On the mountain-peak I marked the sage at sunset, where he mused, Forth looking on the continent of hills; While from his feet the five long granite spurs That bind the centre to the valley's side, (The spokes from this strange middle to the wheel) Stretched in the fitful torrent of the gale, Bleached on the terraces of leaden cloud And passages of light, Sierras long In archipelagoes of mountain sky, Where it went wandering all the livelong year. He spoke not, yet methought I heard him say, 66 All day and night the same; in sun or shade, In summer flames, and the jagged, biting knife That hardy winter splits upon the cliff, From earliest time the same. One mother and one father brought us forth Thus gazing on the summits of the days, AND here the hermit sat, and told his beads, And stroked his flowing locks, red as the fire, Summed up his tale of moon and sun and star: "How blest are we," he deemed, "who so comprise The essence of the whole, and of ourselves, As in a Venice flask of lucent shape, Ornate of gilt Arabic, and inscribed With Suras from Time's Koran, live and pray, More than half grateful for the glittering prize, Human existence! If I note my Unutterable love. Sound needed none, Nor any voice of joy; his spirit drank The spectacle; sensation, soul, and form All melted into him; they swallowed up His animal being; in them did he live, And by them did he live; they were his life. In such access of mind, in such high hour Of visitation from the living God, Thought was not; in enjoyment it expired. No thanks he breathed, he proffered no request; Rapt into still communion that transcends The imperfect offices of prayer and praise, His mind was a thanksgiving to the Queen art thou still for each gay plant Where the slim wild deer roves; And served in depths where fishes haunt Their own mysterious groves. AND if, on this thy natal morn,' The pole, from which thy name Hath not departed, stands forlorn Of song and dance and game, Still from the village-green a vow Aspires to thee addrest, Wherever peace is on the brow, Or love within the breast. Yes! where love nestles thou canst teach The soul to love the more; Hush, feeble lyre! weak words, refuse The service to prolong! To yon exulting thrush the Muse Intrusts the imperfect song; His voice shall chant, in accents clear, Throughout the livelong day, Till the first silver star appear, The sovereignty of May. WORDSWORTH. CORINNA'S GOING A-MAYING. GET up, get up, for shame; the blooming Morn Upon her wings presents the god unshorn. See how Aurora throws her fair Fresh-quilted colors through the air; Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see The dew bespangling herb and tree. Each flower has wept, and bow'd toward the east, Above an hour since, yet you not drest, THE BIRDS OF KILLING WORTH. Ir was the season when through all the land The merle and mavis build, and building sing Those lovely lyrics written by His hand Whom Saxon Cædmon calls the Blithe-heart King; When on the boughs the purple buds expand, The banners of the vanguard of the Spring; And rivulets, rejoicing, rush and leap, And wave their fluttering signals from the steep. The robin and the bluebird, piping loud, Filled all the blossoming orchards with their glee; The sparrows chirped as if they still were proud Their race in Holy Writ should mentioned be; And hungry crows, assembled in a crowd, Clamored their piteous prayer incessantly, Knowing who hears the ravens cry, and said, "Give us, O Lord, this day our daily bread!" Across the Sound the birds of passage sailed, Speaking some unknown language, strange and sweet Of tropic isle remote, and, passing, hailed The village with the cheers of all their fleet; Or, quarrelling together, laughed and railed Like foreign sailors landed in the street Of seaport town, and with outlandish noise Of oaths and gibberish frightening girls and boys. Thus came the jocund Spring in Killingworth, In fabulous days, some hundred years ago; |