WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING
I HEARD a thousand blended notes While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
To her fair works did Nature link The human soul that through me ran; And much it grieved my heart to think What Man has made of Man.
Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trail'd its wreaths; And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.
The birds around me hopp'd and play'd, Their thoughts I cannot measure,— But the least motion which they made It seem'd a thrill of pleasure.
The budding twigs spread out their fan To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.
If this belief from heaven be sent, If such be Nature's holy plan, Have I not reason to lament What Man has made of Man?
ETHEREAL minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound? Or while the wings aspire, are heart and eye
Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground? Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will, Those quivering wings composed, that music still!
To the last point of vision, and beyond
Mount, daring warbler!-that love-prompted strain -'Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond- Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain: Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege! to sing All independent of the leafy Spring.
Leave to the nightingale her shady wood; A privacy of glorious light is thine,
Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood Of harmony, with instinct more divine; Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam- True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home.
THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET
WHERE art thou, my beloved Son,
Where art thou, worse to me than dead!
O find me, prosperous or undone !
Or if the grave be now thy bed, Why am I ignorant of the same That I may rest; and neither blame Nor sorrow may attend thy name?
Seven years, alas! to have received No tidings of an only child- To have despair'd, have hoped, believed, And been for evermore beguiled,— Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss! I catch at them, and then I miss; Was ever darkness like to this?
He was among the prime in worth, An object beauteous to behold;
Well born, well bred; I sent him forth Ingenuous, innocent, and bold:
If things ensued that wanted grace As hath been said, they were not base; And never blush was on my face.
Ah! little doth the young-one dream When full of play and childish cares, What power is in his wildest scream Heard by his mother unawares! He knows it not, he cannot guess; Years to a mother bring distress; But do not make her love the less.
Neglect me! no, I suffer'd long From that ill thought; and being blind Said 'Pride shall help me in my wrong: Kind mother have I been, as kind As ever breathed:' and that is true; I've wet my path with tears like dew, Weeping for him when no one knew.
My Son, if thou be humbled, poor, Hopeless of honour and of gain, O! do not dread thy mother's door; Think not of me with grief and pain: I now can see with better eyes; And worldly grandeur I despise And fortune with her gifts and lies.
Alas! the fowls of heaven have wings, And blasts of heaven will aid their flight; They mount-how short a voyage brings The wanderers back to their delight! Chains tie us down by land and sea; And wishes, vain as mine, may be All that is left to comfort thee.
Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan Maim'd, mangled by inhuman men;
Or thou upon a desert thrown
Inheritest the lion's den;
Or hast been summon'd to the deep Thou, thou, and all thy mates, to keep An incommunicable sleep.
I look for ghosts: but none will force Their way to me; 'tis falsely said That there was ever intercourse Between the living and the dead; For surely then I should have sight Of him I wait for day and night With love and longings infinite.
My apprehensions come in crowds; I dread the rustling of the grass; The very shadows of the clouds Have power to shake me as they pass; I question things, and do not find One that will answer to my mind; And all the world appears unkind.
Beyond participation lie
My troubles, and beyond relief: If any chance to heave a sigh They pity me, and not my grief. Then come to me, my Son, or send Some tidings that my woes may end! I have no other earthly friend.
SIMON LEE THE OLD HUNTSMAN
In the sweet shire of Cardigan, Not far from pleasant Ivor Hall, An old man dwells, a little man, I've heard he once was tall. Full five-and-thirty years he lived A running huntsman merry; And still the centre of his cheek Is red as a ripe cherry.
No man like him the horn could sound, And hill and valley rang with glee, When Echo bandied, round and round, The halloo of Simon Lee.
In those proud days he little cared For husbandry or tillage;
To blither tasks did Simon rouse The sleepers of the village.
He all the country could outrun, Could leave both man and horse behind; And often, ere the chase was done, He reel'd and was stone-blind.
And still there's something in the world At which his heart rejoices;
For when the chiming hounds are out, He dearly loves their voices.
But O the heavy change!-bereft
Of health, strength, friends and kindred, see Old Simon to the world is left
In liveried poverty:
His master's dead, and no one now
Dwells in the Hall of Ivor;
Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead; He is the sole survivor.
And he is lean and he is sick,
His body, dwindled and awry,
Rests upon ankles swoln and thick;
His legs are thin and dry.
He has no son, he has no child,
His wife, an aged woman,
Lives with him, near the waterfall, Upon the village common.
Beside their moss-grown hut of clay, Not twenty paces from the door, A scrap of land they have, but they Are poorest of the poor.
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