God bless them all, these little ones, who far above this earth,
Can make a scoff of its mean joys, and vent a nobler mirth.
But soft! mine ear upcaught a sound; from yonder wood it came;
The spirit of the dim green glade did breathe his own glad name;—
Yes, it is he! the hermit bird, that apart from all his kind
Slow spells his beads monotonous to the soft western wind;
Cuckoo! Cuckoo! he sings again,-his notes are void of art,
But simplest strains do soonest sound the deep founts of the heart!
Good Lord! it is a gracious boon for thought-crazed wight like me,
To smell again these summer flowers beneath this summer tree!
To suck once more in every breath their little souls away,
And feed my fancy with fond dreams of youth's bright summer day,
When rushing forth like untamed colt, the reckless truant boy
Wandered through green woods all day long, a mighty heart of joy!
I'm sadder now, I have had cause; but O! I'm proud to think
That each pure joy-fount loved of yore, I yet delight to drink ;—
Leaf, blossom, blade, hill, valley, stream, the calm unclouded sky,
Still mingle music in my dreams as in the days gone by.
When summer's loveliness and light fall round me dark and cold,
I'll bear indeed life's heaviest curse,-
-a heart that hath waxed old!
STATELY trees are growing,
Lusty winds are blowing,
And mighty rivers flowing
On, for ever on.
As stately forms were growing,
As lusty spirits blowing,
As mighty fancies flowing
On, for ever on;
But there has been leave-taking,
Sorrow and heart-breaking,
And a moan, pale Echo's making,
For the gone, for ever gone!
Lovely stars are gleaming,
Bearded lights are streaming,
And glorious suns are beaming
On, for ever on.
As lovely eyes were gleaming,
As wondrous lights were streaming,
As glorious minds were beaming
On, for ever on ;-
But there has been soul-sundering,
Wailing, and sad wondering;
For graves grow fat with plundering
The gone, for ever gone!
We see great eagles soaring,
We hear deep oceans roaring,
And sparkling fountains pouring
On, for ever on.
As lofty ones were soaring,
As sonorous voices roaring,
And as sparkling wits were pouring
On, for ever on ;
But, pinions have been shedding,
And voiceless darkness spreading,
Since a measure Death's been treading
O'er the gone, for ever gone!
Every thing is sundering,
Every one is wondering,
And this huge globe goes thundering
On, for ever on.
But, 'mid this weary sundering,
Heart-breaking and sad wondering,
And this huge globe's rude thundering
On, for ever on,
I would that I were dreaming
Where little flowers are gleaming,
And the long green grass is streaming O'er the gone, for ever gone!
THE PLATFORM AT THE TOP OF THE STEEPLE OF ST. NICHOLAS' CHURCH.-TIME-DAY-BREAK.
THERE lies a sleeping city. God of dreams!
What an unreal and fantastic world
Is going on below!
Within the sweep of yon encircling wall,
How many a large creation of the night,
Wide wilderness and mountain, rock and sea,
Peopled with busy transitory groups,
Finds room to rise, and never feels the crowd!
-If when the shows had left the dreamers' eyes
They should float upward visibly to mine,
How thick with apparitions were that void!
But now the blank and blind profundity
Turns my brain giddy with a sick aversion.
-I have not slept. I am to blame for that.
Long vigils, join'd with scant and meagre food,
Must needs impair that promptitude of mind,
And cheerfulness of spirit, which, in him
Who leads a multitude, is past all price.
I think I could redeem an hour's repose
Out of the night that I have squander'd, yet.
The breezes, launch'd upon their early voyage,
Play with a pleasing freshness on my face.
I will enfold my cloak about my limbs,
And lie where I shall front them;-here, I think.
If this were over-blessed be the calm
That comes to me at last! A friend in need
Is nature to us, that, when all is spent,
Brings slumber-bountifully-whereupon
We give her sleepy welcome-if all this
Were honourably over-Adrianna—
[Falls asleep, but starts up almost instantly.
I heard a hoof, a horse's hoof I'll swear,
Upon the road from Bruges,-or did I dream?
No! 'tis the gallop of a horse at speed.
VAN DEN BOSCH (without).
What ho! Van Artevelde!
Thou art an early riser, like myself;
Or is it that thou hast not been to bed?
VAN DEN BOSCH.
Nay, what can they be?
A page from pestilence and famine's day-book;
So many to the pest-house carried in,
So many to the dead-house carried out.
The same dull, dismal, damnable old story.
Be quiet; listen to the westerly wind,
And tell me if it bring thee nothing new.
Nought to my ear, save howl of hungry dog
That hears the house is stirring-nothing else.
No,-now-I hear it not myself-no-nothing.
The city's hum is up-but ere you came
'Twas audible enough.
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