Once, at a coming like a god's in rage
With thunderous leaps; but 'twas the piled snow, falling;
And once, when in the woods, an oak, for age,
Fell dead, the silence with its groan appalling.
At last they came where still, in dread array,
As though they still might speak, the trumpets lay.
Unhurt they lay, like caverns above ground,
The rifted rocks, for hands, about them clinging, Their tubes as straight, their mighty mouths as round
And firm, as when the rocks were first set ringing.
Fresh from their unimaginable mould
They might have seem'd, save that the storms had stain'd them
With a rich rust, that now, with gloomy gold In the bright sunshine, beauteously engrain'd them.
Breathless the gazers look'd, nigh faint for awe, Then leap'd, then laugh'd. What was it now they saw?
Myriads of birds. Myriads of birds, that fill'd
The trumpets all with nests and nestling voices!
The great, huge, stormy music had been still'd
By the soft needs that nurs'd those small, sweet
noises !
O thou Doolkarnein, where is now thy wall?
Where now thy voice divine and all thy forces?
Great was thy cunning, but its wit was small
Compar'd with Nature's least and gentlest courses. Fears and false creeds may fright the realms awhile;
But Heaven and Earth abide their time, and smile.
DEAR Barnes, whose native taste, solid and clear,
The throng of life has strengthen'd without harm,
You know the rural feeling, and the charm
That stillness has for a world-fretted ear:
'Tis now deep whispering all about me here
With thousand tiny hushings, like a swarm
Of atom bees, or fairies in alarm,
Or noise of numerous bliss from distant sphere.
This charm our evening hours duly restore,Nought heard through all our little, lull'd abode, Save the crisp fire, or leaf of book turn'd o'er, Or watch-dog, or the ring of frosty road.
Wants there no other sound then ?-yes, one
Ir flows through old hushed Egypt and its sands, Like some grave mighty thought threading a dream,
And times and things, as in that vision, seem
Keeping along it their eternal stands,→
Caves, pillars, pyramids, the shepherd bands
That roamed through the young world, the glory
Of high Sesostris, and that southern beam,
The laughing queen that caught the world's great hands.
Then comes a mightier silence, stern and strong,
As of a world left empty of its throng,
And the void weighs on us; and then we wake,
And hear the fruitful stream lapsing along
Twixt villages, and think how we shall take
Our own calm journey on for human sake.
TO THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE CRICKET.29
GREEN little vaulter in the sunny grass,
Catching your heart up at the feel of June,
Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon,
When even the bees lag at the summoning brass
And you, warm little housekeeper, who class
With those who think the candles come too soon,
Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune
Nick the glad silent moments as they pass;
Oh sweet and tiny cousins, that belong,
One to the fields, the other to the hearth,
Both have your sunshine; both, though small, are strong
At your clear hearts; and both seem given to earth
To ring in thoughtful ears this natural song-
In doors and out, summer and winter, Mirth.
DECEMBER 30th, 1816.
TO HENRY ROBERTSON, JOHN GATTIE, AND VINCENT NOVELLO.
NOT KEEPING THEIR APPOINTED HOUR.
HARRY, my friend, who full of tasteful glee,
Have music all about you, heart and lips;
And, John, whose voice is like a rill that slips
Over the sunny pebbles breathingly;
And, Vincent, you, who with like mastery
Can chase the notes with fluttering finger-tips,
Like fairies down a hill hurrying their trips,
Or sway the organ with firm royalty;
Why stop ye on the road? The day, 'tis true,
Shows us as in a diamond all things clear,
And makes the hill-surmounting eye rejoice,
Doubling the earthly green, the heavenly blue;
But come, complete the charm of such a sphere,
And give the beauty of the day a voice.
Ан, Marian mine, the face you look on now of
Is not exactly like my wedding day's:
Sunk is its cheek, deeper-retired its gaze,
Less white and smooth it's temple-flattened brow.
Sorrow has been there with his silent plough,
And strait, stern hand. No matter, if it raise
Aught that affection fancies, it may praise,
Or make me worthier of Apollo's bough.
Loss, after all,—such loss especially,—
Is transfer, change, but not extinction,-no;
Part in our children's apple cheeks I see;
And, for the rest, while you look at me so,
Take care you do not smile it back to me,
And miss the copied furrows as you go.
WHO NEVER FOUGHT EITHER FOR BONAPARTE OR THE ALLIES.
"TIS like thy patient valour thus to keep,
Great Kosciusko, to the rural shade,
While Freedom's ill-found amulet still is made
Pretence for old aggression, and a heap
Of selfish mockeries. There, as in the sweep
Of stormier fields, thou earnest with thy blade,
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