« PreviousContinue »
We over-rule and over-teach,
We curb and we confine,
To learn our narrow line.
No, only taught by love to love,
Seems childhood's natural task;
Are all its brief years ask.
Enjoy thy happiness, sweet child,
With careless heart and eye;
E'en now, are hurrying by :
And let the gazer on thy face
Grow glad with watching thee,
LINES. IMAGINATION; honourable aims; Free commune with the choir that cannot die; Science and song; delight in little things, The buoyant child surviving in the man; Fields, forests, ancient mountains, ocean, sky, With all their voices- dare I accuse My earthly lot as guilty of my spleen, Or call my destiny niggard ? O no! no! It is her largeness, and her overflow, Which being incomplete, disquieteth me so?
For never touch of gladness stirs my heart,
Beloved ! 'tis not thine; thou art not there!
RECORDS OF PASSING THOUGHT.
A REMEMBRANCE OF GRASMERE. O VALE and lake, within your mountain-urn
Smiling so tranquilly, and set so deep, Oft doth your dreamy loveliness return,
Colouring the tender shadows of my sleep
With light Elysian :—for the hues that steep
Isles of the blest; and in our memory keep
Oh! ne'er may man, with touch unhallow'd, jar The perfect music of thy charm serene!
Still, still unchanged may one sweet region wear Smiles that subdue the soul to love, and tears, and
THOUGHTS CONNECTED WITH TREES. Trees, gracious trees; how rich a gift ye are,
Crown of the earth! to human hearts and eyes! How doth the thought of home, in lands afar, Link'd with your forms and kindly whisperings,
rise ? How the whole picture of a childhood lies Oft 'midst your boughs forgotten, buried deep,
Till gazing through them up the summer skies, As hush'd we stand, a breeze perchance may creep,
And old sweet leaf-sounds reach the inner world
Where memory coils; and lo! at once unfurld The past, a glowing scroll, before our sight Spreads clear! while gushing from their long-seal'd
urn Young thoughts, pure dreams, undoubting prayers
All that need home and covert, love your shades: Birds of shy song, and low-voiced quiet springs,
And stealthy violets, by the winds betray'd. Childhood beneath your fresh green tents hath
play'd With his first primrose-wealth; there Love hath sought A veiling gloom for his unutter'd thought,
And silent grief, of day's keen glance afraid,
A native temple, solemn, hush'd, and dim;
READING “PAUL AND VIRGINIA” IN CHILDHOOD. O gentle story of the Indian Isle!
I loved thee in my lonely childhood well, On the sea-shore, when day's last purple smile
Slept on the waters, and their hollow swell
And dying cadence lent a deeper spell
And strange bright birds, my fancy joy'd to dwell, And watch the Southern Cross through midnight
calms, And track the spicy woods. Yet more I bless'd
Thy vision of sweet love, kind, trustful, true, Lighting the citron groves-a heavenly guest
With such pure smiles as Paradise once knew. Even then my young heart wept o'er this world's To reach and blight that holiest Eden flower.
THOUGHT AT SUNSET.
O Sun! to morrow will give back, we know,
The joy to Nature's heart. Yet through the glow Of clouds that mantle thy decline, our gaze Tracks thee with love half fearful: and in days
When Earth too much adored thee, what a swell Of mournful passion, deepening mighty lays,
Told how the dying bade thy light farewell;
And darkness lay before them. Happier far
IMAGES OF PATRIARCHAL LIFE.
Your unworn pastoral images retain
Drank their pure freshness deep! The camel's train!
The tent, the palm-tree, the reposing flock,
Oh! by how subtle, yet how strong a chain,
ATTRACTION OF THE EAST.
Unto the golden East, with ceaseless flow?
The pilgrim-spirit would adore and glow.
Led by those old Chaldean stars, which know Where pass'd the shepherd-fathers of mankind.
Is it some quenchless instinct, which from far Still points to where our alienated home
Lay in bright peace? O thou, true Eastern Star! Saviour, atoning Lord! where'er we roam,
Draw still our hearts to thee; else, else how vain
TO AN AGED FRIEND.
Servant of God! thy day is almost done!
That which the meekness of decay hath won
Of Life immortal-progress but begunPervade thy mien with such clear eloquence, That hope, not sadness, breathes from thy decline, And the loved flowers which round thee smile