Oft in the sunless April day,
Thy early smile has stayed my walk,
But 'midst the gorgeous blooms of May
I passed thee on thy humble stalk.
So they, who climb to wealth, forget
The friends in darker fortune tried;
I copied them-but I regret
That I should walk in ways of pride.
So, when again Spring's genial hour,
Awakes the painted tribes to light;
I'll not o'erlook the modest flower
That made the woods of April bright.
140.-LINES WRITTEN WHILE SAILING IN A BOAT. [WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.]
How richly glows the water's breast
Before us, tinged with evening hues,
While facing thus the crimson West
The boat her silent course pursues!
And see how dark the backward stream,
A little moment passed so smiling!
And still perhaps with faithless gleam
Some other loiterers beguiling.
Such views the youthful bard allure;
But, heedless of the following gloom,
He deems their colours shall endure
Till peace go with him to the tomb.
And let him nurse his fond deceit
And what if he must die in sorrow!
Who would not cherish dreams so sweet,
Though grief and pain may come to-morrow?
[SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.]
Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge!
You see the glimmer of the stream beneath,
But hear no murmuring: it flows silently
O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still.
A balmy night! And though the stars be dim,
Yet let us think upon the vernal showers
That gladden the green earth, and we shall find
A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.
And hark! the nightingale begins its song-
"Most musical, most melancholy bird."
A melancholy bird? O idle thought!
In nature there is nothing melancholy.
'Tis the merry nightingale
That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates
With fast thick warble, his delicious notes,
As he were fearful that an April night
Would be too short for him to utter forth
His love-chant, and disburden his full soul
Of all its music.
142.-A HAPPY LIFE. [HENRY WOTTON.]
How happy is he born and taught,
That serveth not another's will;
Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his utmost skill.
2.
Whose passions not his masters are,
Whose soul is still prepared for death,
Untied unto the worldly care
Of public fame, or private breath.
Who hath his life from rumours freed,
Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruin make oppressors great.
This man is freed from servile bonds
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall:
Lord of himself, though not of lands,
And having nothing, yet hath all.
143.-WOODS IN WINTER. [H. W. LONGFELLOW.]
When winter winds are piercing chill,
And through the white-thorn blows the gale, With solemn feet I tread the hill
That over-brows the lonely vale.
O'er the bare upland, and away
Through the long reach of desert woods The embracing sunbeams chastely play, And gladden these deep solitudes.
Alas! how changed from the fair scene, When birds sang out their mellow lay; And winds were soft, and woods were green, And the song ceased not with the day.
Chill airs, and wintry winds, my ear
Has grown familiar with your song;
I hear it in the opening year:
I hear it, and it cheers me long.
144.-SCENE AFTER A SUMMER SHOWER.
[ANDREW NORTON.]
The rain is o'er. How dense and bright
Yon pearly clouds reposing lie;
Cloud above cloud, a glorious sight,
Contrasting with a clear blue sky.
In grateful silence earth receives
The general blessing: fresh and fair
Each flower expands its little leaves,
As glad the common joy to share.
The sun breaks forth. From off the scene
Its floating veil of mist is flung;
And all the wilderness of green
With trembling drops of light is hung.
Now gaze on Nature. Hear her voice,
Which sounds from all below, above:
She calls her children to rejoice,
And round them throws her arms of love: Drink in her influence. Low-born care,
And all the train of mean desire,
Refuse to breathe this holy air,
And 'mid this living light expire.
145.-SUMMER EVENING. [ISAAC WILLIAMS.] 1.
The moon is in her azure tower,
Like the heaven's bright eye,
The nightingale beneath her bower
Singing joyfully.
There is that o'er Earth and Heaven,
Which, through cloudless gates of even,
Tells the tenants of this ball-
Though around them be a thrall—
They are something more than all
That they seem to be.
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