And every sense, and every heart, is joy.
Then comes thy glory in the summer months,
With light and heart refulgent. Then thy sun
Shoots full perfection through the swelling year;
And oft thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks-
And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve,
By brooks and groves, in hollow-whispering gales.
Thy bounty shines in autumn unconfined,
And spreads a common feast for all that lives.
In winter, awful thou! with clouds and storms
Around thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest roll'd,
Majestic darkness! on the whirlwind's wing
Riding sublime, thou bidd'st the world adore,
And humblest nature with thy northern blast.
Mysterious round! what skill, what force divine,
Deep felt, in these appear! a simple train,
Yet so delightful mix'd, with such kind art,
Such beauty and beneficence combined;
Shade, unperceived, so softening into shade;
And all so forming an harmonious whole;
That, as they still succeed, they ravish still.
But wondering oft, with brute unconscious gaze,
Man marks not thee, marks not the mighty hand
That, ever-busy, wheels the silent spheres;
Works in the secret deep; shoots, steaming, thence
The fair profusion that o'erspreads the spring;
Flings from the sun direct the flaming day:
Feeds every creature; hurls the tempest forth;
And, as on earth this greatful change revolves,
With transport touches all the springs of life.
Nature, attend! join every living soul,
Beneath the spacious temple of the sky,
In adoration join; and, ardent, raise
One general song! To him ye vocal gales,
Breathe soft, whose Spirit in your freshness breathes:
Oh talk of him in solitary glooms!
Where, o'er the rock, the scarcely waving pine
Fills the brown shade with a religious awe.
And ye whose bolder note is heard afar,
Who shake the astonish'd world, lift high to heaven. The impetuous song, and say from whom you rage. His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling rills;
And let me catch it as I muse along.
Ye headlong torrents, rapid, and profound;
Ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze
Along the vale; and thou, majestic main,
A secret word of wonder in thyself,
Sound his stupendous praise-whose greater voice
Or bids you roar, or bids your roaring fall.
Soft-roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowers,
In mingled clouds to him—whose sun exalts,
Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paints.
Ye forests bend, ye harvests wave, to Him;
Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart,
As home he goes beneath the joyous moon.
Ye that keep watch in heaven, as earth asleep
Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams,
Ye constellations, while your angels strike,
Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre.
Great source of day! best image here below
Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide,
From world to world, the vital ocean round,
On nature write with every beam his praise.
The thunder rolls; be hush'd the prostrate world,
While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn.
Bleat out afresh, ye hills; ye mossy rocks,
Retain the sound; the broad responsive low,
Ye valleys, raise; for the great Shepherd reigns;
And his unsuffering kingdom yet will come.
Ye woodlands all, awake; a boundless song
Burst from the groves; and when the restless day,
Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep,
Sweetest of birds! sweet Philomela charm
The listening, shades and teach the night his praise
Ye chief, for whom the whole creation smiles,
As once the head, the heart, and tongue of all.
Crown the great hymn! in swarming cicies vast,
Assembled men, to the deep organ join
The long-resounding voice, oft breaking clear,
At solemn pauses, through the swening base;
And, as each mingling flame increases each,
In one united ardour rise to heaven.
Or if you rather choose the rural snade,
And find a fane in every sacred grove;
There let the shepherd's flute, the virgin's lay,
The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre,
Still sing the God of seasons, as they roll.
For me, when I forget the darling theme.
Whether the blossom blows, the summer ray
Russets the plain, inspiring autumn gleams,
Or winter rises in the blackening east,
Be my tongue mute-my fancy paint no more,
And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat!
Should fate command me to the farthest verge
Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes,
Rivers unknown to song-where first the sun
Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam
Flames on the Atlantic isles-'tis nought to me:
Since God is ever present, ever felt,
In the void waste as in the city full;
And where he vital spreads there must be joy.
When even at last the solemn hour shall come,
And wing my mystic flight to future worlds,
I cheerful will obey; there, with new powers,
Will rising wonders sing, I cannot go
Where universal love not smiles around,
Sustaining all your orbs, and all their sons,
From seeming evil still educing good,
And better thence again, and better still,
In infinite progression.-But I lose
Myself in Him in light ineffable!
Come then, expressive silence, muse his praise.
On this side and on that, men see their friends
Drop off, like leaves in autumn; yet launch out
Into fantastic schemes, which the long livers
In the world's hall and undegen'rate days
Could scarce have leisure for.-Fools that we are,
Never to think of death and of ourselves,
At the same time; as if to learn to die
Were no concern of ours-Oh! more than sottish,
For creatures of a day in gamesome mood,
To frolic on eternity's dread brink
Unapprehensive; when, for aught we know,
The very first swoll'n surge shall sweep us in.
Think we, or think we not, time hurries on
With a restless unremitting stream;
Yet treads more soft than e're did midnight thief,
That slides his hand under the miser's pillow,
And carries off his prize-What is this world?
