But not in vain that hill-side stood,
On many an after-day,
When with returning steps I wooed
Revival of its sway;
It could not give me Truth where doubt
And sin had ample range,
But it was powerful to shut out
The ill it could not change.
And still performs a sacred part,
To my experienced eye,
This Pisgah which my virgin heart
Ascended but to die ;
What was Reality before
In symbol now may live,
Endowed with right to promise more
Than ever it could give.
I WOULD not chronicle my life
By dynasties of joy or pain,
By reigns of peace or times of strife,
By accidents of loss or gain :
The Hopes that nurtured in my breast
Have been the very wings to me
On which existence floats or rests,―
These only shall my eras be.
Whether they rose to utmost height
And glistened in the noonday sun,
Descending with as full delight
When all was realised and won;
Or whether, mercilessly checked
By adverse airs and lowering skies,
They sunk to earth confused and wrecked
Almost before they dared to rise;
With equal love I love them all
For their own special sakes, nor care
What sequence here or there might fall,
Each has its sweet memorial share :
Let but my Hopes, in coming years,
Preserve their long unbroken line,
And smiles will shine through any tears,
And grief itself be half-divine.
For not to man on earth is given
The ripe fulfilment of desire ;—
Desire of Heaven itself is Heaven,
Unless the passion faint and tire:
So upward still, from hope to hope,
From faith to faith, the soul ascends,
And who has scaled the ethereal cope,
Where that sublime succession ends?
BELIEVE not that your inner eye
Can ever in just measure try
The worth of Hours as they go by.
For every man's weak self, alas!
Makes him to see them, while they pass,
As through a dim or tinted glass :
But if in earnest care you would
Mete out to each its part of good,
Trust rather to your after-mood.
Those surely are not fairly spent,
That leave your spirit bowed and bent
In sad unrest and ill-content:
And more, though free from seeming harm.
You rest from toil of mind or arm,
Or slow retire from Pleasure's charm,
If then a painful sense comes on
Of something wholly lost and gone,
Vainly enjoyed, or vainly done,-
Of something from your being's chain
Broke off, nor to be linked again
By all mere Memory can retain,—
Upon your heart this truth may rise,-
Nothing that altogether dies
Suffices man's just destinies :
So should we live, that every Hour
May die as dies the natural flower,-
A self-reviving thing of power;
That every Thought and every Deed
May hold within itself the seed
Of future good and future meed;
Esteeming Sorrow, whose employ
Is to develope not destroy,
Far better than a barren Joy.
BECAUSE the Few with signal virtue crowned,
The heights and pinnacles of human mind,
Sadder and wearier than the rest are found,
Wish not thy Soul less wise or less refined.
True that the small delights which every day
Cheer and distract the pilgrim are not theirs ;
True that, though free from Passion's lawless sway,
A loftier being brings severer cares.
Yet have they special pleasures, even mirth,
By those undreamt-of who have only trod
Life's valley smooth; and if the rolling earth
To their nice ear have many a painful tone,
They know, Man does not live by Joy alone,
But by the presence of the power of God.
A SPLENDOUR amid glooms,--a sunny thread
Woven into a tapestry of cloud,—
A merry child a-playing with the shroud
That lies upon a breathless mother's bed,—
A garland on the front of one new-wed,
Trembling and weeping while her troth is vowed,—
A school-boy's laugh that rises light and loud
In licensed freedom from ungentle dread;
These are ensamples of the Happiness,
For which our nature fits us; more and less
Are parts of all things to the Mortal given,
Of Love, Joy, Truth, and Beauty.
Would dazzle, not illuminate, our sight,—
From Earth it is enough to glimpse at Heaven.
THE SPRING AND THE BROOK.
It may be that the Poet is as a Spring,
That, from the deep of being, pulsing forth,
Proffers the hot and thirsty sons of earth
Refreshment unbestowed by sage or king.
Still is he but an utte'rance,- —a lone thing,—
Sad-hearted in his very voice of mirth,—
Too often shivering in the thankless dearth
Of those affections he the best can sing.
But Thou, O lively Brook! whose fruitful way
Brings with it mirror'd smiles, and green, and flowers,
Child of all scenes, companion of all hours,
Taking the simple cheer of every day,-
How little is to thee, thou happy Mind,
That solitary parent Spring behind!
|