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My Soul was grateful for delight

That wore a threatening brow;

A veil is lifted — can she slight

The scene that opens now?

Though habitation none appear,

The greenness tells, man must be there;

The shelter—that the perspective

Is of the clime in which we live;

Where Toil pursues his daily round;

Where Pity sheds sweet tears, and Love,

In woodbine bower or birchen grove,

Inflicts his tender wound.

— Who comes not hither ne'er shall know

How beautiful the world below;

Nor can he guess how lightly leaps

The brook adown the rocky steeps. v

Farewell, thou desolate Domain!

Hope, pointing to the cultured Plain,

Carols like a shepherd boy;

And who is she ? — Can that be Joy!

Who, with a sun-beam for her guide,

Smoothly skims the meadows wide;

While Faith, from yonder opening cloud,

To hill and vale proclaims aloud,

"Whate'er the weak may dread, the wicked dare,

Thy lot, O man, is good, thy portion fair!"




Had this effulgence disappeared

With flying haste, I might have sent,

Among the speechless clouds, a look

Of blank astonishment;

But 'tis endued with power to stay,

And sanctify one closing day,

That frail Mortality may see, —

What is ? — ah no, but what can be!

Time was when field and watery cove

With modulated echoes rang,

While choirs of fervent Angels sang

Their vespers in the grove;

Or, ranged like stars along some sovereign height,

Warbled, for heaven above and earth below,

Strains suitable to both. — Such holy rite,

Methinks, if audibly repeated now

From hill or valley, could not move

Sublimer transport, purer love,

Than doth this silent spectacle — the gleam —

The shadow — and the peace supreme!

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No sound is uttered, — but a deep

And solemn harmony pervades

The hollow vale from steep to steep,

And penetrates the glades.

Far-distant images draw nigh,

Called forth by wonderous potency

Of beamy radiance, that imbues

Whate'er it strikes, with gem-like hues!

In vision exquisitely clear,

Herds range along the mountain side;

And glistening antlers are descried;

And gilded flocks appear.

Thine is the tranquil hour, purpureal Eve!

But long as god-like wish, or hope divine,

Informs my spirit, ne'er can I believe

That this magnificence is wholly thine!

— From worlds not quickened by the sun

A portion of the gift is won;

An intermingling of Heaven's pomp is spread

On ground which British shepherds tread!


And, if there be whom broken ties

Afflict, or injuries assail,

Yon hazy ridges to their eyes,

Present a glorious scale,

Climbing suffused with sunny air,

To stop — no record hath told where!

And tempting fancy to ascend,

And with immortal Spirits blend!

— Wings at my shoulder seem to play;

But, rooted here, I stand and gaze

On those bright steps that heaven-ward raise

Their practicable way.

Come forth, ye drooping old men, look abroad And see to what fair countries ye are bound!And if some Traveller, weary of his road, Hath slept since noon-tide on the grassy ground, Ye Genii! to his covert speed;And wake him with such gentle heed As may attune his soul to meet the dower Bestowed on this transcendent hour!

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