Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And, even with something of a mother's mind, And no unworthy aim, The homely nurse doth all she can To make her foster-child, her inmate man, Forget the glories he hath known, And that imperial palace whence he came. Behold the child among his new-born blisses,-- A mourning or a funeral; And this hath now his heart, To dialogues of business, love, or strife; Ere this be thrown aside, The little actor cons another part, Filling from time to time his humorous stage' Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep On whom those truths do rest, In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave; Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave,— Is something that doth live, The thought of our past years in me doth breed For that which is most worthy to be blest; Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast: Not for these I raise The song of thanks and praise; But for those obstinate questionings Blank misgivings of a creature Moving about in worlds not realized, High instincts before which our mortal nature Those shadowy recollections, Are yet the fountain light of all our day, Are yet a master light of all our seeing; Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being To perish never; Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Can utterly abolish or destroy! Hence in a season of calm weather, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Can in a moment travel thither, And see the children sport upon the shore, Then sing, ye birds! sing, sing a joyous song! We in thought will join your throng; Ye that pipe, and ye that play, Ye that through your hearts to-day What though the radiance which was once so bright, Though nothing can bring back the hour Which having been, must ever be ; In the faith that looks through death, In years that bring the philosophic mind. And O, ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves, Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; To live beneath your more habitual sway. I love the brooks, which down their channels fret, Even more than when I tripped lightly as they ; The innocent brightness of a new-born day Is lovely yet; The clouds that gather round the setting sun LUCY. THREE years she grew in sun and shower, Then Nature said, A lovelier flower 66 On earth was never sown; This child I to myself will take,— She shall be mine, and I will make Myself will to my darling be Both law and impulse; and with me The girl, in rock and plain, In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, Shall feel an overseeing power, To kindle or restrain. She shall be sportive as the fawn, Or up the mountain springs; And hers shall be the breathing balm,- The floating clouds their state shall lend Nor shall she fail to see Even in the motions of the storm, Grace that shall mould the maiden's form, By silent sympathy. The stars of midnight shall be dear To her; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place, Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty, born of murmuring sound, And vital feelings of delight Shall rear her form to stately height, Her virgin bosom swell; Such thoughts to Lucy I will give, While she and I together live Here in this happy dell." Thus Nature spake,-the work was done; This heath, this calm and quiet scene, SONNETS. SCORN NOT THE SONNET. SCORN not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned, It cheered mild Spenser, called from faery-land To struggle through dark ways; and when a damp IT IS A BEAUTEOUS EVENING. It is a beauteous evening, calm and free; Dear child! dear girl! that walkest with me here, Thy nature is not, therefore, less divine; |