BOOKS AND FLOWERS.

293

Or wouldst thou turn to earth? Not earth all fur

rowed

By the old traces of man's toil and care,

But the green peaceful world that never sorrowed,

The world of leaves, and dews, and summer air!

Look on these flowers! As o'er an altar shedding,

O'er Milton's page, soft light from coloured urns! They are the links, man's heart to nature wedding, When to her breast the prodigal returns.

They are from lone wild places, forest dingles,
Fresh banks of many a low voiced hidden stream,
Where the sweet star of eve looks down and mingles
Faint lustre with the water-lily's gleam.

They are from where the soft winds play in gladness, Covering the turf with flowery blossom-showers; -Too richly dowered, O friend! are we for sadness

Look on an empire-mind and nature—ours!

FOR A PICTURE OF ST. CECILIA
ATTENDED BY ANGELS.

How rich that forehead's calm expanse!
How bright that heaven-directed glance!
-Waft her to glory, winged powers,

Ere sorrow be renewed,

And intercourse with mortal hours
Bring back a humbler mood!

WORDSWORTH.

How can that eye, with inspiration beaming, Wear yet so deep a calm ?—Oh, child of song! Is not the music-land a world of dreaming,

Where forms of sad, bewildering beauty throng?

Hath it not sounds from voices long departed? Echoes of tones that rung in childhood's ear? Low haunting whispers, which the weary hearted,

Stealing midst crowds away, have wept to hear?

FOR A PICTURE OF ST. CECILIA, &c. 295

No, not to thee !-thy spirit, meek, yet queenly,

On its own starry height, beyond all this, Floating triumphantly and yet serenely,

Breathes no faint under-tone through songs of bliss!

Say by what strain, through cloudless ether swell

ing,

Thou hast drawn down those wanderers from the skies?

Bright guests! even such as left of yore their dwell

ing,

For the deep cedar shades of Paradise!

What strain?-oh! not the Nightingale's when showering

Her own heart's life drops on the burning lay, She stirs the young woods in the days of flowering,

And pours her strength, but not her grief away :

And not the Exile's-when midst lonely billows

He wakes the alpine notes his mother sung, Or blends them with the sigh of alien willows, Where murmuring to the wind, his harp is hung.

And not the Pilgrim's though his thoughts be holy, And sweet his Ave song, when day grows dim, Yet as he journeys, pensively and slowly,

Something of sadness floats through that low hymn.

But thou!-the spirit which at eve is filling

All the hushed air and reverential sky,

Founts, leaves, and flowers, with solemn rapture

thrilling,

This is the soul of thy rich harmony.

This bears up high those breathings of devotion
Wherein the currents of thy heart gush free;
Therefore no world of sad and vain emotion

Is the dream-haunted music land for thee.

THE VOICE OF THE WAVES.

WRITTEN NEAR THE SCENE OF A RECENT SHIPWRECK.

How perfect was the calm! It seemed no sleep,
No mood, which season takes away or brings :

I could have fancied that the mighty deep
Was even the gentlest of all gentle things.

But welcome fortitude and patient cheer,
And frequent sights of what is to be borne!

ANSWER, ye chiming waves!

WORDSWORTH.

That now in sunshine sweep;

Speak to me from thy hidden caves,

Voice of the solemn deep!

Hath man's lone spirit here

With storms in battle striven?

Where all is now so calmly clear,

Hath anguish cried to heaven?