What? but a spacious burial-field unwall'd,
Strew'd with death's spoils, the spoils of animals
Savage and tame, and full of dead men's bones.
The very turf on which we tread once liv'd;
And we that live must lend our carcasses
To cover our own offspring: In their turns
They too must cover theirs-'Tis here all meet,
The shiv'ring Icelander and sunburn'd Moor;
Men of all climes, that never met before;
And of all creeds, the Jew, the Turk, the Christian.
Here the proud prince, and favorite yet prouder,
His sovereign's keeper, and the people's scourge,
Are huddled out of sight.-Here lie abash'd
The great negotiators of the earth,
And celebrated masters of the balance,
Deep read in stratagems, and wiles of courts.
Now vain their treaty-skill:-Death scorns to treat;
Here the o'erloaded slave flings down his burden
From his gall'd shoulders; and when the stern tyrant,
With all his guards and tools of power about him,
Is meditating new unheard of hardships,
Mocks his short arm,—and quick as thought escapes
Where tyrants vex not, and the weary rest.
Here the warm lover, leaving the cool shade,
The tell-tale echo, and the babbling stream
(Time out of mind the favorite seats of love),
Fast by his gentle mistress lays him down,
Unblasted by foul tongue.-Here friends and foes
Lie close; unmindful of their former feuds.
The lawn-rob'd prelate and plain presbyter,
Erewhile that stood aloof, as shy to meet,
Familiar mingle here, like sister streams
That some rude interposing rock has split.
Here is the large limb'd peasant;—here the child
Of a span long, that never saw the sun,
Nor press'd the nipple, strangled in life's porch.
Here is the mother, with her sons and daughters:
The barren wife, and long-demurring maid,
Whose lonely unappropriated sweets
Smil'd like yon knot of cowslips on the cliff,
Not to be come at by the willing hand.
Here are the prude, severe, and gay coquette,
The sober widow, and the young green virgin,
Cropp'd like a rose before 'tis fully blown,
Or half its worth disclos'd. Strange medley here!
Here garrulous old age winds up his tale;
And jovial youth, of lightsome vacant heart,
Whose ev'ry day was made of melody,
Hears not the voice of mirth.-The shrill tongu'd
shrew,
Meek as the turtle-dove, forgets her chiding.
Here the wise, the generous, and the brave;
The just, the good, the worthless, and profane;
The downright clown, and perfectly well-bred;
The fool, the churl, the scoundrel, and the mean;
The supple statesman, and the patriot stern;
The wrecks of nations, and the spoils of time,
With all the lumber of six thousand years.
Where are the mighty thunderbolts of war?
The Roman Cæsars and the Grecian chiefs,
The boast of story? Where the hot-brained youth,
Who the tiara at his pleasure tore
From kings of all then discovered globe;
And cried, foresooth, because his arm was hampered,
And had not room enough to do its work?
Alas, how slim-dishonourably slim!
And crammed into a space we blush to name!
Proud royalty! How altered is thy looks!
How blank thy features, and how wan thy hue!
Son of the morning! whither art thou gone?
Where hast thou hid thy many-spangled head,
And the majestic menace of thine eyes
Felt from afar? Pliant and powerless now:
Like new.born infant wound up in his swathes,
Or victim tumbled flat upon his back,
That throbs beneath his sacrificer's knife;
Mute must thou bear the strife of little tongues,
And coward insults of the base-born crowd,
That grudge a privilege thou never hadst,
But only hoped for in the peaceful grave—
Of being unmolested and alone!
Arabia's gums and odoriferous drugs,
And honours by the heralds duly paid
In mode and form, e'en to a very scruple
(O cruel irony!); these come too late,
And only mock when they were meant to honour!
Strength, too! thou surely and less gently boast
Of those that laugh loud at the village ring!
A fit of common sickness pulls thee down
With greater ease than e'er thou didst the stripling
That rashly dared thee to the unequal fight.
What groan was that I heard? Deep groan, indeed,
With anguish heavy laden! let me trace it:
From yonder bed it comes, where the strong man,
By stronger arm belaboured, gasps for breath
Like a hard-hunted beast. How his great heart
Beats thick! his roomy chest by far too scant
To give the lungs full play! What now avail
The strong-built sinewy limbs and well spread
shoulders?
See how he tugs for life, and lays about him,
Mad with his pain! Eager he catches hold
Of what comes next to hand, and grasps it hard,
Just like a creature drowning. Hideous sight!
O how his eyes stand out, and stare full ghastly!
While the distemper's rank and deadly venom
Shoots like a burning arrow 'cross his bowels,
And drinks his marrow up. Heard you that groan?
