THE WONDERS OF THE LANE. STRONG climber of the mountain's side, Yet walk with me where hawthorns hide High o'er the rushy springs of Don The moorland hath not yet put on His purple, green, and gold. But here the titling* spreads his wing, And here the sun-flower† of the spring O'er headlong steeps and gushing rocks But here the lizard seeks the sun, The Hedge Sparrow. + The Dandelion. The Golden-Crested Wren. VOL. II. C O then, while hums the earliest bee The glories of the lane! For, oh, I love these banks of rock, This roof of sky and tree, These tufts, where sleeps the gloaming clock, And wakes the earliest bee! As spirits from eternal day Look down on earth secure, Gaze thou, and wonder, and survey A world in miniature! A world not scorn'd by Him who made O'er storm-loved mountains spread, Like splinters of a crystal hair, Thy bright small hand is here. 19 THE WONDERS OF THE LANE. Yon drop-fed lake, six inches wide, This driplet feeds Missouri's tide And that Niagara's flood. What tidings from the Andes brings Yon line of liquid light, That down from heav'n in madness flings Do I not hear his thunder roll- 'Tis mute as death!-but in my soul It roars, and ever will. What forests tall of tiniest moss Clothe every little stone! What pigmy oaks their foliage toss O'er pigmy valleys lone! With shade o'er shade, from ledge to ledge, Ambitious of the sky, They feather o'er the steepest edge Of mountains mushroom high. O God of maryels! who can tell On these grey stones unseen may dwell; Lo! in that dot, some mite, like me, May crawl some atoms cliffs to see- Lo! while he pauses, and admires O God of terrors! what are we?— Poor insects, spark'd with thought! Thy whisper, Lord, a word from thee Could smite us into nought! But should'st thou wreck our father-land And mix it with the deep, Safe in the hollow of thine hand Thy little ones would sleep. SLEEP. SLEEP! to the homeless, thou art home; The will and power are given to thee— To look uncensured, though unbidden, The secrets of th' Unsearchable ! |