Yet in childhood little prized I 'Twas a straight walk, unadvised by Up and down-as dull as grammar on an eve of holiday! But the wood, all close and clenching, Bough in bough, and root in root- Oh! the wood drew me within it, by a glamour past dispute. Forced with snowy wool to strew it They with silly thorn-pricked noses bleated back unto the sun. But my childish heart beat stronger Sheep for sheep-paths! braver children climb and creep where they would go. And the poets wander, said I, Over places all as rude! Bold Rinaldo's lovely lady Sat to meet him in a wood Rosalinda, like a fountain, laughed out pure with solitude. And if Chaucer had not traveled Through a forest by a well, He had never dream'd nor marveled At those ladies fair and fell Who lived smiling, without loving, in their island citadel. Thus I thought of the old singers, And took courage from their song, Of the lichens which entrapped me, and the barrier branches strong. On a day, such pastime keeping, Under-crawling, over-leaping Thorns that prick and boughs that bear, I stood suddenly astonished-I was gladdened unaware! From the place I stood in floated And the open ground was coated Carpet-smooth with grass and moss, And the blue-bell's purple presence signed it worthily across. Here a linden-tree stood brightening All adown its silver rind; For as some trees draw the lightning, So this tree, unto my mind, Drew to earth the blessed sunshine, from the sky where it was shrined. Tall the linden-tree, and near it Hovered dimly round the two, Shaping thence that bower of beauty, which I sing of thus to you. 'Twas a bower for garden fitter Than for any woodland wide! Struck it through, from side to side, Shaped and shaven was the freshness, as by garden-cunning plied. Oh, a lady might have come there, Hooded fairly, like her hawk, And a hope of sweeter talk Listening less to her own music, than for footsteps on the walk. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. MIST OF THE MOUNTAIN-TOP. Like mist on a mountain-top broken and gray, Wild youth with strange fruitage of errors and tears— With those long-vanished hours fair visions are flown, I think of the glen where the hazel-nut grew The pine-crowned hill where the heather-bells blewThe trout-burn which soothed with its murmuring sweet, The wild flowers that gleamed on the red-deer's retreat! I look for the mates full of ardor and truth, Whose joys, like my own, were the sunbeams of youth- Where is now the wide hearth with the big fagot's blaze, Like a pilgrim who speeds on a perilous way, Those scenes ever dear to the friends I deplore, Whose feast of young smiles I may never share more! WILLIAM MOTHERWELL, 1798-1835. EMBLEM. A FLOWER GARDEN WITH SUNSHINE AND RAIN. When all the year our fields are fresh and green, And if it sometime fly not our possessing, The sweetness of it is not understood. Had we no winter, summer would be thought Till poor, or rich, or grieved they become; That we his bounties may the better prize, One while a scorching indignation burns And then the barren earth her crop renews, GEORGE WITHER, 1588-1667. SONG. Composed by Robert Duke of Normandy, when a prisoner in Cardiff Castle, and addressed to an old oak, growing in an ancient camp within view from the tower in which he was confined. Imitated by Bishop Heber. Oak, that stately and alone On the war-worn mound hast grown, And dyed thy tender root in red; Oak, thou hast sprung for many a year, Oak, from the mountain's airy brow, Woe, woe to him whose birth is high, For peril waits on royalty! Now storms have bent thee to the ground, And envious ivy clips thee round; REGINALD HEBER. ROBERT OF NORMANDY, about 1107. |