 | Poems |  |
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I
The year lies bound in wintry chains,The keen frost sparkles in the air,
The snow-sheet whitens all the plains,
The leafless trees are black and bare;
The swallow hath fled o'er the lea,
The songsters make no minstrelsy,
The bitter wind makes hollow moan;
Around each household hearth a throng
Is gathered for the tale or song;
But thou art not the groups among,
Thou sittest in the house alone!
II
The year is up, and full of mirth,The laughing plains are decked with green,
Spring walks upon the happy earth,
The vernal breezes blow serene;
The birds pour song from every tree,
Beneath them hums the murmuring bee,
The air is rife with merriest sound;
All hearts are light—the hour is sweet,
Glad faces in the sunshine meet,
Both young and old leave their retreat,
But thou with Solitude art found!
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III
Thou art not of a sullen mind,For thou art loving, gentle, good;
Thou art no hater of thy kind,
But thou adorest Solitude.
The Seasons change, the fleeting years
Pass on;—in thee no change appears,
Thou art the same from day to day;
Calm, quiet, amorous of rest,
But, with an equal temper blest,
Not bitter to the stranger guest
Who traverses thy lonely way.
IV
All in thy solitary hoursWhat consolation dost thou find?
Large comfort from those heavenly Powers
That brood about the lofty mind;
The spirits of the Great and Good
Attend upon thy solitude,
With Wisdom's philosophic scroll;
And from the bright immortal page
Of bard inspired, and reverend sage,
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Is fed the fountain of thy soul.
V
Then let the silly blockhead prateAbout “the joyous and the free!”
And gravely shake his empty pate,
And mourn the lot of such as thee!
He knoweth not (himself unblest)
The calm contentment of that breast
Where dwells divine Philosophy;
She takes the salt from human tears,
She leaps the gulf of countless years,
And, scorning abject doubts and fears,
Points upwards to her home—the sky!
VI
I will not say that thou art freeFrom thoughts which wring the tender heart:
The reflex of thy memory
May haply cause thy tears to start;
Thou art so full of mystery,
I will not scan thy history,
But let me speak that which I know:
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Thou, having sown thy generous seeds,
Hast reaped in tears a crop of weeds,
Thou hast great comfort in thy woe!
VII
O'er countless wrongs the heart aggrieved,In anguish for a space may brood;
But happy he, who hath received,
And not requited, ill for good!
The shining deeds by Virtue done,
(As through the tempest breaks the Sun)
Their rays through clouds of sorrow dart;
And, whatsoe'er thy griefs, I know
A thousand virtuous acts bestow
(Though breaking through thick mists of woe)
Their heavenly sunshine on thy heart.
VIII
But here I cease my minstrelsy,Too fearful lest I miss my end;
And, tender heart, in wounding thee,
Against my better thought offend.
Thou hast no need of words from me,
For thine own soul's divinity
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And, passing through thy upturned eyes
Into the regions of the skies,
Thy spirit can sublimely rise
Beyond the thoughts of earthly woe!
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