ENOUGH of climbing toil!—Ambition treads Here, as 'mid busier scenes, ground steep and rough, Or slippery even to peril! and each step, As we for most uncertain recompence
Mount toward the empire of the fickle clouds, Each weary step, dwarfing the world below, Induces, for its old familiar sights, Unacceptable feelings of contempt,
With wonder mixed—that Man could e'er be tied, In anxious bondage, to such nice array
And formal fellowship of petty things! -Oh! 'tis the heart that magnifies this life, Making a truth and beauty of her own; And moss-grown alleys, circumscribing shades, And gurgling rills, assist her in the work More efficaciously than realms outspread, As in a map, before the adventurer's gaze— Ocean and Earth contending for regard.
The umbrageous woods are left-how far beneath! But lo! where darkness seems to guard the mouth Of yon wild cave, whose jaggèd brows are fringed With flaccid threads of ivy, in the still And sultry air, depending motionless. Yet cool the space within, and not uncheered (As whoso enters shall ere long perceive) By stealthy influx of the timid day
Mingling with night, such twilight to compose As Numa loved; when, in the Egerian grot, From the sage Nymph appearing at his wish, He gained whate'er a regal mind might ask, Or need, of counsel breathed through lips divine.
Long as the heat shall rage, let that dim cave Protect us, there deciphering as we may Diluvian records; or the sighs of Earth Interpreting; or counting for old Time His minutes, by reiterated drops,
Audible tears, from some invisible source
That deepens upon fancy-more and more
Drawn toward the centre whence those sighs creep forth To awe the lightness of humanity.
Or, shutting up thyself within thyself, There let me see thee sink into a mood Of gentler thought, protracted till thine eye Be calm as water when the winds are gone, And no one can tell whither. Dearest Friend!
We two have known such happy hours together That, were power granted to replace them (fetched From out the pensive shadows where they lie) In the first warmth of their original sunshine, Loth should I be to use it: passing sweet Are the domains of tender memory!
THE sylvan slopes with corn-clad fields Are hung, as if with golden shields, Bright trophies of the sun!
Like a fair sister of the sky,
Unruffled doth the blue lake lie,
The mountains looking on.
And, sooth to say, yon vocal grove, Albeit uninspired by love,
By love untaught to ring,
May well afford to mortal ear An impulse more profoundly dear Than music of the Spring.
For that from turbulence and heat Proceeds, from some uneasy seat In nature's struggling frame, Some region of impatient life: And jealousy, and quivering strife, Therein a portion claim.
This, this is holy;-while I hear These vespers of another year, This hymn of thanks and praise, My spirit seems to mount above The anxieties of human love, And earth's precarious days.
But list!-though winter storms be nigh, Unchecked is that soft harmony:
There lives Who can provide
For all his creatures; and in Him, Even like the radiant Seraphim,
These choristers confide.
DEPARTING summer hath assumed
An aspect tenderly illumed,
The gentlest look of spring ; That calls from yonder leafy shade Unfaded, yet prepared to fade, A timely carolling.
No faint and hesitating trill, Such tribute as to winter chill The lonely redbreast pays! Clear, loud, and lively is the din, From social warblers gathering in Their harvest of sweet lays.
Nor doth the example fail to cheer Me, conscious that my leaf is sere, And yellow on the bough :- Fall, rosy garlands, from my head! Ye myrtle wreaths, your fragrance shed Around a younger brow!
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