LXXV.
SUPER MONTES.
I
Twelve years, great Land of rock and flood
And high unalter'd mien;
Twelve years have gone since last I view'd
Thy wildly-working scene:
Thy waste of seams and scars and shocks:
Thy silver-threading fountains:
Thy many-stain'd and lichen'd rocks:
Thy thousand-wrinkled mountains.
II
The yearlong murmur of thy rills
Has kept its constant pace:
The lucid purple of the hills
Adorn'd thy sunset face:
Thine intermittent age has worn
Its crown of snow-wreaths hoary:
Thy youth has revell'd in the dawn
Of Spring's recurrent glory.
III
The sun melts down behind the screen
Of yon gray furrow'd steep,
As though the years that lie between
Had been a day-tide sleep;
And swift and sweet their rosy feet
Within the realms of seeming:—
O could we, 'gainst the years of truth,
Take back one hour of dreaming!
IV
Old faces haunt us as we go,
And far-off accents rise:
And smiles, which if they yet may glow,
Rejoice another's eyes.
And we are fall'n from all that made
The face of Nature pleasant:
Amid the waste of hopes decay'd
Set in a weary Present.
V
—Why should the soul be torn by thought
Of still-remember'd faces,
When yearly flowers to fruit are wrought,
And Autumn Spring displaces?
Earth lays aside her labouring Past
Intent on daily duty:
Regrets and hopes behind has cast,
Secure in present beauty.—
VI
Ah why should years, that work their task,
And leave the green earth smiling,
Ignore the blessings that we ask,
Our first fond hopes beguiling?
The Summer bring no wreath for peace:
The Spring, no reassurance:
The Autumn, no new hopes' increase:
The Winter, no endurance?
