The fire divine, she spurns with holy pride
The feeble barrier; from this goodly scene,
Uptracing to the source of love supreme
And mercy, that creative power that spoke,
And bade the round world stand immoveable
On its foundation.
I court with gladness; not as those who feed
With morbid thoughts and gloomy sympathies
A proud and sullen soul....Far be from me
A mind of this complexion....In his breast
Who bears it, bears a never-dying worm,
A gnawing viper that consumes his spirit,
And feeds upon his soul; but he extracts
Poison from Nature's beauties, gloom, and dusk,
And murky fancies from the blessed sun,
And ill from every thing.a
Lift up thine eye, and view the cheerful beam, The living light of heaven; let thy whole soul Embrace this goodly scene; then, if the fires Of blest benevolence and charity
Are not for ever damped, and in thy heart
a This our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in every thing.
SHAKSPEARE. AS YOU LIKE IT.
Extinguished quite, then will thy heart confess
The presence of a sober joy, that comes
With comfort and soft healing; then thy mind,
Disburthened of its fever and thick gloom,
And all surrendered up to the strong charm
Of Nature, to the taste of unfeigned bliss,
Shall be alive for ever; thou shalt smile,
Once more shalt smile, and bliss thy new-born
Tell me, ye gay, ye whom the world esteems Most fortunate and happy! Tell me, ye
For whom the rich and turgid grape concocts
Its luscious juice, for whom the wine-press pours
In floods its racy nectar! Ye, for whom
The proud saloon with garish splendour teems!
Tell me, ye overgorged with all that wealth
And power can give you! what though Art exhausts
For you her stores, and, to her utmost tasked,
Invention toils to gratify your whim
With varied novelty, palls not the taste
And constant revolution of your joys?
The giddy mazes of the merry dance,
Riot, and revelry, and all the stale
And tasteless jargon of the masquerade,
With all that Fashion, all that Folly loves,
Charm they for ever?....Never does the soul,
Cloyed, weary, sick, and satiated, sigh
And pant for purer pleasures?
The sacred impulse, and the craving call
Of Nature that invites you, oh how blest,
Supremely blest, above your gay compeers!
If in the din of riot, and the maze
Of dissipation's round, you stifle not
The kindling warmth, the quickening influence; That leads by gentle steps to cheerfulness,
And steeps the soul in sweetest harmony.
Then hie thee to the fields, and let the warmth
And vital spirit that is interfused
And poured into thy bosom by the taste
Of Nature, and her soul-subduing voice,
Thaw thy congealed affections.
To him who sickens at the dizzy joys
And stormy raptures that the world affords,
Does Nature offer her exhaustless stores,
And ever-changing features........Hither come
Thou whom the buffets of a cruel world,
And the sharp taunts of rude unfeeling men
Have sorely smitten; whom the envenomed shafts
Of persecution, and revilings keen,
Have wounded to the core; oh hither come,
And I will tell thee how the gentle hand
Of Nature to thy sores and bleeding wounds
Shall minister her medicine, and shall heal,
With touch balsamic and reviving dews,
The bitter anguish of thy throbbing breast;
Then shall her fostering care refresh thy soul
With soothing scenes, holding with thy best
thoughts
Delightful converse; and her voice shall pour
Into thy heart the magic force that steals
From Grief's slow-rankling dart the poisoned barb,
Working thy restoration; till revived,
And loosened from thy sorrows, thou shalt rise
A new replenished man, the film and slough,
That erst enclosed thee, cast and done away.
Sure 'twere a blessed lot, here, in this vale, To loiter in sweet sadness, so the prime Of Nature and of spring might fill the soul With their delicious incense; or to sit, Defended from the heat of summer suns, By the cool shade of interposing boughs, And taste the roving breeze........ Yet not alone To its fresh breathings and reviving balm Would I commit myself........And one I know, One gentle maid, whose mild and peaceful soul Is swayed and tempered by the very hand Of softness and complacency: her heart True and obedient to the touch divine
Of Nature, and alive to every thrill
That flows from her pure influence, would own
Her magic in this vale....Oh, gentle maid!
Oh, were it granted to my longing sight
Hither to see thee bend thy graceful steps,
To watch the rising gladness of thine eyes,
The mild effusion of that chastened ray
That dawns with humid lustre, like the beam
Of dewy morn poured on the silent breast
Of the still waters !........ Yes....in thought I see
Thy kindling eye, I see the joy that dwells
In all thy inward thoughts, that speaks, display'd
In every feature; while the playful breeze,
Fanning aside thy dark-brown locks, reveals
Thy polished forehead, tranquil, and serene,
The mansion of no frown: thy dark brown locks,
Uplifted by the breeze, in gentle waves
Float on the dazzling snow of thy fair neck,
Blending its lucid white with lightest veil
Of pearly shade: I see thy rosy mouth,
Parted by such a smile as angels wear,
And thy soft cheek, suffused with all the glow
Of health and rapure; while, entranced, thine eye
Drinks the bright prospect.......Oh, that thou indeed
Wast present with me !....Thou hast learned to look
On these things with no idle ken; thy mind
Has long regarded a free intercourse
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