Laden with full-blown blossoms, and with buds
Half-blown between, with stalks most delicate,
From the thin soil o'ergrown with yellow moss
That shared their beauty; or had fallen down,
Immortal flowers! from the pure coronal
Of seraph swimming through our lower skies,
One hour away from heaven!
Self-born amid the silence, like a thought,
A cheerful thought, not unembued with love,
Nor unallied to tears, almost a sigh,
Touched these sweet Harebells, for I knew their names,
Even through the uncertain glimmer of their blue
And skiey beauty, and a shower of pearls,
Shook from their petals, bathed the stalks as fine
As gossamer, and slipt along the leaves,
The tiny leaves almost invisible
Thus hid in dew, and as the dew expired,
Now greener than the green of emeralds.
Fancy, awakened by their loveliness,
Believed one moment that she heard a chime
From these blue bells, as from the magic reins
Of that green-armoured elfin chivalry,
That wont of old, beneath the moon and stars,
In many a glittering squadron, through the woods
And down the glens of Scotia to deploy,
In long succession, while the lady-fern
The cavalcade o'ershadowed, and the hind
Or shepherd lonely and belated, viewed
With beating heart, and with the holy sign
Across his bosom drawn unconsciously,
Ride by, the Fairy Queen and all her court!
But Fancy's dreams are transient in their flight,
As the thin thistle-down-those of the heart
Are in their nature permanent and pure,
As fragrance vested in the rose-bud's cell.
So, suddenly methought, those Harebells fair
All bended towards one central luminary,
The fairest of them all-the parent flower!
Like to young children, on some Sabbath eve,
Some deep-hushed hour of pious ecstasy,
Leaning with tearful faces towards one
By all beloved, the mother of them all;
And mute as images, when from the Book,
The Holy Book, spread open on her knees,
She reads some scriptural story steeped in woe-
Of Abel near his grassy altar killed
Even by his brother Cain-or Joseph sold
To slavery by his brethren;-can such guilt
Be born beneath the skies?- —or Absalom
Rebelling 'gainst his father, and bemoaned
By the old man, "Would I had died for thee!
O Absalom! Absalom! my son! my son!"
The fine association filled my soul
With an access of love, that overflowed
My inmost being, like a flood of light
Poured all at once into a room that fronts
The East, when an impatient hand unbars
A little bolt, and of our clay-built walls
A window, to the windows of high heaven
Exposed, lets morning in through all the house,
Rejoicing in its tenant-the bright sun!
Still were the moorland Harebells beautiful In their own mute insensate nature, breathing Of God amid the wild; but from that shew So exquisite of heavenly workmanship, Emblems of beings far more exquisite In the endowment of immortal souls, I turned me round in gushing tenderness, And, manifest before my eyes, lo! stood Even the very flesh, no phantoms they, My own dear family, my children blest, And in the midst their mother-wife beloved! The gentle one, whose gentle life they share,
Whose joy is oft like sadness, and her sadness
Oft but a dim faint shadow of her joy!
What love-what bliss-may be concentrated In one uprising of the soul within us, During one single comprehensive moment, In time a point, and as a sunbeam fleet,— The swelling and the dying of a wave! Yet to the wondrous being who enjoys it, Like a long summer day, and deep and full Of mystery as the multitudinous sea. Unto the blessed phantoms, for indeed Phantoms they were, although I knew it not, Few were the tenderest words I did address In that my dear delusion! One I drew Close to my heart, within my folding arms, And with a father's prayer I kissed that head, So star-like, all the while her Christian name Murmuring, "my Mary!" and the child was blest! Soon was her place most lovingly supplied By my bright Margaret, and the phantom sang Without my bidding, the sad favourite air That I might almost wish to hear her sing Upon my death-bed, for 't is like a hymn, And breathes of something far beyond the grave! I felt a pressure on my knees; and lo!
That merry elf, my rosy-cheeked Jane,
Hung back her head with all its links of light,
And laughed up in my face so joyously
That in the sweet contagion of her glee
I started, for an instant undeceived,
At my own laughter in the wilderness.
But wild, and likewise bold, as roes at play,
Danced round me my two boys, then disappeared
Behind a knoll, and then with shouts and springs
Careering through the heather, breathless came
Back to my feet, and laid them gently down,
By pastime given into the arms of sleep.
While, meekly standing, some small space apart,
That she might there more tranquilly enjoy
My joy, upon a sunny spot I saw
The Guardian Angel of my mortal life;
And sure no sooner met our eyes than met
Our hearts; but in that meeting broke the spell,
Beneath too strong a stir of happiness!
A vanishing! and I was left alone
In the dark desert, while the Harebells smiled Like disenchanted flowerets at my feet! Edinburgh Literary Journal.
BY THE HON. ST. GEORGE TUCKER.
DAYS of my youth! ye have glided away;
Hairs of my youth! ye are frosted and grey;
Eyes of my youth! your keen sight is no more;
Cheeks of my youth! ye are furrowed all o'er;
Strength of my youth! all your vigour is gone;
Thoughts of my youth! your gay visions are flown.
Days of my youth! I wish not your recall;
Hairs of my youth! I'm content ye shall fall;
Eyes of my youth! ye much evil have seen;
Cheeks of my youth! bathed in tears have ye been ;
Thoughts of my youth! ye have led me astray;
Strength of my youth! why lament your decay?
Days of my age! ye will shortly be past;
Pains of my age! but awhile can ye last;
Joys of my age! in true wisdom delight;
Eyes of my age! be religion your light;
Thoughts of my age! dread ye not the cold sod;
Hopes of my age! be ye fixed on your God.
LOVELY spirit, where dost thou fly,
With such impatience in thine eye?→
Behold the hues of the closing day
Are mingled still with the gloaming gray;
And thine own sweet star of the welkin sheen,
The star of love, is but faintly seen!
See how she hangs like a diamond dim
By the walks of the holy Seraphim,
While the fays in the middle vales of blue
Have but half distilled their freight of dew.
It is too early in the night
For a spirit so lovely and so bright
To be tracing the walks of this world beneath,
Unhallowed by sin, and mildewed by death;
Where madness and folly are ever rife,
And snares that beleaguer mortal life.—
I know thee well, sweet Spirit of Love,
And I know thy mission from above;
Thou comest with every grace refined,
To endow the earthly virgin's mind;
A record of her virtues to keep,
And all her thoughts awake and asleep.
Bright spirit, thou hast a charge of care!
Come tarry with me in this woodland fair,
I will teach thee more in one hour of joy
Than all thou hast learned since thou left'st the sky.
Come tarry with me, let the maidens be,
Till the hour of dreaming and phantasy;
And then will I seek with thee to share
The task of fanning their foreheads fair,
And scaring the little fays of sin
That tickle the downy, dimpling chin;
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