Of their wild blossoms, our young footsteps first
Into her deep recesses are beguiled,
Her minster cells; dark glen and forest bower,
Where, thrilling with its earliest sense of thee,
Amidst the low religious whisperings
And shivery leaf-sounds of the solitude,
The spirit wakes to worship, and is made
Thy living temple. By the breath of flowers,
Thou callest us, from city throngs and cares,
Back to the woods, the birds, the mountain streams,
That sing of Thee! back to free childhood's heart,
Fresh with the dews of tenderness!-Thou bidd'st
The lilies of the field with placid smile.
Reprove man's feverish strivings, and infuse
Through his worn soul a more unworldly life,
With their soft holy breath. Thou hast not left
His purer nature, with its fine desires,
Uncared for in this universe of thine!
The glowing rose attests it, the beloved
Of poet hearts, touch'd by their fervent dreams
With spiritual light, and made a source
Of heaven-ascending thoughts. E'en to faint age
Thou lend'st the vernal bliss:-The old man's eye
Falls on the kindling blossoms, and his soul
Remembers youth and love, and hopefully
Turns unto thee, who call'st earth's buried germs
From dust to splendour; as the mortal seed
Shall, at thy summons, from the grave spring up
To put on glory, to be girt with power,
And fill'd with immortality. Receive
Thanks, blessings, love, for these, thy lavish boons,
And, most of all, their heavenward influences,
O Thou that gav'st us flowers!
With all thy chaplets and bright bands, return!
See, with how deep a crimson eve hath touch'd
And glorified the ruin! glow-worm light
Will twinkle on the dew-drops, ere we reach
Our home again. Come, with thy last sweet prayer
At thy bless'd mother's knee, to-night shall thanks
Unto our Father in his Heaven arise,
For all the gladness, all the beauty shed
O'er one rich day of flowers!
EVENING SONG OF THE WEARY.
FATHER of Heaven and Earth!
I bless thee for the night,
The soft, still night!
The holy pause of care and mirth,
Of sound and light!
Now far in glade and dell,
Flower-cup, and bud, and bell,
Have shut around the sleeping woodlark's nest—
The bee's long murmuring toils are done,
And I, the o'erwearied one,
O'erwearied and o'erwrought,
Bless thee, O God, O Father of the oppress'd,
With my last waking thought,
In the still night!
Yes, ere I sink to rest,
By the fire's dying light,
Thou Lord of Earth and Heaven!
I bless thee, who hast given Unto life's fainting travellers, the night, The soft, still, holy night!
HYMN OF THE TRAVELLER'S HOUSEHOLD ON HIS RETURN.
Joy! the lost one is restored!
Sunshine comes to hearth and board,
From the far-off countries old
Of the diamond and red gold;
From the dusky archer bands,
Roamers of the fiery sands;
From the desert winds, whose breath
Smites with sudden silent death;
He hath reach'd his home again,
Where we sing
In thy praise a fervent strain,
God our King!
Mightiest! unto Thee he turn'd,
When the noon-day fiercest burn'd;
When the fountain springs were far,
And the sounds of Arab war
Swell'd upon the sultry blast,
And the sandy columns past,
Unto Thee he cried! and Thou,
Merciful! didst hear his vow!
Therefore unto Thee again
Joy shall sing,
Many a sweet and thankful strain,
God our King!
Thou wert with him on the main,
And the snowy mountain-chain,
And the rivers, dark and wide,
Which through Indian forests glide,
Thou didst guard him from the wrath
Of the lion in his path,
And the arrows on the breeze,
And the dropping poison trees:
Therefore from our household train
Oft shall spring
Unto Thee a blessing strain,
God our King!
Thou to his lone watching wife
Hast brought back the light of life!
Thou hast spared his loving child
Home to greet him from the wild.
Though the suns of eastern skies
On his cheek have set their dyes,
Though long toils and sleepless cares
On his brow have blanch'd the hairs,
Yet the night of fear is flown,
He is living, and our own!—
Brethren! spread his festal board,
Hang his mantle on his sword,
With the armour on the wall,
While this long, long silent hall
Joyfully doth hear again
Voice and string
Swell to Thee the exulting strain,
God our King!
THE PAINTER'S LAST WORK.'
Clasp me a little longer on the brink
Of life, while I can feel thy dear caress;
And when this heart hath ceased to beat, oh! think,
And let it mitigate thy woe's excess,
That thou hast been to me all tenderness,
And friend to more than human friendship just—
Oh! by that retrospect of happiness,
And by the hope of an immortal trust,
God shall assuage thy pangs when I am laid in dust!
The scene is in an English cottage. The lattice opens upon a landscape at sunset.
Teresa. The fever's hue hath left thy cheek, beloved!
Thine eyes, that make the day-spring in my heart, Are clear and still once more!-Wilt thou look forth? Now, while the sunset, with low streaming light
1Suggested by the closing scene in the life of the painter Blake, which is beautifully related by Allan Cunningham.
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