HAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove!
Thou messenger of Spring!
Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat,
And woods thy welcome sing.
What time the daisy decks the green,
Thy certain voice we hear;
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,
Or mark the rolling year?
Delightful visitant! with thee
I hail the time of flowers,
And hear the sound of music sweet
From birds among the bowers.
The school-boy, wandering through the wood
To pull the primrose gay,
Starts-thy curious voice to hear,
And imitates thy lay.
What time the pea puts on the bloom
Thou fliest the vocal vale,
An annual guest in other lands,
Another Spring to hail.
Sweet bird; thy bower is ever green,
Thy sky is ever clear;
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,
No Winter in thy year!
O could I fly, I'd fly with thee!
We'd make, with joyful wing, Our annual visit o'er the globe, Companions of the Spring.
A MOSSY headstone, a small green mound
Buried in weeds, with wild briars bound!
I left it fresh, and the stone was white,
The letters sharp to my aching sight;
And on the mound only soft grass grew.
A tiny plant of the sombre yew
At the foot was set; now its branches spread
And cast their shadow beyond the head;
And on the stone I can scarcely trace
A word, for the moss that has filled each space;
I look far back when my heart was wild
With stormy grief. Oh, my little child!
My first! Beloved with a love all new
And fresh from Heaven- -as the summer dew
Falls on the flowers and the parching soil,
Thou cam'st to us amid life's turmoil.
I held thee close on my heart at rest,
And thought none else in the world so blest.
I gazed deep down in thy wondering eyes,
And traced the map of thy destinies.
No vision there of the graveyard sod,
Or a stainless soul in the home of God;
But sweet bright dreams of the coming time,
Of earthly life and its hopes were mine.
Yet through all these years thy little head
Has lain thus lone on its dreary bed;
And I have lived! and have cherished others
With love as fond. Thy two brave brothers,
With eager hope,-full of youth's unrest,-
Have left me now for the far-off West.
Alone once more, and the day nigh done,
I love to think of the morning sun!
It brings all fresh to my widowed hearth,
The long-lost note of thy baby-mirth;
And I rejoice, amid pain and strife,
And thank my God for thy pure brief life.
COWPER ON THE RECEIPT OF HIS MOTHER'S PICTURE.
O THAT those lips had language! Life has passed
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smiles I
The same that oft in childhood solaced me;
Voice only fails, else, how distinct they say:
"Grieve not, my child; chase all thy fears away!"
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes—
Blest be the art that can immortalise,
The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim
To quench it--here shines on me still the same.
My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead,
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?
Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?
Perhaps thou gavest me, though unseen, a kiss ;
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss-
Ah, that maternal smile! it answers-Yes.
I heard the bell tolled on thy burial-day,
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,
And, turning from my nursery window, drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!
But was it such? It was.
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting sound shall pass my lips no more!
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of a quick return:
What ardently I wished, I long believed,
And, disappointed still, was still deceived;
By disappointment every day beguiled,
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,.
I learned at last submission to my lot,
But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.
Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more,
Children not thine have trod my nursery floor;
And where the gardener Robin, day by day,
Drew me to school along the public way,
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capt,
'Tis now become a history little known,
That once we called the pastoral house our own.
Short-lived possession! but the record fair,
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced
A thousand other themes less deeply traced.
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,
That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid;
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,
The biscuit or confectionary plum;
The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed :
All this, and more endearing still than all,
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks,
That humour interposed too often makes:
All this, still legible in memory's page,
And still to be so to my latest age,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honours to thee as my numbers may;
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,
Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here.
Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, The violet, the pink, and jessamine,
I pricked them into paper with a pin
And thou wast happier than myself the while, Would softly speak, and stroke my head and smile Could those few pleasant hours again appear,
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?
I would not trust my heart-the dear delight
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might.
But no-what here we call our life is such,
So little to be loved, and thou so much,
That I should ill requite thee to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.
YE mariners of England,
That guard our native seas;
Whose flag has braved a thousand years
The battle and the breeze!
Your glorious standard launch again
To match another foe;
And sweep through the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.
The spirits of your fathers
Shall start from every wave;
For the deck it was their field of fame
And Ocean was their grave:
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow!
Britannia needs no bulwarks,
No towers along the steep;
Her march is o'er the mountain wave,
Her home is on the deep.
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