WHAT Soul was his, when, from the naked top
Of some bold headland, he beheld the sun
Rise up and bathe the world in light? He look'd—
Ocean and earth, the solid frame of earth,
And ocean's liquid mass, beneath him lay
In gladness and deep joy. The clouds were touch'd,
And in their silent faces could he read
Unutterable love. Sound needed none,
Nor any voice of joy; his spirit drank
The spectacle; sensation, soul, and form,
All melted into him; they swallow'd up
His animal being; in them did he live,
And by them did he live; they were his life.
In such access of mind, in such high hour
Of visitation, from the living God,
Thought was not; in enjoyment it expired.
No thanks he breathed, he preferr'd no request;
Rapt into still communion that transcends
The imperfect offices of prayer and praise,
His mind was a thanksgiving to the power
That made him! it was blessedness and love!
WORDSWORTH.
IN 'custom'd glory bright, that morn the sun
Rose, visiting the earth with light, and heat,
And joy; and seem'd as full of youth, and strong
To mount the steep of heaven, as when the stars
Of morning sung to his first dawn, and night
Fled from his face; the spacious sky received
Him, blushing as a bride when on her looks
The bridegroom; and, spread out beneath his eye,
Earth smiled. Up to his warm embrace the dews,
That all night long had wept his absence, flew;
The herbs and flowers their fragrant stores unlock'd,
And gave the wanton breeze that, newly woke,
Revell'd in sweets, and from its wings shook health,
A thousand grateful smells; the joyous wood
Dried in his beams their locks, wet with the drops
Of night; and all the sons of music sung
Their matin song-from arbour'd bower the thrush
Concerting with the lark that hymn'd on high.
On the green hill the flocks, and in the vale
The herds, rejoiced; and, light of heart, the hind
Eyed amorously the milkmaid as she pass'd,
Not heedless, though she look'd another way.
POLLOK.
WISH'D Morning's come; and now, upon the plains
And distant mountains, where they feed their flocks,
The happy shepherds leave their homely huts,
And with their pipes proclaim the new-born day.
The lusty swain comes with his well-fill'd scrip
Of healthful viands, which, when hunger calls,
With much content and appetite he eats,
To follow in the field his daily toil,
And dress the grateful glebe that yields him fruits.
The beasts, that under the warm hedges slept,
And weather'd out the cold bleak night, are up;
And, looking towards the neighbouring pastures, raise
Their voice, and bid their fellow-brutes good-morrow.
The cheerful birds, too, on the tops of trees,
Assemble all in choirs; and with their notes
Salute and welcome up the rising sun.
BUT who the melodies of Morn can tell?
The wild brook babbling down the mountain side; The lowing herd; the sheepfold's simple bell; The pipe of early shepherd, dim descried In the lone valley; echoing far and wide The clamorous horn along the cliffs above; The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide; The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love, And the full choir that wakes the universal grove.
The cottage-curs at early pilgrim bark;
Crown'd with her pail the tripping milkmaid sings; The whistling ploughman stalks afield; and, hark! Down the rough slope the ponderous waggon rings; Through rustling corn the hare astonish'd springs; Slow tolls the village-clock the drowsy hour;
The partridge bursts away on whirring wings, Deep mourns the turtle in sequester'd bower, And shrill lark carols clear from her aërial tour. BEATTIE.
HAGGARD and chill, as a lost ghost, the Morn,
With hair unbraided, and unsandall'd feet,
Her colourless robe like a poor wandering smoke-
Moved feebly up the heavens, and in her arms
A shadowy burden heavily bore; soon fading
In a dark rain, through which the sun arose
Scarce visible, and in his orb confused.
There was a slumb'rous silence in the air,
By noontide's sultry murmurs from without
Made more oblivious. Not a pipe was heard
From field or wood; but the grave beetle's drone
Pass'd near the entrance; once the cuckoo call'd
O'er distant meads, and once a horn began
Melodious plaint, then died away. A sound
Of murmurous music yet was on the breeze,
For silver gnats that harp on glassy strings,
And rise and fall in sparkling clouds, sustain'd
Their dizzy dances o'er the seething meads.
NOON descends around me now:
'Tis the noon of Autumn's glow,
When a soft and purple mist
Like a vap'rous amethyst,
Or an air-dissolvéd star
Mingling light and fragrance, far
From the curved horizon's bound,
Fills the overflowing sky;
And the plains that silent lie
Underneath; the leaves unsodden
Where the infant frost has trodden
With his morning-winged feet,
Whose bright print is gleaming yet;
And the red and golden vines
Piercing with their trellis'd lines
The rough, dark-skirted wilderness;
The dun and bladed grass no less,
Pointing from this hoary tower
In the windless air; the flower
Glimmering at my feet; the line
Of the olive-sandall'd Appenine
In the south dimly islanded;
And the Alps, whose snows are spread
High between the clouds and sun;
And of living things each one;
And my spirit which so long
Darken'd this swift stream of song,,
Interpenetrated lie,
By the glory of the sky.
HE walk'd along the pathway of a field,
Which to the east a hoar-wood shadow'd o'er,
But to the west was open to the sky.
There now the sun had sunk, but lines of gold
Hung on the ashen clouds, and on the points
Of the far level grass and nodding flowers,
And the old dandelion's hoary beard,
And, mingled with the shades of twilight, lay
On the brown massy woods; and in the east
The broad and burning moon lingeringly rose
Between the black trunks of the crowded trees,
While the faint stars were gathering overhead.
I LOVE thee, Twilight! as thy shadows roll,
The calm of evening steals upon my soul,
Sublimely tender, solemnly serene,
Still as the hour, enchanting as the scene.
I love thee, Twilight! for thy gleams impart
Their dear, their dying influence to my heart,
When o'er the harp of thought thy passing wind
Awakens all the music of the mind,
And joy and sorrow, as the spirit burns,
And hope and memory sweep the chords by turns,
While contemplation, on seraphic wings,
Mounts with the flame of sacrifice, and sings.
Twilight! I love thee; let thy glooms increase,
Till every feeling, every pulse, is peace.
Slow from the sky the light of day declines,
Clearer within, the dawn of glory shines,
Revealing, in the hour of Nature's rest,
A world of wonders in the poet's breast;
Deeper, O Twilight! then thy shadows roll,-
An awful vision opens on my soul.
Ir is the hour when from the boughs
The nightingale's high note is heard;
It is the hour when lovers' vows
Seem sweet in every whisper'd word;
And gentle winds and waters near,
Make music to the lonely ear.
Each flower the dews have lightly wet,
And in the sky the stars are met,
And on the wave is deeper blue,
And on the leaf a browner hue,
And in the heaven that clear obscure,
So softly dark, and darkly pure,
Which follows the decline of day,
As twilight melts beneath the moon away.
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