 | Under Green Leaves |  |
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THE MOUNTAIN-TOP.
Poor is the man, however great his wealth,
To whom the sunshine yields no mental health;
To whom the music of the early birds
Can bring no solace sweet as spoken words;
To whom the torrent, with its ceaseless hymn,
The streamlet wending through the copses dim,
The upland lake, reflecting moon and star,
Or mighty ocean gleaming from afar;
The roar of branches in the wintry woods,
The solemn diapason of the floods,
All sights and sounds in Nature's varied range
Lovely in all and good in every change,
Can bring no charm serene, no joy refined,
To please his heart or elevate his mind.
To whom the sunshine yields no mental health;
To whom the music of the early birds
Can bring no solace sweet as spoken words;
To whom the torrent, with its ceaseless hymn,
The streamlet wending through the copses dim,
The upland lake, reflecting moon and star,
Or mighty ocean gleaming from afar;
The roar of branches in the wintry woods,
The solemn diapason of the floods,
All sights and sounds in Nature's varied range
Lovely in all and good in every change,
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To please his heart or elevate his mind.
But rich is he, however scant of gold,
Who, in despite of sorrows manifold,
Can find a joy at morn or eventide,
And fresh instruction on the mountain-side;
Who loves the wisdom which the woodland yields,
And all the dewy beauty of the fields.
Welcome to him, with a companion fit,
Th' umbrageous depths where noonday chequers flit,
The shady path, the voice of brawling streams,
The silent pool where sunlight never beams,
The snowy summits of the Alpine peak,
The hopeful splendour on the morning's cheek,
The glow of noon, the evening's tender light,
And all the placid majesty of night,
The peace and joy, the hope and love that dwell
In Nature's eyes, for those who love her well.
Who, in despite of sorrows manifold,
Can find a joy at morn or eventide,
And fresh instruction on the mountain-side;
Who loves the wisdom which the woodland yields,
And all the dewy beauty of the fields.
Welcome to him, with a companion fit,
Th' umbrageous depths where noonday chequers flit,
The shady path, the voice of brawling streams,
The silent pool where sunlight never beams,
The snowy summits of the Alpine peak,
The hopeful splendour on the morning's cheek,
The glow of noon, the evening's tender light,
And all the placid majesty of night,
The peace and joy, the hope and love that dwell
In Nature's eyes, for those who love her well.
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Up to the mountain!—ere the morn be late,
And farewell Wisdom, in her robes of state;
We'll bid her welcome, with her travelling suit,
Her ashen staff, her knapsack, and her flute!
Up to the mountain!—to the very cope!—
Over the moorlands—up the breezy slope;—
Or down in dells, beside the rippling brooks
In their green furrows—through the loveliest nooks—
To their top fountains, whence, meandering slow,
They bound in beauty to the vales below!
Up to the mountain, in the air and sun,
For health and pleasure to be woo'd and won!
And farewell Wisdom, in her robes of state;
We'll bid her welcome, with her travelling suit,
Her ashen staff, her knapsack, and her flute!
Up to the mountain!—to the very cope!—
Over the moorlands—up the breezy slope;—
Or down in dells, beside the rippling brooks
In their green furrows—through the loveliest nooks—
To their top fountains, whence, meandering slow,
They bound in beauty to the vales below!
Up to the mountain, in the air and sun,
For health and pleasure to be woo'd and won!
How cheerily the voices of the morn
Rise as we go! The lark has left the corn,
And sings her glad hosannas to the day;
The blackbird trolls his rich notes far away;
While, from th' awaken'd homestead far adown,
Come floating up the murmurs of the town.
Hark to the day's shrill trumpeter, the cock—
The bark of hounds—the bleating of the flock—
The lowing of the milk-o'erburden'd kine—
And laugh of children; sweetest music mine.
Rise as we go! The lark has left the corn,
And sings her glad hosannas to the day;
The blackbird trolls his rich notes far away;
While, from th' awaken'd homestead far adown,
Come floating up the murmurs of the town.
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The bark of hounds—the bleating of the flock—
The lowing of the milk-o'erburden'd kine—
And laugh of children; sweetest music mine.
Upwards, still up!—and all these sounds expire
In the faint distance, save that, mounting higher,
We still can hear, descending from the cloud,
The lark's triumphal anthem, long and loud.
