F this great world of joy and pain
Revolve in one sure track;

IF

If freedom, set, will rise again,
And virtue, flown, come back;
Woe to the purblind crew who fill
The heart with each day's care;
Nor gain, from past or future, skill
To bear, and to forbear!

1833.

EVENING VOLUNTARIES—II

On a High Part of the Coast of Cumberland1 Easter Sunday, April 7

THE AUTHOR'S SIXTY-THIRD BIRTHDAY

HE Sun, that seemed so mildly to retire,

Flung back from distant climes a streaming fire,

Whose blaze is now subdued to tender gleams,
Prelude of night's approach with soothing dreams.
Look round;-of all the clouds not one is moving;
'Tis the still hour of thinking, feeling, loving.
Silent, and steadfast as the vaulted sky,

The boundless plain of waters seems to lie :-
Comes that low sound from breezes rustling o'er

The grass-crowned headland that conceals the shore?
No; 'tis the earth-voice of the mighty sea,
Whispering how meek and gentle he can be!

Thou Power supreme! who, arming to rebuke
Offenders, dost put off the gracious look,
And clothe thyself with terrors like the flood
Of Ocean roused into his fiercest mood,
Whatever discipline thy Will ordain

For the brief course that must for me remain;
Teach me with quick-eared spirit to rejoice
In admonitions of thy softest voice!

Whate'er the path these mortal feet may trace,
Breathe through my soul the blessing of thy grace,
Glad, through a perfect love, a faith sincere
Drawn from the wisdom that begins with fear,
Glad to expand; and, for a season, free
From finite cares, to rest absorbed in Thee!

1833.

'T

HERE!' said a Stripling, pointing with meet pride 1

Towards a low roof with green trees half concealed,
'Is Mosgiel Farm; and that's the very field

Where Burns ploughed up the Daisy." Far and wide
A plain below stretched seaward, while, descried
Above sea-clouds, the Peaks of Arran rose;
And, by that simple notice, the repose
Of earth, sky, sea, and air, was vivified.
Beneath 'the random bield of clod or stone'
Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower
Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour
Have passed away; less happy than the One
That, by the unwilling ploughshare, died to prove
The tender charm of poetry and love.

1833.

M

OST sweet it is with unuplifted eyes 2

To pace the ground, if path be there or none,

While a fair region round the traveller lies
Which he forbears again to look upon;
Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene,
The work of Fancy, or some happy tone
Of meditation, slipping in between
The beauty coming and the beauty gone.
If Thought and Love desert us, from that day
Let us break off all commerce with the Muse:
With Thought and Love companions of our way,
Whate'er the senses take or may refuse,

The Mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews
Of inspiration on the humblest lay.

1833.

EVENING VOLUNTARIES-V

By the Side of Rydal Mere

HE linnet's warble, sinking towards a close,
Hints to the thrush 'tis time for their repose;
The shrill-voiced thrush is heedless, and again
The monitor revives his own sweet strain;
But both will soon be mastered, and the copse
Be left as silent as the mountain-tops,
Ere some commanding star dismiss to rest
The throng of rooks, that now, from twig or nest,
(After a steady flight on home-bound wings,
And a last game of mazy hoverings

Around their ancient grove) with cawing noise
Disturb the liquid music's equipoise.

O Nightingale! Who ever heard thy song
Might here be moved, till Fancy grows so strong
That listening sense is pardonably cheated
Where wood or stream by thee was never greeted.
Surely, from fairest spots of favoured lands,
Were not some gifts withheld by jealous hands,
This hour of deepening darkness here would be
As a fresh morning for new harmony;

And lays as prompt would hail the dawn of Night:
A dawn she has both beautiful and bright,
When the East kindles with the full moon's light;
Not like the rising sun's impatient glow
Dazzling the mountains, but an overflow
Of solemn splendour, in mutation slow.

Wanderer by spring with gradual progress led,
For sway profoundly felt as widely spread;
To king, to peasant, to rough sailor, dear,
And to the soldier's trumpet-wearied ear;
How welcome wouldst thou be to this green Vale
Fairer than Tempe! Yet, sweet Nightingale!
From the warm breeze that bears thee on, alight
At will, and stay thy migratory flight;
Build, at thy choice, or sing, by pool or fount,
Who shall complain, or call thee to account?

The wisest, happiest, of our kind are they
That ever walk content with Nature's way,
God's goodness-measuring bounty as it may;
For whom the gravest thought of what they miss,
Chastening the fulness of a present bliss,

Is with that wholesome office satisfied,

While unrepining sadness is allied

In thankful bosoms to a modest pride.

1834.

VI

OFT as a cloud is yon blue Ridge-the Mere
Seems firm as solid crystal, breathless, clear,

SOF

And motionless; and, to the gazer's eye,

Deeper than ocean, in the immensity
Of its vague mountains and unreal sky!
But, from the process in that still retreat,
Turn to minuter changes at our feet;
Observe how dewy Twilight has withdrawn
The crowd of daisies from the shaven lawn,
And has restored to view its tender green,

That, while the sun rode high, was lost beneath their dazzling sheen.

-An emblem this of what the sober Hour
Can do for minds disposed to feel its power!
Thus oft, when we in vain have wish'd away
The petty pleasures of the garish day,
Meek eve shuts up the whole usurping host
(Unbashful dwarfs each glittering at his post)
And leaves the disencumbered spirit free
To reassume a staid simplicity.

'Tis well-but what are helps of time and place, When wisdom stands in need of nature's grace; Why do good thoughts, invoked or not, descend,

Like Angels from their bowers, our virtues to befriend; If yet To-morrow, unbelied, may say,

'I come to open out, for fresh display, The elastic vanities of yesterday'?

1834.