English

Unless in thought with thee I often live,
Angelic doctor! life seems poor to me.
What are these bounties, if they only be
Such boon as farmers to their servants give?
That I am fed, and that mine oxen thrive,
That my lambs fatten, that mine hours are free —
These ask my nightly thanks on bended knee;
And I do thank Him who hath blest my hive,
And made content my herd, my flock, my bee.
But, Father! nobler things I ask from Thee.
Fishes have sunshine, worms have everything!
Are we but apes? Oh! give me, God, to know

I.

Stern, solemn, grand, far up the dark blue heaven,
Thou old grey cliff, thou heav'st thine awful form!
On the wide waste of years a beacon given,
Lonely and bare, and scarred by time and storm;
Hard at thy base, where all day shadows sleep,
Spreads the wide grotto, overarching high;
Adown its mossy sides the cold tears weep,
And in its lap the crystal waters lie,
In sweet repose, as if there ventured nigh
This still retreat, no rude disturbing power;
No sound to pain the ear, no sight the eye;

I.

Wondrous Enchanter! at that touch of thine,
The cold dead marble warms, and lives, and wakes;
The shape thy thought would give, it plastic takes,
Rises and stands in symmetry divine:
That Indian Maid seems but to wait thy call,
To break the spell of silence, and in speech,
With those just parting lips our souls to teach
Truths pure as crystal drops on flowers let fall.
For not alone the outline soft as air,
With each material grace that charms the sight,
Thou fashionest, but settest also there

I.

We rode, in genial mood, a friendly band,
Where climbed a winding path o'er many a steep,
And caught, from height to height, on either hand,
Visions of beauty in the valleys deep;
There gentle Hoosic holds his peaceful way,
With meadow banks of green, and trees o'erhung;
There are sweet pastures where the blithe lambs play
And sober herds repose; fields where is sung
The reaper's troll as o'er his arm is flung
The ripened grain that for the sheaf he binds:
There gleams the village spire, and deep among

I lay within a little bowered nook,
With all green leaves, nothing but green around me,
And through their delicate comminglings flashed
The broken light of a sunned waterfall —
Ah, water of such freshness, that it was
A marvel and an envy! There I lay,
And felt the joy of life for many an hour.
But when the revel of sensations
Gave place to meditation and discourse,
I waywardly began to moralize
That little theatre with its watery scene
Into quaint semblances of higher things.
And first methought that twined foliage

She sits upon the mountain side,
The herd is grazing by;
At hand soft murmuring waters glide,
Around cool shadows lie.

Beside her on the grass are laid
The well adjusted straws,
With which to weave the tasteful braid,
That o'er her knee she draws.

Upon her nut-brown cheek there glows
Of health the blushing hue;
Her eyes, like dew-drops on the rose,
Are pearly, soft and blue.

All blithe and happy is her air,
Throughout the live-long day;
As to her breast corroding care

Erratic the metre,
And errant the rhyme;
The form might be neater,
And feater the time,
And yet thy sweet verses could hardly be sweeter,
Though polished the metre,
And perfect the rhyme.

I will not correct them
As though they were prose,
To carve and dissect them
Were rending a rose.
Thy charm and thy beauty preserve and protect them,
I will not correct them
As if they were prose.

The fifth day of the New Year
was here before we knew it,
And we suddenly felt
our lives were fading fast.
Thinking of this
our hearts were moved within us,
So while we yet have time
we have come to view this spot.
The air is mild
and the heavens cloudless,
We spread our mats in order
overlooking the far stream.
Speckled bream
leapt in the slow eddies —
And crying gulls
soared in the lonely vale.
We let our eyes wander
at will over distant lowlands

IN BLANK VERSE .

My bosom friend, 'tis long since we have looked
Upon each other's face; and God may will
It shall be longer, ere we meet again.
Awhile it seemed most strange unto my heart
That I should mourn, and thou not nigh to cheer;
That I should shrink 'mid perils, and thy spirit
Far away, far, powerless to brave them with me.
Now am I used to wear a lonesome heart
About me; now the agencies of ill
Have so oppressed my inward, absolute self,

Learn'd in the law, who leav'st the busy street
And studious chambers for the gowned chair,
Amid the cordial friends that speak thee fair
And thine accession to the laurel greet,
If one slow scholar in his hushed retreat
A little longer than the rest forbear,
'T is but as minstrels that salute some heir
Wait for still night to make their flutes more sweet.
And as in heaven there is more joy o'er one
Repentant worldling than o'er ninety-nine
Good men who love the world or make it loved,
So glad Athena glories in the son