Upon the stone beneath his hand
Was laid a small and written scroll,
And he whose eye the record scanned
From this dim part must guess the whole.
There comes a thought at dead of night,
And bids the shapes of sleep be gone,
A thought that's more than thought, a sight
On which the sun has never shone.
A pale stern face, and sterner far,
Because it is a woman's face;
It gleams a waning worn-out star,
That once was bright with morning grace.
An icy image, calm, and cold,
The sprite of vanish'd hours it seems;
It brings to me the times of old,
That look like, but that are not, dreams.
It brings back sorrows long gone by,
And folly stain'd not washed with tears;
Years fall away, like leaves, and die-
And life's bare bony stem appears.
Thou art not all a shade
That fancy bids beside me be;
The blood that once in passion played
Through my young veins, beat high for thee.
Now changed and withered all! My sighs
Round thee have breathed a sicklied air,
And sad before my saddening eyes
Thou show'st the hues of my despair.
Still prayers are strong, and God is good;
Man is not made for endless ill.
Dear sprite my soul to pain subdued
Has yet a hope thou can'st not kill.
Repentance clothes in grass and flowers
The grave in which the past is laid;
And close to faith's old minster towers
The cross lights up the ghostly shade.
Around its foot the shapes of fear,
Whose eyes my weaker heart appal,
As sister suppliants thrill the ear
With cries that loud for mercy call.
Thou, God, wilt hear! Thy pangs are meant
To heal the spirit, not destroy,
And fiends from hell for vengeance sent,
When thou commandest, work for joy.
Were you ever perfectly happy? As happy as the imagination of man could conceive man to be on earth or in heaven? Answer "Yes." So must we have beenthough we may not remember when, where, how, or with whom-for otherwise we could not feel as we now do the exquisite truth of the following rapture.
The life of man has wondrous hours
Revealed at once to heart and eye,
When wake all being's kindled powers,
And joy like dew on trees and flowers
With freshness fills the earth and sky.
With finer scent and softer tone
The breezes wind through waving leaves;
By friendlier beams new tints are thrown
On furrowed stem and mouldering stone;
The gorgeous grapes, the jewelled sheaves
To living glories turn,
And eyes that look from cottage eaves,
Through shadows green that jasmine weaves,
With love and fancy burn.
The broad smooth river flames with waves,
Where floats the swan, an opal sprite,
And marble shapes on silent graves
Seem starting towards the light.
The distant landscape glows serene;
The dark old tower with tremulous sheen
Pavilion of a seraph stands.
The mountain rude, with steeps of gold,
And mists of ruby o'er them rolled,
Up towards the evening star expands.
The ocean streaks in distance gray
With sapphire radiance sparkling play,
And silver sails hold on their way
To unseen fairy lands.
And those who walk within the sphere,
The plot of earth's transfigured green,
Like angels walk, so high, so clear,
With ravishment in eye and mien.
For this one hour no breath of fear,
Of shame or weakness wandering near
Can trusting hearts annoy :
Past things are dead, or only live
The life that hope alone can give,
And all is faith and joy.
"Tis not that beauty forces then
Her blessings on reluctant men,
But this great globe with all its might,
Its awful depth and heavenward height,
Seems but my heart with wonder thrilling
And beating in my human breast;
My sense with inspiration filling,
Myself-beyond my nature blest.
Well for all such hours who know,
All who hail, not bid them go,
If the spirit's strong pulsation
After keeps its nobler tone,
And no helpless lamentation
Dulls the heart when rapture's flown;
If the rocky field of Duty
Built around with mountains hoar,
Still is dearer than the Beauty
Of the sky-land's coloured shore.
Turn we to the childhood of the creature capable of such transcendent bliss of thought and feeling-the creature only a little lower than the angels. "Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven." Words so sacred,
that we almost feared to write them down-words so sweet that, written down, their quotation here is justified-nor can they ever" fade into the light of common day." Of such, too, is the kingdom of the earth. And singing of that sway, the poet is accordant with the saint.
Dear child! whom sleep can hardly tame,
As live and beautiful as flame,
Thou glancest round my graver hours
As if thy crown of wild wood flowers
Were not by mortal forehead worn,
But swift on summer breezes borne,
Or on a mountain streamlet's waves
Came glistening down from sparry caves.
With bright round cheek, amid whose glow
Fancy and Wonder come and go,
And eyes whose inward meanings play
Congenial with the light of day,
And brow so calm, a home for thought
Before he knows his dwelling wrought;
Not wise indeed thou seem'st, but made
With joy and hope the wise to aid.
That shout proclaims the undoubting mind;
That laughter leaves no ache behind;
And in thy look and dance of glee,
Unforced, unthought-of ecstasy,
How idly weak the proud endeavour
Thy soul and body's bliss to sever!
I hail thee, childhood's very sprite,
One voice and sense of true delight.
In spite of all foreboding sadness
Thou art a thing of present gladness;
And thus to be enjoyed and known
As is a pebbly fountain's tone,
As is the forest's leafy shade,
Or blackbird's music through the glade;
Like odour, breeze, and sun thou art,
A gush from nature's vernal heart.
And yet, dear child, within thee lives
A power that deeper feeling gives,
That makes thee more than light or air,
Than all things sweet and all things fair;
For sweet and fair as aught may be,
A human promise dwells in thee,
And 'mid thine aimless joys began
The perfect heart and will of man.
Thus what thou art foreshows to me
How greater far thou soon shalt be;
And while amid thy blossoms breathes
A wind that waves the fragraut wreaths,
In each faint rustling sound I hear
A mighty spirit journeying near,
That dawns in every human birth-
A messenger of God to earth.
Alas! well might that great poet mourn to think "what man has made of man!" Think what man has made of "children." Crabbe and Cowper have, each in his own dark or delightful way, described the moods of their own minds, arising from the perusal of a newspaper. Neither of them has excelled in forceful painting the writer of this -nor Wordsworth's self, in his Lyrical Ballads-though we say so with the concluding lines of "Simon Lee" in our heart.
"I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds
With coldness still returning;
Alas! the gratitude of man
Hath oftener left me mourning.”
ON READING A NEWSPAPER.
Such deeds there be of grief and crime,
That rise within the bounds of time,
At whose bad sound we well might wonder
Heaven does not burst with yells of thunder.
Whate'er in horrid glee is done,
When men exult for cities won,
When fiendish lust, and vengeful strife,
Are curdling up the heart of life;
Or in the dim and silent nooks
On which no sunshine ever looks,
The cold hard selfishness that wears
Young spirits into gray despairs,
When custom, avarice, pride, destroy
All natural freedom, guiltless joy,
When some fair girl, compell'd to wed,
Mounts the rich graybeard's loathsome bed;
Or one as fair is made the prey
Of him who wooed but to betray.
And then is thrown in scorn away,
In death, or misery tenfold worse,
Learns nature's dearest gifts to curse,
While he who slew her hopes, elate
Walks envied by, and mocks her fate.
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