University of Virginia Library

— Oh let them be with me, sweet Innocents!
Their laughing eyes and gladtoned voices are
Like glimpses of the bright blue heavens thro'
The clouds that darken o'er this mortal scene.
Oh! be assured that he who can look on
Their harmless merriment with unmoved Eye,
And stirless Heart, is not as he should be.
The World is too much with him, and his Soul
Has drunk Contamination; he is one
Whose heart is out of tune for memories
Of his own childish days — his mother's kiss
Is no more as a hallowed thing, that on
His lip has left a sweetness; he to words
Of worldly meaning has profaned his tongue,
And his Heart's first and pure imaginings
Are powerless to bless!

Oh! let him turn
In humbleness of heart, and pray to be
E'en as a little child, for he has not
That perfect Love, that Unity of will,
That world within himself, wherein the child
Reigns all supreme, and sees before his feet
All that his young heart covets — he has not
Preserved unto the man, those qualities
Which angels share with children; without which'
We may not be accepted — let them come,
Let me grow young in their young merriment,
And be as one of them; oh! that I could
See with their eyes, and feel with their young hearts,
Blest in the present moment's happiness,
As the Bird in his song, amid the leaves
So green, with flowers and all sweetest things
To bear him company, and list his mirth.
Thrice blessëd days! tho' past, ye're not all gone;
I feel ye at my heart— I thank thee, God!
For tho' my spring of life be passed away,
Yet has the seed sown in youth's fruitful soil
By Nature's liberal hand, not perished all
In the world's stony places, where so oft,
Our young affections dwarf to barren weeds,
And bear no Afterfruit.

I thank thee, God!
For I have still youth's ardent eye, that looks
Abroad in Love to all things, and in all
Findeth a beauty and a blessing; tho'
My gush of admiration be less wild,
'Tis deeper in its calm Intensity,
And like a sea, when swelling with the Tide,
Allimperceptible, yet not less sure,
With no unsanctioned tumult, no brief burst
Of feverish sentiment, but strong and sweet,
It fills all parts of Being with new life.
I thank thee for the ear that still can find
An unbought music 'mid the choral groves;
No playhousestrains, or wanton minstrelsy
Of Lydian airs that steal the soul away,
And wake the baser Elements of sense,
But true heartmusic, sung but by the pure,
And for the pure, the merry woodbirds, who
Sing not for praise or guerdon, but for love,
And from the fulness of the heart; who ask
No audience, but on their own deep joy
Intent, care not who listens to their strain,
Which is a Hymn to Thee, although thy Name
Be heard not; for its Blessedness, that is
The best Thanksgiving, better than all Words,
For that which is quite blessed, is full of Thee!

I thank thee, God! for never do I walk
Abroad on this fair Earth, and not find peace;
All that I see is mine; with liberal eye
And heart I taste of all that Nature gives,
And who shall say me nay? there is no power
Whose tyranny extends thus far! no law
That binds the soul! who will, may still be free,
And Lord of all of Beautiful and Bright,
That Earth, Air, Sea, can offer; so he be
Not selfdebased: for Nature's glorious Lore
Is not for him whose lip has touched the cup
Of Sinabominations; this fair world
To him is but a Chanceassemblage; hues,
And sights, and sounds, and forms, wherein he sees
No Harmony, Proportion, Wisdom, Love,
No Symbols, and no Types of hidden Things.
The slave to sense, he sees but with his eyes,
Not with his heart, and in the realm of Truth
And Freedom, as an alien he stands;
He has no fatherland, nor doth he know
The End and Meaning of his being here!
The sun shines on him as it does upon
The thricetrod Dust, and leaves him as it found,
Unquickened and unvivified to good.
Far other Boon has Nature for the pure,
And Innocent of Heart; to them she is
A living presence; from her Lips they learn
A Lore illsought in Books, where oft we find
The Beggartreasures of the Brain, which leave
The Spirit barren 'mid its seeming wealth.
To me the falling Leaf has Music sweet
With no vain meanings fraught, and from the song
Of the skysoaring Lark, I catch a tone
Of kindred inspiration: oft at Eve,
The gurgling Brook has lulled my Soul to rest;
Stretched at the mossy Foot of some old Oak,
Whose stormbeat Trunk examples us to strive
In noble silence, 'gainst the ills of Life,
With thickwove Canopy of twinkling Leaves,
Starproof, save where some peeping Aperture,
Let in a wandering Ray of dewy Light
On my uplifted Eye, there have I layn,
Submitting my whole Being to the shapes
Of heavenly Thought, making my Life a Dream;
Or rather waking from a harsh, dull Dream,
To be, not seem, and feel I really live!
Then as the Moon rose silvering Tree and Tower,
I've hied me to my quiet Home, the while
Crossing some Churchyard dim, with solemn step
And slow, as though I feared, vain thought! to break
The sleeper's rest; yet who on human Dust
Can set a careless foot, nor pause awhile,
To think what lies beneath him; what it is,
And has been, ere the cold, unconscious Clay,
Fell with its hollow Sound; ere yet was spread
Their Banquet for the Worms. Oh! who can feel
Here, as he feels elsewhere, or by the Tomb
Refuse the Warning, and the Pledge it gives,
Nor bear away with him a wiser Heart
Than that he brought? with such thoughts have I pass'd
Through the Old yew-trees nodding green o'er Graves,
Whose grassy Bosoms look so calm and blest,
Like quiet Pillows for a weary Head,
That long has pressed the thornier one of Life.
Listing brief moment to the warning note
Of the gray Steepleclock, from whence the Hours
Fly off, like fullfledged birds that ne'er again
Return unto the Nest! then with the calm
Selfconcentrated spirit such scenes breed,
I seek my own dear home where all I love
Are waiting for my step, and feel at rest.
I thank thee God, for this, for everything:
But chiefest for that Spirit which by thee,
And thy good blessing, can accord the sounds,
The sights, the shapes, the hues, of outer being,
To vital types of inner harmony;
Notes of that Music whose deep spirit dwells
In our own hearts, tho' roused by outward things;
A Chorus of internal voices, which
Find echos thro' all Earth, Air, Sea, and Sky;
Strings of th' eternal Harp, whose strain is Love
And Truth, for ever echoing God's Name!