FROM low to high doth dissolution climb, And sink from high to low, along a scale Of awful notes, whose concord shall not fail : A musical but melancholy chime,
Which they can hear who meddle not with crime,
Nor avarice, nor over-anxious care.
Truth fails not; but her outward forms that bear The longest date do melt like frosty rime, That in the morning whitened hill and plain And is no more; drop like the tower sublime Of yesterday, which royally did wear
His crown of weeds, but could not even sustain Some casual shout that broke the silent air, Or the unimaginable touch of Time.
THE pibroch's note, discountenanced or mute; The Roman kilt, degraded to a toy Of quaint apparel for a half-spoilt boy; The target mouldering like ungathered fruit ; The smoking steam-boat eager in pursuit, As eagerly pursued; the umbrella spread To weather-fend the Celtic herdsman's head- All speak of manners withering to the root, And of old honours, too, and passions high:
Then may we ask, though pleased that thought should
Among the conquests of civility,
Survives imagination—to the change
Superior? Help to virtue does she give?
If not, O Mortals, better cease to live!
A POET-He hath put his heart to school, Nor dares to move unpropped upon the staff Which Art hath lodged within his hand--must laugh By precept only, and shed tears by rule. Thy Art be Nature; the live current quaff, And let the groveller sip his stagnant pool, In fear that else, when Critics grave and cool Have killed him, Scorn should write his epitaph. How does the Meadow-flower its bloom unfold? Because the lovely little flower is free
Down to its root, and, in that freedom, bold;
And so the grandeur of the Forest-tree
Comes not by casting in a formal mould
But from its own divine vitality.
XLVIII. THE PINE OF MONTE MARIO AT ROME.
I SAW far off the dark top of a Pine
Look like a cloud-a slender stem the tie
That bound it to its native earth-poised high 'Mid evening hues, along the horizon line, Striving in peace each other to outshine. But when I learned the Tree was living there Saved from the sordid axe by Beaumont's care, Oh, what a gush of tenderness was mine! The rescued Pine-tree, with its sky so bright And cloud-like beauty, rich in thoughts of home, Death-parted friends, and days too swift in flight, Supplanted the whole majesty of Rome
(Then first apparent from the Pincian Height) Crowned with St. Peter's everlasting Dome.
XLIX. TO THE MEMORY OF RAISLEY CALVERT.
CALVERT! it must not be unheard by them Who may respect my name, that I to thee Owed many years of early liberty.
This care was thine when sickness did condemn Thy youth to hopeless wasting, root and stem- That I, if frugal and severe, might stray Where'er I liked; and finally array My temples with the Muse's diadem.
Hence, if in freedom I have loved the truth; If there be aught of pure, or good, or great, In my past verse; or shall be, in the lays Of higher mood which now I meditate ;- It gladdens me, O worthy, short-lived Youth! To think how much of this will be thy praise.
L.-TO ROTHA QUILLINAN.
ROTHA, my Spiritual Child! this head was grey When at the sacred font for thee I stood : Pledged till thou reach the verge of womanhood, And shalt become thy own sufficient stay: Too late, I feel, sweet Orphan! was the day For steadfast hope the contract to fulfil; Yet shall my blessing hover o'er thee still, Embodied in the music of this Lay,
LI. TO LADY FITZGERALD, IN HER SEVENTIETH
SUCH age how beautiful! O Lady bright, Whose mortal lineaments seem all refined By favouring Nature and a saintly Mind
To something purer and more exquisite
Than flesh and blood; whene'er thou meet'st my sight, When I behold thy blanched unwithered cheek, Thy temples fringed with locks of gleaming white, And head that droops because the soul is meek, Thee with the welcome Snowdrop I compare; That child of winter, prompting thoughts that climb From desolation toward the genial prime; Or with the Moon conquering earth's misty air, And filling more and more with crystal light As pensive Evening deepens into night.
LII. COMPOSED ON A MAY MORNING, 1838.
LIFE with yon Lambs, like day, is just begun, Yet Nature seems to them a heavenly guide. Does joy approach? they meet the coming tide, And sullenness avoid, as now they shun Pale twilight's lingering glooms and in the sun Couch near their dams, with quiet satisfied; Or gambol-each with his shadow at his side, Varying its shape wherever he may run. As they from turf yet hoar with sleepy dew All turn, and court the shining and the green, Where herbs look up and opening flowers are seen, Why to God's goodness cannot we be true? And so, His gifts and promises between, Feed to the last on pleasures ever new?
SEE what gay wild flowers deck this earth-built Cot, Whose smoke, forth-issuing whence and how it may, Shines in the greeting of the sun's first ray
Like wreaths of vapour without stain or blot. The limpid mountain rill avoids it not,
And why shouldst thou ?—If rightly trained and bred, Humanity is humble, finds no spot
Which her Heaven-guided feet refuse to tread. The walls are cracked, sunk is the flowery roof, Undressed the pathway leading to the door. But love, as Nature loves, the lonely Poor!
Search, for their worth, some gentle heart wrong-proof, Meek, patient, kind,—and, were its trials fewer, Belike less happy.-Stand no more aloof!
"THERE!" said a Stripling, pointing with meet pride Towards a low roof with green trees half concealed, "Is Mosgiel Farm; and that's the very field
Where Burns ploughed up the Daisy." Far and wide A plain below stretched seaward, while, descried Above sea-clouds, the Peaks of Arran rose ; And, by that simple notice, the repose Of earth, sky, sea, and air, was vivified. Beneath "the random bield of clod or stone" Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour Have passed away; less happy than the One That, by the unwilling ploughshare, died to prove The tender charm of poetry and love.
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