The summer corn has waved, the thunder's And Rome's cathedral awe is in his woodorgan rolled. 40 land aisles. The herbs we share with flesh and blood Are better than ambrosial food 102 How conscious seems the frozen sod And beechen slope whereon they trod! With laurelled shades.' I grant it, no- The oak-leaves rustle, and the dry grass thing loath, bends absent friends. 135 But doubly blest is he who can partake Beneath the shadowy feet of lost or of both. XIV. Whose songs have girdled half the Whose pages, like the magic mat Have borne me over Rhine-land's purple vines, Then ask not why to these bleak hills I cling, as clings the tufted moss, To bear the winter's lingering chills, 139 The mocking spring's perpetual loss. I dream of lands where summer smiles, And soft winds blow from spicy isles, But scarce would Ceylon's breath of flowers be sweet, Could I not feel thy soil, New England, at my feet! XIX. 145 At times I long for gentler skies, And bathe in dreams of softer air, But homesick tears would fill the eyes That saw the Cross without the Bear. The pine must whisper to the palm, 149 The north-wind break the tropic calm; And with the dreamy languor of the Line, And Nubia's tawny sands, and Phrygia's The North's keen virtue blend, and strength to beauty join. Has he not graced my home with beauty The godlike power to do, the godlike aim |