 | A New Year's Eve, and Other Poems |  |
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ON HEARING THE WAITS.
'Tis sweet to roam in blythesome Spring
Through meads with wild-flowers gay,
And hear the birds their matins sing
From many a budding spray;
Sweeter in Summer moonlight pale
To hear the merry nightingale.
Through meads with wild-flowers gay,
And hear the birds their matins sing
From many a budding spray;
Sweeter in Summer moonlight pale
To hear the merry nightingale.
Cheerful the sounds in Autumn heard
From labour's rustic throng;
The breeze by fitful laughter stirred,
The shout or jocund song,
The distant cry for largess boon,
Echoed beneath the broad bright moon.
From labour's rustic throng;
The breeze by fitful laughter stirred,
The shout or jocund song,
The distant cry for largess boon,
Echoed beneath the broad bright moon.
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Nor lacks stern Winter's long dark night
Its tributary strain:
And dear to me the ancient rite
Which thus asserts its reign;
A soothing charm is o'er it cast,
The hallowed glories of the past!
Its tributary strain:
And dear to me the ancient rite
Which thus asserts its reign;
A soothing charm is o'er it cast,
The hallowed glories of the past!
Though rude and homely be the sounds,
And void of music's grace,
They bear my thoughts beyond the bounds
Which fetter time and space:
To Fancy's ear their tuneless chime
Is fraught with melody sublime.
And void of music's grace,
They bear my thoughts beyond the bounds
Which fetter time and space:
To Fancy's ear their tuneless chime
Is fraught with melody sublime.
I think of Bethlehem's distant plains,
Where shepherds watched by night,
Whose ears first caught the joyful strains,
Whose eyes the heavenly light:
I think of him whose sinless birth
Was thus made known to sinful earth.
Where shepherds watched by night,
Whose ears first caught the joyful strains,
Whose eyes the heavenly light:
I think of him whose sinless birth
Was thus made known to sinful earth.
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I muse in thought, until to me
The past is present still:
I tread thy walks, Gethsemane,
Or climb the Olive hill!
Can Art's proud scorn my feelings freeze
Tow'rd sounds that waken thoughts like these?
The past is present still:
I tread thy walks, Gethsemane,
Or climb the Olive hill!
Can Art's proud scorn my feelings freeze
Tow'rd sounds that waken thoughts like these?
| A New Year's Eve, and Other Poems | |