Meek dwellers 'mid yon terror-stricken cliffs!
With brows so pure, and incense-breathing lips,
Whence are ye? Did some white-winged messenger
On mercy's missions trust your timid germ
To the cold cradle of eternal snows?
Or, breathing on the callous icicles,
Bid them with tear-drops nurse ye?
Dare that drear atmosphere; no polar pine
Uprears a veteran front; yet there ye stand,
Leaning your cheeks against the thick-ribb'd ice,
And looking up with brilliant eyes to Him
Who bids you bloom unblanch'd amid the waste
Of desolation. Man, who, panting, toils
O'er slippery steeps, or, trembling, treads the verge
Of yawning gulfs, o'er which the headlong plunge
Is to eternity, looks shuddering up,
And marks ye in your placid loveliness-
Fearless, yet frail—and, clasping his still hands,
Blesses your pencil'd beauty. 'Mid the pomp
Of mountain summits rushing on the sky,
And chaining the rapt soul in breathless awe,
He bows to bind you drooping to his breast,
Inhales your spirit from the frost-wing'd gale
And freer breathes of heaven.
Thy fruit full well the schoolboy knows,
Wild bramble of the brake!
So, put thou forth thy small white rose;
I love it for his sake.
Though woodbines flaunt and roses glow
O'er all the fragrant bowers,
Thou need'st not be ashamed to show
Thy satin-threaded flowers;
For dull the eye, the heart is dull
That can not feel how fair,
Amid all beauty, beautiful
Thy tender blossoms are!
How delicate thy gauzy frill!
How rich thy branchy stem!
How soft thy voice, when woods are still,
And thou sing'st hymns to them!
While silent showers are falling slow,
And, 'mid the general hush,
A sweet air lifts the little bough,
Lone whispering through the bush!
The primrose to the grave is gone;
The hawthorn flower is dead;
The violet by the moss'd gray stone
Hath laid her weary head;
But thou, wild bramble! back dost bring,
In all their beauteous power,
The fresh green days of life's fair spring,
And boyhood's blossomy hour.
Scorn'd bramble of the brake! once more
Thou bidd'st me be a boy,
To rove with thee the woodlands o'er,
In freedom and in joy.
The fresh savannas of the Sagamon,
Here rise in gentle swells, and the long grass
Is mixed with rustling hazels. Scarlet tufts
Are glowing in the green, like flakes of fire;
The wanderers of the prairie know them well,
And call that brilliant flower the Painted Cup.
Now, if thou art a poet, tell me not
That these bright chalices were tinted thus
To hold the dew for fairies, when they meet
On moonlight evenings in the hazel bowers,
And dance till they are thirsty. Call not up,
Amid this fresh and virgin solitude
The faded fancies of an elder world;
But leave these scarlet cups to spotted moths
Of June, and glistening flies, and humming-birds,
To drink from, when on all these boundless lawns
The morning sun looks hot. Or let the wind
O'erturn in sport their ruddy brims, and pour
A sudden shower upon the strawberry plant,
To swell the reddening fruit that even now
Breathes a slight fragrance from the sunny slope.
But thou art of a gayer fancy. Well-
Let then the gentle Manitou of flowers,
Lingering amid the blooming waste he loves,
Though all his swarthy worshipers are gone-
Slender and small his rounded cheek all brown
And ruddy with the sunshine; let him come
On summer mornings, when the blossoms wake,
And part with little hands the spiky grass;
And touching with his cherry lips the edge
Of these bright beakers, drain the gathered dew.
The royal rose-the tulip's glow-
The jasmine's gold are fair to see;
But while the graceful grasses grow,
Oh, gather them for me!
The pansy's gold and purple wing,
The snowdrop's smile may light the lea;
But while the fragrant grasses spring,
My wreath of them shall be!
When a daffodil I see
Hanging down his head toward me,
Guess I may what I may be :
First, I shall decline my head;
Secondly, I shall be dead;
Lastly, safely buried.
Is all grass? Make you no distinction? No; all is grass; or if you will have some other name, be it so. Once, this is true, that all flesh is grass; and if that glory which shines so much in your eyes must have a difference, then this is all that it can have-it is but the flower of that same grass; somewhat above the common grass in gayness, a little
comelier and better appareled than it, but partakes of its frail and fading nature. It hath no privilege nor immunity that way; yea, of the two is less durable, and usually shorter lived; at the last it decays with it."The grass withereth; and the flower thereof fadeth away." ARCHBISHOP LEIGHTON, 1613-1684.
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden daffodils,
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay :
Ten thousand saw I at a glance
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee :
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company;
I gazed and gazed-but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought :
For oft, when on my couch I lie,
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye,
Which is the bliss of solitude,
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
ILENT nymph, with curious eye!
Who, the purple evening, lie
On the mountain's lonely van,
Beyond the noise of busy man;
Painting fair the form of things,
While the yellow linnet sings;
Or the tuneful nightingale,
Charms the forest with her tale;
Come, with all thy various hues,
Come, and aid thy sister Muse;
Now, while Phoebus riding high,
Gives luster to the land and sky!
Grongar Hill invites my song,
Draw the landscape bright and strong; Grongar, in whose mossy cells,
Sweetly musing Quiet dwells;
|