been cast
Upon a way of life unmeet
For such a gentle soul and sweet,
Should find an undisturb'd retreat
Near what he loved, at last;
That neighbourhood of grove and field
To him a resting place should yield,
A meek man and a brave !
The birds shall sing, and ocean make
A mournful murmur, for his sake ;
And thou, sweet flower, shalt sleep and wake
Upon his senseless grave !
BRIGHT flower, whose home is everywhere?
A pilgrim bold in Nature's care,
And all the long year through, the heir
Of joy or sorrow,
Methinks that there abides in thee
Some concord with humanity,
Giv'n to no other flower I see
The forest through !
Is it that man is soon depress'd ?
A thoughtless thing! who, once unblest,
Does little on his memory rest,
Or on his reason,
And thou wouldst teach him how to find
A shelter under every wind,
A hope for times that are unkind,
And every season?
Thou wanderest the wide world about,
Uncheck'd by pride or scrupulous doubt,
. With friends to greet thee, or without,
Yet pleased and willing ;
Meek, yielding to th' occasion's call,
And all things suffering from all,
Thy function apostolical
In peace fulfilling.
I HEARD) a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sat reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.
Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,
The periwinkle trail'd its wreaths ;
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.
The birds around me hopp'd and play'd ;
Their thoughts I cannot measure : -
But the least motion which they made,
It seem'd a thrill of pleasure.
The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air ;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.
If I these thoughts may not prevent,
If such be of my creed the plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?
Intimations of Immortality from recollections of early
"The child is father of the man; And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.'
THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight,
To me did seem
Apparell'd in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream. It is not now as it has been of yore;
Turn wheresoe'er I may,
By night or day, The things which I have seen I now can see no more !
The rainbow comes and goes,
And lovely is the rose, –
The moon doth with delight
Look round her when the heavens are bare ;
Waters on a starry night
Are beautiful and fair ;
The sunshine is a glorious birth ;
But yet I know, where'er I go,
That there hath pass'd away a glory from the earth.
Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,
And while the young lambs bound
As to the tabor's sound,
To me alone there came a thought of grief;
A timely utterance gave that thought relief,
And I again am strong.
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep,-
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong:
I hear the echoes through the mountains throng,
The winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
And all the earth is gay;
Land and sea
Give themselves up to jollity,
And with the heart of May
Doth every beast keep holiday ;
Thou child of joy, Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy shepherd boy!
Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call
Ye to each other make; I see
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ;
My heart is at your festival,
My head hath its coronal,
The fullness of your bliss, I feel — I feel it all.
Oh evil day! if I were sullen
While the earth herself is adorning,
This sweet May morning;
And the children are pulling,
On every side,
In a thousand valleys far and wide,
Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm And the babe leaps up on his mother's arms :
I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!
.- But there's a tree, of many one, A single field which I have look'd upon, Both of them speak of something that is gone :
The pansy at my feet
Doth the same tale repeat: Whither is fled the visionary gleam? Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting :
The soul that rises with us, our life's star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar ;
Not in entire forgetfulness.
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come.
From God, who is our home :
Heaven lies about us in our infancy !
Shades of the prison-house begin to close
Upon the growing boy,
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,
He sees it in his joy ;
The youth, who daily farther from the east
Must travel, still is Nature's priest,
And by the vision splendid
Is on his way attended ;