« AnteriorContinuar »
Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly | You cross the threshold; and dim and
And jarrest the celestial harmonies?
Is the space that serves for the Shep herd's Fold;
Were half the power that fills the world The narrow aisle, the bare, white wall,
Were half the wealth bestow'd on camps
The pews, and the pulpit quaint and tall,
Herbert's chapel at Bemerton
Hardly more spacious is than this; But Poet and Pastor, blent in one, Clothed with a splendor, as of the sun, That lowly and holy edifice.
The warrior's name would be a name ab- It is not the wall of stone without
And every nation that should lift again Its hand against a brother, on its forehead Would wear for evermore the curse of Cain !
That makes the building small or great, But the soul's light shining round about, And the faith that overcometh doubt,
And the love that stronger is than hate. Were I a pilgrim in search of peace, Were I a pastor of Holy Church,
Down the dark future, through long gene- More than a bishop's diocese
The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease;
And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations,
I hear once more the voice of Christ say, "Peace!"
Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals
The blast of War's great organ shakes
But, beautiful as songs of the immortals,
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
OLD ST. DAVID'S AT RADNOR.
WHAT an image of peace and rest
Is this little church among its graves!
See, how the ivy climbs and expands
And seems to caress with its little hands
Caressing the wrinkled cheeks of age!
Should I prize this place of rest, and re
From farther longing and farther search.
Here would I stay, and let the world
With its distant thunder roar and roll;
COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN
FIVE years have past; five summers, with
Of five long winters! and again I hear
With a sweet inland murmur.-Once again
The landscape with the quiet of the sky.
Which at this season, with their unripe Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things.
Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves
Among the woods and copses, nor disturb The wild green landscape. Once again I
If this Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft, In darkness, and amid the many shapes Of joyous daylight; when the fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little Have hung upon the beatings of my heart, lines How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral O sylvan Wye! Thou wanderer thro' the farms, woods, Green to the very door; and wreaths of How often has my spirit turned to thee!
Sent up, in silence, from among the trees With some uncertain notice, as might
And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought,
With many recognitions dim and faint,
Of vagrant Dwellers in the houseless And somewhat of a sad perplexity,
The picture of the mind revives again:
woods, Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire Where here I stand, not only with the sense The Hermit sits alone. Of present pleasure, but with pleasing
These beauteous Forms, Through a long absence, have not been to
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye:
To them I may have owed another gift,
In which the burthen of the mystery,
Is lightened:-that serene and blessed mood,
In which the affections gently lead us on,-
That in this moment there is life and food For future years. And so I dare to hope, Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first
I came among these hills; when like a roe I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, Wherever nature led: more like a man Flying from something that he dreads, than one
Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then
(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, And their glad animal movements all gone by)
To me was all in all.—I cannot paint What then I was. The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
Their colors and their forms, were then to me
An appetite; a feeling and a love,
And all its aching joys are now no more,
While with an eye made quiet by the Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other
Have followed, for such loss, I would The heart that loved her; 'tis her privi
Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample With lofty thoughts, that neither evil
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all
And the round ocean and the living air,
All thinking things, all objects of all Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;
And let the misty mountain winds be free
And rolls through all things. Therefore To blow against thee: and, in after years,
am I still
A lover of the meadows and the woods, And mountains; and of all that we behold From this green earth; of all the mighty world
Of eye and ear, both what they half create,
When these wild ecstasies shall be matured
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,
And what perceive; well pleased to recog- Should be thy portion, with what healing
In nature and the language of the sense,
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance,
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and If I should be where I no more can hear
Suffer my genial spirits to decay:
The language of my former heart, and read
Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes
Of past existence, wilt thou then forget
Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget,
And this green pastoral landscape, were to
My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I More dear, both for themselves and for thy
Knowing that Nature never did betray
"PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS."
EPH. V. 19.
WATCHMAN, TELL US OF THE NIGHT. | That He our deadly forfeit should release,
WATCHMAN, tell us of the night—
Watchman, tell us of the night-
Gild the spot that gave them birth?
Watchman, tell us of the night,
For the morning seems to dawn. Traveller, darkness takes its flightDoubt and terror are withdrawn. Watchman, let thy wandering cease; Hie thee to thy quiet home. Traveller, lo! the Prince of PeaceLo! the Son of God, is come.
SIR JOHN BOWRING.
And with His Father work us a perpetual
That glorious form, that light unsufferable,
To sit the midst of Trinal Unity,
Say, heav'nly Muse, shall not thy sacred
Afford a present to the Infant God?
To welcome Him to this His new abode, Now while the heav'n, by the sun's team untrod,
Hath took no print of the approaching light,
And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright ?
ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S
See how from far upon the eastern road The star-led wizards haste with odors sweet:
THIS is the month, and this the happy Oh run, prevent them with thy humble ode,
Wherein the Son of heav'n's eternal King, Of wedded Maid, and Virgin Mother born, Our great redemption from above did bring;
For so the holy sages once did sing.
And lay it lowly at His blessed feet;
And join thy voice unto the Angel quire, From out His secret altar touch'd with hal low'd fire.