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Those isles, the beautiful Azores,
How pleasant were the wild beliefs
That dwelt in legends old:
Alas! to our posterity
Will no such tales be told.
We know too much; scroll after scroll
Weighs down our weary shelves;
Our only point of ignorance
Is center'd in ourselves.
Alas! for thy past mystery,
For thine untrodden snow—
Nurse of the tempest, hadst thou none
To guard thy outraged brow?
Thy summit, once the unapproach'd,
Hath human presence own'd,
With the first step upon thy crest,
Mont Blanc, thou wert dethroned!
Like flocks adown a newly-bathed steep
Of music soft that not dispels the sleep,
Gazed by an idle eye, with silent might
The picture stole upon my inward sight.
A tremulous warmth crept gradual o'er my chest,
As though an infant's finger touch'd my breast.
And one by one (I know not whence) were brought
All spirits of power that most had stirr'd my thought
In selfless boyhood, on a new world tost
Of wonder, and in its own fancies lost;
Or charm'd my youth, that, kindled from above,
Loved ere it loved, and sought a form for love;
Or lent a lustre to the earnest scan
Of manhood, musing what and whence is man!
Wild strain of Scalds, that in the sea-worn caves
Rehearsed their war-spell to the winds and waves;
Or fateful hymn of those prophetic maids,
That call'd on Hertha in deep forest glades;
Or minstrel lay, that cheer'd the baron's feast;
Or rhyme of city pomp, of monk and priest,
Judge, mayor, and many a guild in long array,
To high-church pacing on the great saint's day.
And many a verse which to myself I sang,
That woke the tear, yet stole away the pang,
Of hopes which in lamenting I renew'd.
And last, a matron now, of sober mien
Yet radiant still and with no earthly sheen,
Whom as a fuery child my childhood woo'd
Even in my dawn of thought—Philosophy—
Though then, unconscious of herself, pardie,
She bore no other name than Poesy;
And like a gift from heaven, in lifeful glee,
That had but newly left a mother's knee,
Prattled and play'd with bird and flower, and stone,
As if with elfin playfellows well known,
And life reveal'd to innocence alone.
THE TOWN CHILD AND COUNTRY CHILD.
By Allan Cujixlngham.
Child of the country! free as air
Art thou, and as the sunshine fair;
Born, like the lily, where the dew
Lies odorous when the day is new;
Fed 'mid the May-flowers like the bee,
Nursed to sweet music on the knee,
Lull'd in the breast to that glad tune
Which winds make 'mong the woods of June;
I sing of thee;—'tis sweet to sing
Of such a fair and gladsome thing.
Child of the town! for thee I sigh:
Child of the country! thy small feet
Child of the town and bustling street,
The stream's too strong for thy small bark;
Fly from the town, sweet child; for health
TO A WEARIED WORKER.
"Rest ?"—Thou must not seek for rest
Until thy task be done;
Till setting of the sun.
Thou must not weary of the life,
Nor scorn thy lowly lot,
Thy neighbour prizeth not.
Thou must not let thy heart grow cold,
Nor hush each generous tone,
Thou must not live alone.
When others strive, thou too must help,
And answer when they call;
Thou must employ for all.
"Freedom and Rest" thou wouldest have:
Freedom is service meet;
For toil amid life's heat. i
Unmoved to gaze upon the strife,
Is not true liberty;
Wouldst thou be truly free.
In the outward world 'tis vain to seek
The Eden thou wouldst win; That ancient paradise is gone—
Thine Eden is within.
AUTUMN WILD FLOWERS.
The autumn sun is shining,
A russet tint is on the leaves,
Still bright in wood and meadow;
On moorlands dry and brown; By little streams; by rivers broad;
On every breezy down,
The little flowers are smiling,
Are saying with a spirit-voice—
"No, though the spring be over;
Though summer's strength be gone; Though autumn's wealth be garner'd,
And winter cometh on;
"Still we have not departed,
We linger to the last,
A cheerful ray will cast!"
—Go forth, then, youths and maidens,
Be joyful whilst ye may;
And toiling men grown grey!