The Desolation of Eyam The Emigrant, a Tale of the American Woods: and other poems. By William and Mary Howitt |
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ODE TO BOTANY. |
 | The Desolation of Eyam |  |
256
ODE TO BOTANY.
Science of the green earth wide!
Science of the lone hill side!
Of the wood, and of the dell
Where the living waters well,
And the lonely creatures dwell;
Of the herb, and of the tree;
I do owe a debt to thee.
I have owed it long, and now,
When thy fairy children bow
Round me, flutter, breathe and blow,
It is time to cease to owe.
Take a minstrel's recompense,—
One warm song which may bear hence,
From a grateful heart, the thrill
Of the good remembered still,
Though it long ago were done—
Health from thy pleasant toils, and glorious rambles won.
Science of the lone hill side!
Of the wood, and of the dell
Where the living waters well,
And the lonely creatures dwell;
Of the herb, and of the tree;
I do owe a debt to thee.
I have owed it long, and now,
When thy fairy children bow
Round me, flutter, breathe and blow,
It is time to cease to owe.
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One warm song which may bear hence,
From a grateful heart, the thrill
Of the good remembered still,
Though it long ago were done—
Health from thy pleasant toils, and glorious rambles won.
Gentle Mistress—where are all
The rods and frowns, and daily thrall,
Which the gods of knowledge carry,
Lest their votaries tire and tarry?
Well may learned craniums doubt thee;
Thou hast none of these about thee!
But a pair of restless feet,
More than Atalanta's fleet;
Eyes that stray, like fires afar;
Hands with flowers that laden are;
And a tinge upon thy cheeks
That of moor and mountain speaks.
Sweet one! thou wilt not compel
Those who love thee to a cell;
Save, as they roam woods and hills,
They may find one which distils,
Through its lichen-hidden seams,
All the coolness of its streams,
While the summer's drowsy sound
And its hot airs haunt around.
Thou dost hate the closet's gloom—
Health's sworn foe, and fancy's tomb.
Let the student to his attic,
And his problems mathematic—
Let the bard twelve stories climb,
To the regions of his rhyme;
Let the surgeon in dissection,
Pore for skill, and find infection;
Let the chemist draw a fever
From his retort and receiver;
Let Divinity and Law
Teach men to find out a flaw
In our morals, and our deeds;
But do thou put on thy weeds,
And conduct thy scholars still,
Over meadow, heath and hill;
And, when these are dead and gone,
As eagles fleet and strong, they still shall travel on.
The rods and frowns, and daily thrall,
Which the gods of knowledge carry,
Lest their votaries tire and tarry?
Well may learned craniums doubt thee;
Thou hast none of these about thee!
But a pair of restless feet,
More than Atalanta's fleet;
Eyes that stray, like fires afar;
Hands with flowers that laden are;
And a tinge upon thy cheeks
That of moor and mountain speaks.
Sweet one! thou wilt not compel
Those who love thee to a cell;
258
They may find one which distils,
Through its lichen-hidden seams,
All the coolness of its streams,
While the summer's drowsy sound
And its hot airs haunt around.
Thou dost hate the closet's gloom—
Health's sworn foe, and fancy's tomb.
Let the student to his attic,
And his problems mathematic—
Let the bard twelve stories climb,
To the regions of his rhyme;
Let the surgeon in dissection,
Pore for skill, and find infection;
Let the chemist draw a fever
From his retort and receiver;
Let Divinity and Law
Teach men to find out a flaw
In our morals, and our deeds;
But do thou put on thy weeds,
And conduct thy scholars still,
Over meadow, heath and hill;
259
As eagles fleet and strong, they still shall travel on.
Happy Science! are there those
Who can call themselves thy foes?
Yes; the world's true drudge and schemer
Thinks thee but an arrant dreamer;
And the man of mood and tense
Construes his scorn of thee for sense.
But while he, from hour to hour,
Gleans a Greek and Latin dower,
And piles up in iron head
Old words of old men long since dead;
But leaves their deep thoughts and their lore,
As a mad sea casts pearls on shore;
Oh! lead thou thy youthful charge,
Where Wisdom opes her volume large.
Curiosity shall run
On before them in the sun.
Exercise shall give them wealth,
Souls of fire, and limbs of health;
And young Joy, and rosy Wonder,
Shall tear bud and bell asunder:
And when they, within a flower,
See how Skill and Beauty dwell
In the smallest floral cell,
Like two spirits in their bower,
They shall clap their hands and sing,
Till with the laughing sounds, the listening heavens do ring.
