Spring in the lap of inter.
THE mist still hovers round the distant hills;
But the blue sky above us has a clear
And pearly softness; not a white speck lies
Upon its breast; it is a crystal dome.
There is a quiet charm about this morn
Which sinks into the soul. No gorgeous colors
Has the undraperied earth, but yet she shows
A vestal brightness: not the voice is heard
Of sylvan melody, whether of birds
Intent on song, or bees mingling their music
With their keen labor; but the twittering voice
Of chaffinch, and the wild unfrequent note
Of the lone woodlark, and the minstrelsy
Of the blest robin, have a potent spell
Chirping away the silence; not the perfume
Of violets scents the gale, nor apple-blossom,
Nor satiating bean-flower; the fresh breeze
Itself is purest fragrance. Light and air
Are ministers of gladness; where these spread,
Beauty abides, and joy: where'er Life is
There is no melancholy.
ALL Nature seems at work. Stags leave their lair—
The bees are stirring-birds are on the wing
And Winter, slumbering in the open air,
Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring!
And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing,
Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.
Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow;
Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow.
Bloom, Oh ye amaranths! bloom for whom ye may,
For me ye bloom not! glide, rich streams, away!
With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll;
And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul?
Work without hope draws nectar in a sieve,
And hope without an object cannot live.
On Observing a Blossom on the First of February.
WEET Flower! that peeping from thy russet stem
Unfoldest timidly (for in strange sort
This dark, frieze-coated, hoarse, teeth-chattering Month
Hath borrowed Zephyr's voice, and gazed on thee
With blue, voluptuous eye), alas, poor Flower!
These are but flatteries of the faithless year.
Perchance, escaped its unknown polar cave,
E'en now, the keen North East is on its way
Flower that must perish! Shall I liken thee
To some sweet girl, of too, too rapid growth,
Nipped by consumption 'mid untimely charms?
Or to Bristowa's bard,* the wondrous boy!
An amaranth, which earth scarce seemed to own,
Till disappointment came, and pelting wrong
Beat it to Earth? or with indignant grief
Shall I compare thee to poor Poland's hope,
Bright flower of hope, killed in the opening bud?
Farewell, sweet blossom! better fate be thine
And mock my boding! dim similitudes
Weaving in moral strains, I stole one hour
From anxious self, Life's cruel taskmaster!
And the warm wooings of this sunny day
Tremble along my frame, and harmonize
The attempered organ, that even saddest thoughts
Mix with some sweet sensations, like harsh tunes
Played deftly on a soft-toned instrument.
GO, Valentine, and tell that lovely maid
Whom fancy still will image to my sight,
How here I linger in this sullen shade,
This dreary gloom of dull, unvarying night.
Say that from every joy of life remote,
At evening's closing hour I quit the throng,
Listening in solitude the ring-dove's note,
Who pours like me her melancholy song.
Say that her absence calls the sorrowing sigh;
Say that of all her charms I love to speak
In fancy feel the magic of her eye,
In fancy view the smile illume her cheek;
Court the lone hour when Silence rules the grove,
And heave the sigh of Memory and of Love.
SACRED Providence, who from end to end.
Strongly and sweetly movest! shall I write And not of thee, through whom my fingers bend To hold my quill? shall they not do thee right?
Of all the creatures both in sea and land
Only to Man thou hast made known thy ways, And put the pen alone into his hand
And made him secretary of thy praise.
Man is the world's High Priest: he doth present The sacrifice for all; while they below
Unto the service mutter an assent
Such as springs use that fall and winds that blow.
He that to praise and laud thee doth refrain,
Doth not refrain unto himself alone,
But robs a thousand who would praise thee fain,
And doth commit a world of sins in one.
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