From the place I stood in floated And the open ground was coated Carpet-smooth with grass and moss, And the blue-bell's purple presence signed it worthily across. Here a linden-tree stood brightening All adown its silver rind; For as some trees draw the lightning, So this tree, unto my mind, Drew to earth the blessed sunshine, from the sky where it was shrined. Tall the linden-tree, and near it And wood-ivy, like a spirit, Hovered dimly round the two, Shaping thence that bower of beauty, which I sing of thus to you, 'Twas a bower for garden fitter Than for any woodland wide! Struck it through, from side to side, Shaped and shaven was the freshness, as by garden-cunning plied. Oh, a lady might have come there, Hooded fairly, like her hawk, And a hope of sweeter talk Listening less to her own music, than for footsteps on the walk. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. MIST OF THE MOUNTAIN-TOP. Like mist on a mountain-top broken and gray, Wild youth with strange fruitage of errors and tears- With those long-vanished hours fair visions are flown, I think of the glen where the hazel-nut grew The pine-crowned hill where the heather-bells blewThe trout-burn which soothed with its murmuring sweet, The wild flowers that gleamed on the red-deer's retreat! I look for the mates full of ardor and truth, Whose joys, like my own, were the sunbeams of youth— Where is now the wide hearth with the big fagot's blaze, Like a pilgrim who speeds on a perilous way, I pause, ere I part, oft again to survey Those scenes ever dear to the friends I deplore, Whose feast of young smiles I may never share more! WILLIAM MOTHERWELL, 1798-1835. EMBLEM. A FLOWER GARDEN WITH SUNSHINE AND RAIN. When all the year our fields are fresh and green, Do make us to be senseless of the good; The sweetness of it is not understood. Had we no winter, summer would be thought Not half so pleasing; and if tempests were not, Such comforts could not by a calm be brought: For things, save by their opposites, appear not. Both health and wealth are tasteless unto some; And so is ease, and every other pleasure, Till poor, or rich, or grieved they become; That we his bounties may the better prize, One while a scorching indignation burns GEORGE WITHER, 1588-1667. SONG. Composed by Robert Duke of Normandy, when a prisoner in Cardiff Castle, and addressed to an old oak, growing in an ancient camp within view from the tower in which he was confined. Imitated by Bishop Heber. Oak, that stately and alone On the war-worn mound hast grown, And dyed thy tender root in red; Oak, thou hast sprung for many a year, Oak, from the mountain's airy brow, Woe, woe to him whose birth is high, For peril waits on royalty! Now storms have bent thee to the ground, And envious ivy clips thee round; And shepherd hinds in wanton play Woe to the man whose foes are strong, REGINALD HEBER. ROBERT OF NORMANDY, about 1107. TO A MOUNTAIN-DAISY, ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOW, APRIL, 1786. Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, To spare thee now is past my pow'r, Alas! it's no thy neibor sweet, When upward springing, blythe to greet Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Scarce rear'd above the parent earth The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, O' clod or stane, There in thy scanty mantle clad, But now the share uptears thy bed, Such is the fate of artless maid, And guileless breast; Till she, like thee, all soil'd is laid Low i' the dust. Such is the fate of simple bard, On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd, Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n, To mis'ry's brink; Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n, He ruin'd sink. Ev'n thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate, Stern ruin's plowshare drives, elate, Till, crush'd beneath the furious weight, Shall be thy doom! ROBERT BURNS, 1750-1796. MOSSGIEL. "There," said a stripling, pointing with much pride Beneath the random field of clod or stone, WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, 1770-1850. |