Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, As to the tabor's sound, To me alone there came a thought of grief: The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep; Land and sea Give themselves up to jollity, Doth every beast keep holiday; Thou child of joy, Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy shepherd-boy! Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call Ye to each other make; I see The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; The fullness of your bliss-I feel, I feel it all. On every side, In a thousand valleys far and wide, Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm, And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm; I hear, I hear, with joy I hear, -But there's a tree, of many, one, A single field which I have looked uponBoth of them speak of something that is gone: The pansy at my feet Doth the same tale repeat: Whither is fled the visionary gleam? Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: And cometh from afar: But trailing clouds of glory, do we come Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Upon the growing boy, But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, The youth, who daily farther from the east And by the vision splendid Is on his way attended; At length the man perceives it die away, The homely nurse doth all she can Behold the child among his new-born blisses, A mourning or a funeral; And this hath now his heart, And unto this he frames his song: To dialogues of business, love, or strife! Ere this be thrown aside, And with new joy and pride The little actor cons another part: Filling from time to time his "humorous stage,” Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep Mighty prophet! Seer blest! On whom those truths do rest Which we are toiling all our lives to find, O joy! that in our embers That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive! The thought of our past years in me doth breed For that which is most worthy to be blest; Delight and liberty, the simple creed Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:Not for these I raise The song of thanks and praise; But for those obstinate questionings High instincts before which our mortal nature Those shadowy recollections, Are yet the fountain-light of all our day, Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make To perish never; Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor, Nor man, nor boy, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Can utterly abolish or destroy! Hence in a season of calm weather Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Can in a moment travel thither, And see the children sport upon the shore, And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. THE DISCOVERER. HAVE a little kinsman Whose earthly summers are but three, And yet a voyager is he Greater than Drake or Frobisher, Than all the peers together! He is a brave discoverer, And, far beyond the tether Of them who seek the frozen Pole, Has sailed where the noiseless surges roll. Suddenly in his fair young hour, How he fares, or answer well What the little one has found From the pricking of his chart Hush! does not the baby this way bring, Of chrysolite or pearl? Ah, no! not so! We may follow on his track, But he comes not back. And yet I dare aver He is a brave discoverer Of climes his elders do not know. He has more learning than appears On the scroll of twice three thousand years; More than in the groves is taught Or from furthest Indies brought; He knows, perchance, how spirits fare- What is their guise and speech In those lands beyond our reach And his eyes behold Things that shall never, never be to mortal hearers told. EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. THE FUTURE LIFE. OW shall I know thee in the sphere which keeps For I shall feel the sting of ceaseless pain In meadows fanned by heaven's life-breathing wind, And deeper grew, and tenderer to the last, For me, the sordid cares in which I dwell Yet though thou wear'st the glory of the sky, The wisdom that I learned so ill in this- WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. THERE IS NO DEATH. HERE is no death! The stars go down There is no death. The dust we tread Shall change beneath the summer showers To golden grain or mellow fruit The granite rocks disorganize To feed the hungry moss they bear; The forest leaves drink daily life From out the viewless air. There is no death; the leaves may fall, The flowers may fade and pass awayThey only wait through wintry hours The coming of the May. There is no death! An angel form Walks o'er the earth with silent tread; He bears our best-loved things away, And then we call them "dead." He leaves our hearts all desolate He plucks our fairest, sweetest flowers; Transplanted into bliss, they now Adorn immortal bowers. Christian, God speed thee! Look to the weather-bow, "What of the night, watchman? Be wakeful, be vigilant Danger may be At an hour when all seemeth Securest to thee. How! gains the leak so fast? Now the ship rights; Hurrah! the harbor 's near — Lo! the red lights! Slacken not sail yet At inlet or island; Cut through the foam- CAROLINE BOWLES SOUTHEY. |