Who can call themselves thy foes?
Yes; the world's true drudge and schemer
Thinks thee but an arrant dreamer;
And the man of mood and tense
Construes his scorn of thee for sense.
But while he, from hour to hour,
Gleans a Greek and Latin dower,
And piles up in iron head
Old words of old men long since dead;
But leaves their deep thoughts and their lore,
As a mad sea casts pearls on shore;
Oh! lead thou thy youthful charge,
Where Wisdom opes her volume large.
Curiosity shall run
On before them in the sun.
Exercise shall give them wealth,
Souls of fire, and limbs of health;
260
Shall tear bud and bell asunder:
And when they, within a flower,
See how Skill and Beauty dwell
In the smallest floral cell,
Like two spirits in their bower,
They shall clap their hands and sing,
Till with the laughing sounds, the listening heavens do ring.
Over earth, over earth,
Thou dost travel in thy mirth:
In the fountain and the brook
Thou dost spread thy green-leaved book.
Thy sweet children have a place,
And look up into our face,
Like old friends, in every spot
Known, or where we hoped it not.
In some foreign and far land;
On the ocean's echoing strand;
On the mountain's silent crest;
In some lone isle, all unblest
With the corn-slope and the lea,
There we meet with them and thee,
Looking, as ye looked before,
Standing by our mother's door,
'Till our tears your locks bedew,
And our long exiled hearts turn home at sight of you.
Thou dost travel in thy mirth:
In the fountain and the brook
Thou dost spread thy green-leaved book.
Thy sweet children have a place,
And look up into our face,
Like old friends, in every spot
Known, or where we hoped it not.
In some foreign and far land;
On the ocean's echoing strand;
On the mountain's silent crest;
In some lone isle, all unblest
261
There we meet with them and thee,
Looking, as ye looked before,
Standing by our mother's door,
'Till our tears your locks bedew,
And our long exiled hearts turn home at sight of you.
Oh! sweet Science! heaven's roof,
With its stars and crystal woof—
With its life-o'erflowing sun,
And the night's aye-pensive nun,
Is a temple, and a shrine
Such as suits well thee and thine!
Then, while holy hymns shall swell
From each pinion-haunted dell;
From the nightingale at eve,
When all other sweet bills leave
Their own chaunting, and confer
All their music upon her;
While thy priests, earth's million flowers,
Stand with their censers at all hours;
Shedding odours, such as ran
Never round the domes of man;
While the smallest bud which springs
Symbols to us immortal things,
And to fainting hearts conveys
Hope, glad confidence, and praise;
As unto him, the dauntless man
Who pierced the deserts African ,
And left a dark fate, darkly told,
For his native land to hold;
A woeful mystery, half unweaved—
Vouched, feared, yet fondly disbelieved:—
As unto him, when sore distress
O'ertook him in the wilderness;
When courage failed, and dark Despair
Scowled on him in the withering air,
And home-thoughts in his heart sprung up—
The bitterest drops in his bitter cup;
As then—a little flower could reach
His spirit's core, and proudly preach
Of Him whose eye-lids never fall:—
Of Love, which watcheth over all;—
While all these shall be, sweet Science!
Thou may'st breathe a meek defiance
To thy scorners, and thy train,
Find out one flowery path, even through this world of pain.
With its stars and crystal woof—
With its life-o'erflowing sun,
And the night's aye-pensive nun,
Is a temple, and a shrine
Such as suits well thee and thine!
Then, while holy hymns shall swell
From each pinion-haunted dell;
From the nightingale at eve,
When all other sweet bills leave
Their own chaunting, and confer
All their music upon her;
While thy priests, earth's million flowers,
Stand with their censers at all hours;
262
Never round the domes of man;
While the smallest bud which springs
Symbols to us immortal things,
And to fainting hearts conveys
Hope, glad confidence, and praise;
As unto him, the dauntless man
Who pierced the deserts African ,
And left a dark fate, darkly told,
For his native land to hold;
A woeful mystery, half unweaved—
Vouched, feared, yet fondly disbelieved:—
As unto him, when sore distress
O'ertook him in the wilderness;
When courage failed, and dark Despair
Scowled on him in the withering air,
And home-thoughts in his heart sprung up—
The bitterest drops in his bitter cup;
As then—a little flower could reach
His spirit's core, and proudly preach
263
Of Love, which watcheth over all;—
While all these shall be, sweet Science!
Thou may'st breathe a meek defiance
To thy scorners, and thy train,
Find out one flowery path, even through this world of pain.
| The Desolation of Eyam | |