Or far away, a wanderer from the bowers,
Rifling for sweets the now infrequent flowers,
A solitary bee goes buzzing by,
With livery coat, and bundle at his thigh;
With honest music, telling all that will,
How great a worker rambles on the hill.
In the faint distance, save that, mounting higher,
We still can hear, descending from the cloud,
The lark's triumphal anthem, long and loud.
Or far away, a wanderer from the bowers,
Rifling for sweets the now infrequent flowers,
A solitary bee goes buzzing by,
With livery coat, and bundle at his thigh;
With honest music, telling all that will,
How great a worker rambles on the hill.
A streamlet gushes on the mountain-side,
It yields a draught to men of sloth denied;
Unknown to all who love the easy street
Better than crags where cloud and mountain meet,—
Unprized, untasted in the plodding town,
Where limbs grow rusty upon beds of down.
Let no man say he has outlived delight,
Who has not climb'd the mountain's topmost height,
And found far up, when faint with toil and heat,
A little fountain oozing at his feet,
And laid him down upon the grass or stones,
At his full length, to rest his weary bones,
And drink long draughts at the delicious spring,
Better than wine at banquet of a king:
And when refresh'd, and grateful for the gift,
To fill his pocket-flask with prudent thrift,
Then bathe his hands and face, and start again
With keener pleasure, purchased by a pain.
It yields a draught to men of sloth denied;
Unknown to all who love the easy street
Better than crags where cloud and mountain meet,—
136
Where limbs grow rusty upon beds of down.
Let no man say he has outlived delight,
Who has not climb'd the mountain's topmost height,
And found far up, when faint with toil and heat,
A little fountain oozing at his feet,
And laid him down upon the grass or stones,
At his full length, to rest his weary bones,
And drink long draughts at the delicious spring,
Better than wine at banquet of a king:
And when refresh'd, and grateful for the gift,
To fill his pocket-flask with prudent thrift,
Then bathe his hands and face, and start again
With keener pleasure, purchased by a pain.
Upwards, still upwards, lies the arduous way;
But not still upward must our vision stray;—
In climbing hills, as in our life, we find
True Wisdom stops at times, and looks behind—
Stops to survey the progress she has made,
The sunny levels and the flowery shade,
Or difficulties pass'd. Thus, as we go,
We pause to view the loveliness below,—
Or note the landscape widening as we climb,
New at each turn, and variously sublime.
But not still upward must our vision stray;—
In climbing hills, as in our life, we find
True Wisdom stops at times, and looks behind—
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The sunny levels and the flowery shade,
Or difficulties pass'd. Thus, as we go,
We pause to view the loveliness below,—
Or note the landscape widening as we climb,
New at each turn, and variously sublime.
How bountiful and kind is Heaven to man!
What ceaseless love pervades the wondrous plan!
Each sense, each faculty, and each desire,
To those who humbly hope while they aspire,
Is a perpetual source of secret joy,
If Reason prompt and hallow its employ;
And all God's noblest gifts are most profuse,
And simplest joys grow exquisite by use.
I never see the landscape smiling fair,
Without delight that seems too great to bear;
I never turn from man's to nature's face,
Without a pleasure that I cannot trace;
I never hear the tempest in the trees,
Without mysterious throbs of sympathies;
I never hear the billows on the shore,
Without a secret impulse to adore;
Nor stand, as now upon the quiet hills,
Without a mild religious awe, that fills
My soul with raptures I cannot express,—
Raptures, not peace—a joy, not happiness.
What ceaseless love pervades the wondrous plan!
Each sense, each faculty, and each desire,
To those who humbly hope while they aspire,
Is a perpetual source of secret joy,
If Reason prompt and hallow its employ;
And all God's noblest gifts are most profuse,
And simplest joys grow exquisite by use.
I never see the landscape smiling fair,
Without delight that seems too great to bear;
I never turn from man's to nature's face,
Without a pleasure that I cannot trace;
138
Without mysterious throbs of sympathies;
I never hear the billows on the shore,
Without a secret impulse to adore;
Nor stand, as now upon the quiet hills,
Without a mild religious awe, that fills
My soul with raptures I cannot express,—
Raptures, not peace—a joy, not happiness.
| Under Green Leaves | |