It was his last. See how the great Goliah,
Just like a child that brawled itself to rest,
Lies still. What mean'st thou then, O mighty
boaster,
To vaunt of nerves of thine? What means the bull,
Unconscious of his strength, to play the coward,
And flee before a feeble thing like man;
That, knowing well the slackness of his arm,
Trusts only in the well invented knife?
THE VAGABONDS.
JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDge.
We are two travelers-Roger and I:
Roger's my dog. Come here, you scamp!
Jump for the gentleman-mind your eye!
Over the table, look out for the lamp-
The rogue is growing a little old:
Five years we've tramped through wind and weather,
And slept out-doors when nights were cold,
And ate and drank-and starved together.
We've learned what comfort is, I tell you-
A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin,
A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow,
The paw he holds up there's been frozen),
Plenty of catgut for my fiddle-
This out-door business is bad for stringsAnd a few nice buck-wheats hot from the griddle, And Roger and I set up for kings.
No, thank ye, sir-I never drink,
Roger and I are exceedingly moralAren't we Roger? See him wink!
Well, something hot, then, we won't quarrel. He's thirsty, too, see him nod his head!
What a pity, sir, that dogs can't talk! He understands every word that's said—
And he knows good milk from water and chalk.
The truth is, sir, now I reflect,
I have been so sadly given to grog,
I wonder I've not lost the respect
(Here's to you, sir) even of my dog.
But he sticks by, through thick and thin;
And this old coat with its empty pockets,
And rags that smell of tobacco and gin,
He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets.
There isn't another creature living
Would do it, and prove through every disaster So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving
To such a miserable, thankless master.
No, sir—see him wag his tail and grin!
By George, it makes my old eyes water!
That is, there's something in this gin
That chokes a fellow-but no matter.
We'll have some music-if you're willing;
And Roger-h'm, what a plague a cough is, sir-
Shall march a little. Start, you villian:
Stand straight, 'bout face, salute your officer.
Put up that paw-dress-take your rifle
(Some dogs have arms, you see), now,
hold your
Cap while the gentlemen give a trifle
To aid a poor old patriotic soldier!
March, halt-now, show how the rebel shakes When he stands up to hear his sentence;
Now tell how many drams it takes
To honour a jolly new acquaintance. Five yelps! that's five, he's mighty knowing. The night's before us-fill the glasses; Quick, sir; I'm ill, my brain is going
Some brandy?-thank you—there, it passes!
Why not reform?-that's easily said:
But I've gone through such wretched treatment, Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread,
And scarce remembering what meat meant,
That my poor stomach's past reform;
And there are times when, mad with thinking, I'd sell out heaven for something warm
To prop a horrible inward sinking.
Is there a way to forget to think?
At your age, sir, home, fortune, friendsA dear girl's love-but I took to drinkThe same old story; you know how it ends. If you could have seen these classic featuresYou need'nt laugh, sir, they were not then Such a burning libel on God's creatures— I was one of your handsome men.
If you had have seen her, so fair and young,
Whose head was happy on this breast;
If you could have heard the songs I sung
When the wine went round, you would'nt have
guessed,
That ever I, sir, should be straying
From door to door with fiddle and dog,
Ragged and penniless, and playing
To you to-night for a glass of grog.
She's married since-a parson's wife:
'Twas better for her that we should part, Better the soberest prosiest life
Than a blasted home and a broken heart. Have I seen her?-once: I was weak and spent: On the dusty road a carriage stopped; But little she dreamed as on she went,
Who kiss'd the coin that her fingers dropped.
You've set me talking, sir; I'm sorry:
It makes me wild to think of the change
What d'ye care for a beggar's story:
Is it amusing?-you find it strange
I had a mother so proud of me;
'Twas well she died before. Do ya know
If the happy spirits in heaven can see
The ruined and wretchedness here below?
Another glass, and strong!—to deaden
This pain; then Roger and I will start.
I wonder has he such a lumpish leaden
Aching thing in place of a heart?
He is sad sometimes, and would weep if he could,
No doubt remembering things that were—
A virtuous kennel with plenty of food,
And himself a sober respectable cur.
I'm better now-that glass was warming:
You rascal limber your lazy feet;
We must be fiddling and performing
For supper and bed-or starve in the street.
Not a very gay life to lead, you think?
But soon we will go where lodgings are free, And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drinkThe sooner the better for Roger and me.
In heaven Ambition cannot dwell,
Nor Avarice in the vaults of hell;
Earthly these passions of the earth,
They perish where they had their birth.
But Love is indestructible:
Its holy flame for ever burneth,
From heaven it came, to heaven returneth. Too oft on earth a troubled guest,
At times deceived, at times oppressed,
It here is tried and purified,
Then hath in heaven its perfect rest:
It soweth here with toil and care,
But the harvest-time of Love is there.
Oh! when a mother meets on high
The babe she lost in infancy,
Hath she not then, for pains and fears,
The day of woe, the watchful night,
For all her sorrows, all her tears,
An over-payment of delight?
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