CXXXII.THE EARTH'S HEART.
TO MY NIECE.
I
There is a pulse in flowing streams,
A calmly throbbing motion,
A heart in the cold mountain springs
As true as that of ocean.
II
Sit by yon bay where Rothay comes
With merry sparkling fall
To rest within the glossy pool
Beneath the fern-fringed wall;
III
And see how like a real tide,
Encroaching and retreating,
Upon the polished gravel bed
The uneven stream is beating.
IV
As if, although 'twas flowing down,
Straight on it could not flow,
But it must stay to breathe in pools,
Like some poor hunted roe.
V
And at the river-head the lake
From its blue hollows ever,
A weary, tremulous, panting thing,
Is sighing forth the river.
VI
And thus the breath of the huge hills,
Among wet mosses sobbing,
Works alway through the upland springs
With momentary throbbing.
VII
And on the drear autumnal days,
When o'er the naked heath
The wind is riding, still it hath
A palpitating breath.
VIII
And in the woods the evening air
A breathing spirit dwells,
Still cooing like a turtle dove,
A shy voice in the dells.
IX
Those dazzling things, the waterfalls,
That leap with such a cry
In leafy clefts, sink down at times
Into a woodland sigh.
X
Like one whose heart is in his mouth,
Swift echo on the heath
Speeds onward, shedding broken words,
A runner out of breath.
XI
I speak not of the heaving sea,
But of the solemn earth;
I would thou should'st believe there is
A heart in all her mirth.
XII
The dashing rivers are her joy,
The pinewood plaint her sadness,
The clamorous tempest is her rage,
The earthquake is her madness.
XIII
The past is in her,—the long past,
With all its light and gloom,
What wonder then there should be throes
In such a living tomb?
XIV
Her heart grows larger, as each day
Sinks to it with a stir;
It makes me grave to think of all
That hath gone into her:
XV
Proud-minded kings and rebel mobs,
And, by the will of fate,
Enough to make another earth
Of love unfortunate.
XVI
Then, when thou walkest on the hills,
Or in the woods apart,
Remember that the earth hath got
Almost a human heart.
XVII
The joy and grief of centuries
Have so much dark and bright,
That they constrain earth's pulse to beat
Alternate day and night.
XVIII
Sweet Alice! when thy blameless past
Shall enter this old earth,
The world will find, and know not why,
More calmness in her mirth.
