WILD flowers, that Fancy o'er our path has strown,
So gay in youth, maturer years imbrown;
Nature's high instinct, like the vernal gales,
In childhood fresh'ning o'er the heart prevails!
Shadows of beauty then around us come
Like trails of glory from the soul's first home,
Embellishing existence-they are gone,
Gone like the light that yesterday hath shone.
Yet forms that are most beautiful remain,
They do not woo the poet's love in vain :
While his fine genius gives to all he sees
Their natural colours, they must ever please!
His thought-embodying mind can well express
Sensations others do not feel the less.
With variegated hues adorn'd below
A mellow autumn's sun the woodlands glow;
All is unbreathing silence, not a rush
Is stirr'd; and how intense the noon-day hush!
Years have elapsed, but what are years, since they
Whom I remember here, have past away!
Like to a sun-burst gathering clouds among,
Probus shone forth above the worldly throng
That walk in darkness, warming all who came
Within his influence, yet unmark'd by fame.
He drew towards God, with sweet attractive force,
Those who deflected from the even course.
Though mild to others, to himself severe,
He ne'er relax'd, content that Heaven was near : Religion on his heart betimes engraved
The maxim, "Be thou watchful to be saved."
His mind, within its tenement of dust,
Rose unassailable by passion's gust:
The pyramid, thus heavenward pointing stands.
Above the desert's ever-whirling sands.
Habitual piety had given a tone
Of feeling to him that seem'd his alone;
The calm intensity of which, unquell'd
By tumults of the world, each act impell'd.
He has received the meed of faith, and now
The cross shines forth triumphant on his brow.
He too, who while on earth could nothing find
To satisfy the longings of his mind,
So ill by grosser spirits understood,
May realize his dream of perfect good.
That dream a light prophetic, as he mused,
Gradual his mind's horizon circumfused;
Promise through intervening mists of sense,
Of knowledge infinite, of love intense :
Love, as truth opes the everlasting doors
Of heaven for the beloved of God, outpours
Through depths of space, from suns-embracing zones,
Harmonious joy in fragrance-breathing tones.
The light-encircled spirits seem to move
As visitants from heaven through yonder grove;
Though the world's follies be by them forgot,
Yet they might wish to consecrate the spot
With their occasional presence that on earth
They loved, where ripen'd first for heaven their worth;
There, there to flourish in its proper soil,
Not asking, to support it, further toil.
Virtue is there identified with being,
Splendours we vaguely guess at ever seeing;
Splendours ineffable, that Milton's pen
Scarce shadowed out, above our mental ken.
Now they commingle with that holy race
Whom powers that emanate from God embrace!
Measureless knowledge-man here vainly craves—
Now circumscribes them, as the sea its waves:
Not flashing forth and vanishing by turns,
Devotion's steady flame above them burns;
The sun of happiness, that scarcely cheers
Our progress here, how bright to them appears!
Within his influence, yet unmark'd by fame.
Many a time God is present in the still voice and private retirement of a quiet religion, and the constant spiritualities of an ordinary life; when the loud and impetuous winds, and the strong fires of more laborious and expensive actions, are profitable to others; like a tree of balsam distilling precious liquors for others, not for its own use.JEREMY TAYLOR.
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