For, were not those foundations
So darkly resting there,
Yon towers could never soar
So proudly in the air.
The workshop must be crowded
That the palace may be bright;
If the ploughman did not plough,
Then the poet could not write.
Then let every toil be hallow'd,
That man performs for man,
And have its share of honour
As part of one great plan.
See, light darts down from heaven,
And enters where it may;
The eyes of all earth's people
Are cheer'd with one bright day.
And let the mind's true sunshine
Be spread o'er earth as free,
And fill the souls of men
As the waters fill the sea.
131. THE KING ENVYING THE PEASANT
H me! methinks it were a happy life
To be no better than a homely swain;
To sit upon a hill, as I do now;
To carve out dials quaintly, point by point;
Thereby to see the minutes how they run;
How many make the hour full complete;
How many hours bring about the day;
How many days will finish up the year;
How many years a mortal man may live.
When this is known, then to divide the times:
So many hours must I attend my flock;
So many hours must I take rest;
So many hours must I sport myself;
So many days my ewes have been with young;
So many weeks ere the poor things will
So many years ere I shall sheer the fleece:
Thus minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years,
Pass'd over to the end they were created,
Would bring white hairs into a quiet grave.
Ah what a life were this! how sweet! how lovely!
Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade
To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep,
Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy
To kings that fear their subjects' treachery?
O yes it doth; a thousand-fold it doth.
And to conclude, the shepherd's homely curds,
His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle,
His wonted sleep under a fresh tree's shade,-
All which secure and sweetly he enjoys,—
Is far beyond a prince's delicates,
His viands sparkling in a golden cup,
His body couched in a curious bed,
When care, mistrust, and treason wait on him.
132. THE VOICE OF SPRING.
COME, I come! ye have call'd me long;
I come o'er the mountains with light and song; Ye may trace my step o'er the waking earth, By the winds which tell of the violet's birth, By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass, By the green leaves opening as I pass.
I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut flowers, By thousands, have burst from the forest-bowers, And the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes,
Are veil'd with wreaths on Italian plains.
But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom,
To speak of the ruin or the tomb!
I have pass'd o'er the hill of the stormy North,
And the larch has hung all his tassels forth;
The fisher is out on the sunny sea,
And the rein-deer bounds through the pasture free,
And the pine has a fringe of softer green,
And the moss looks bright where my step has been.
I have sent through the wood-paths a gentle sigh,
And call'd out each voice of the deep-blue sky,
From the night-bird's lay through the starry-time,
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime,
To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes,
When the dark fir-bough into verdure breaks.
From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain;
They are sweeping on to the silvery main,
They are flashing down from the mountain-brows,
They are flinging spray on the forest boughs,
They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves,
And the earth resounds with the joy of waves.
Come forth, O ye children of gladness, come!
Where the violets lie
may now be your home.
Ye of the rose-cheek and dew-bright eye,
And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly;
With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay,
Come forth to the sunshine, I may not stay!
—Away from the dwellings of care-worn men,
The waters are sparkling in wood and glen:
Away from the chamber and dusky hearth,
The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth;
Their light stems thrill to the wild wood strains,
And youth is abroad in my green domains.
But ye! ye are changed since I met you
There is something bright from your features past!
There is that come over your brow and eye
Which speaks of a world where the flowers must die!
Ye smile, but your smile hath a dimness yet;
O what have ye look'd on since last we met?
Ye are changed, ye are changed! - and I see not here
All whom I saw in the vanish'd year!
There were graceful heads, with their ringlets bright,
Which toss'd in the breeze with a play of light;
There were eyes, in whose glistening laughter lay
No faint remembrance of dull decay!
There were steps that flew o'er the cowslip's head,
As if for a banquet all earth were spread;
There were voices that rung through the sapphire sky, And had not a sound of mortality!
Are they gone? is their mirth from the mountains pass'd?
Ye have look'd on death since you met me last!
I know whence the shadow comes o'er you now;
Ye have strewn the dust on the sunny brow:
Ye have given the lovely to earth's embrace;
She hath taken the fairest of beauty's race;
With their laughing eyes and their festal crown,
They are gone from among you in silence down!
They are gone from among you, the young and fair!
Ye have lost the gleam of their shining hair!
But I know of a land where there comes no blight;
I shall meet them there, with their eyes of light:
Where death midst the beams of the morn may dwell.
I tarry no longer! Farewell! Farewell!
The summer is coming, on soft winds borne;
Ye may press the grape, ye may bind the corn!
For me, I depart to a brighter shore;
Ye are mark'd by death, ye are mine no more:
I go where the loved that have left you dwell,
And the flowers are not death's: -Fare ye
Farewell!
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