Though the torrents from their fountains
Roar down many a craggy steep,
Yet they find among the mountains
Resting-places calm and deep.
Clouds that love through air to hasten,
Ere the storm its fury stills,
Helmet-like themselves will fasten
On the heads of towering hills.
What, if through the frozen centre
Of the Alps the Chamois bound,
Yet he has a home to enter
In some nook of chosen ground:
And the Sea-horse, though the ocean
Yield him no domestic cave,
Slumbers without sense of motion,
Couched upon the rocking wave.
If on windy days the Raven
Gambol like a dancing skiff,
Not the less she loves her haven
In the bosom of the cliff.
The fleet Ostrich, till day closes
Vagrant over desert sands,
Brooding on her eggs reposes
When chill night that care demands.
Day and night my toils redouble,
Never nearer to the goal;
Night and day, I feel the trouble
Of the Wanderer in my soul.
“ Pleasure is spread through the earth
In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find."
By their floating mill,
That lies dead and still, Behold yon Prisoners three, The Miller with two Dames, on the breast of the
Thames ! The platform is small, but gives room for them all ; And they ’re dancing merrily.
From the shore come the notes
To their mill where it floats,
To their house and their mill tethered fast:
To the small wooden isle, where, their work to
beguile, They from morning to even take whatever is
given ; — And many a blithe day they have past.
In sight of the spires,
All alive with the fires Of the sun going down to his rest, In the broad open eye of the solitary sky, They dance, — there are three, as jocund as free, While they dance on the calm river's breast.
Man and Maidens wheel,
They themselves make the reel, And their music 's a prey which they seize It plays not for them, — what matter? 't is theirs ; And if they had care, it has scattered their cares, While they dance, crying, “ Long as ye please.”
They dance not for me,
Yet mine is their glee ! Thus pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find; Thus a rich loving-kindness, redundantly kind, Moves all nature to gladness and mirth.
The showers of the Spring
Rouse the birds, and they sing ;
If the wind do but stir for his proper delight,
VOL. II.
Each leaf, that and this, his neighbor will kiss ; Each wave, one and tother, speeds after his brother; They are happy, for that is their right!
A PILGRIM, when the summer day
Had closed upon his weary way,
A lodging begged beneath a castle's roof;
But him the haughty Warder spurned;
And from the gate the Pilgrim turned,
To seek such 'covert as the field
Or heath-besprinkled copse might yield,
Or lofty wood, shower-proof.
He paced along; and, pensively,
Halting beneath a shady tree,
Whose moss-grown root might serve for couch or
seat,
Fixed on a Star his upward eye;
Then from the tenant of the sky
He turned, and watched, with kindred look,
A Glowworm, in a dúsky nook,
Apparent at his feet.
The murmur of a neighboring stream
Induced a soft and slumbrous dream,
A pregnant dream, within whose shadowy bounds
He recognized the earth-born Star,
And that which glittered from afar;
And (strange to witness !) from the frame
Of the ethereal Orb there came
Intelligible sounds.
Much did it taunt the humble Light,
That now, when day was fled, and night
Hushed the dark earth, fast closing weary eyes,
A very reptile could presume
To show her taper in the gloom,
As if in rivalship with one
Who sat a ruler on his throne
Erected in the skies.
“ Exalted Star!” the Worm replied,
“ Abate this unbecoming pride,
Or with a less uneasy lustre shine;
Thou shrink’st as momently thy rays
Are mastered by the breathing haze;
While neither mist, nor thickest cloud
That shapes in heaven its murky shroud,
Hath power to injure mine.
“ But not for this do I aspire
To match the spark of local fire,
That at my will burns on the dewy lawn,
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