WALDEINSAMKEIT. I Do not count the hours I spend In wandering by the sea; The forest is my loyal friend, Like God it useth me. In plains that room for shadows make Bound in by streams which give and take Or on the mountain-crest sublime, Or down the oaken glade, O what have I to do with time? For this the day was made. Cities of mortals woe-begone Fantastic care derides, But in the serious landscape lone Stern benefit abides. Sheen will tarnish, honey cloy, And merry is only a mask of sad, But, sober on a fund of joy, There the great Planter plants Still on the seeds of all he made The rose of beauty burns; Through times that wear and forms that fade, Immortal youth returns. The black ducks mounting from the lake, The pigeon in the pines, The bittern's boom, a desert make Which no false art refines. Down in yon watery nook, Where bearded mists divide, The gray old gods whom Chaos knew, Aloft, in secret veins of air, Blows the sweet breath of song, O, few to scale those uplands dare, See thou bring not to field or stone Leave authors' eyes, and fetch your own, To brave the landscape's looks. Oblivion here thy wisdom is, TERMINUS. IT is time to be old, To take in sail : The god of bounds, Who sets to seas a shore, Came to me in his fatal rounds, And said: No more! No farther shoot Thy broad ambitious branches, and thy root. Fancy departs: no more invent; Contract thy firmament To compass of a tent. There's not enough for this and that, Make thy option which of two; Economize the failing river, Not the less revere the Giver, Leave the many and hold the few. Timely wise accept the terms, Still plan and smile, And, fault of novel germs, Mature the unfallen fruit. Curse, if thou wilt, thy sires, The needful sinew stark as once, Amid the Muses, left thee deaf and dumb, Amid the gladiators, halt and numb.' As the bird trims her to the gale, Right onward drive unharmed; The port, well worth the cruise, is near, THE NUN'S ASPIRATION. THE yesterday doth never smile, The day goes drudging through the while, The morrow front, and can defy; Though I am weak, yet God, when prayed, Ah me! it was my childhood's thought, 218 THE NUN'S ASPIRATION. Nor me can Hope or Passion urge Which blasts of Northern mountains hymn, Mourning summer laid in shrouds. And passing, light my sunken turf Forgotten amid splendid tombs, Yet wreathed and hid by summer blooms. On earth I dream ; -I die to be: Time, shake not thy bald head at me. I challenge thee to hurry past Or for my turn to fly too fast. Think me not numbed or halt with age, Realm beyond realm, - extent untold; How lame the other limped away. |