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I'll call to mind how fresh and green,

I saw thee waking from the dust; Then turn to Heaven, with brow serene,

And place in God my trust!




Not worlds on worlds, in phalanx deep,
Need we to prove a God is here;
The Daisy, fresh from Winter's sleep,
Tells of his hand in lines as clear.

For who but He who arched the skies
And pours the day-spring's living flood,
Wondrous alike in all he tries,
Could raise the Daisy's purple bud ?

Mould its green cup, its wiry stem,
Its fringed border nicely spin ;
And cut the gold-embossed gem
That, set in silver, gleams within ?

And fling it unrestrained and free,
O'er hill and dale, and desert sod,
That man, where'er he walks, may see
In ev'ry step the stamp of God?



Low was our pretty cot; our tallest rose
Peep'd at the chamber window. We could hear,
At silent noon, and eve, and early morn,
The sea's faint murmur. In the open air
Our myrtles blossomed; and across the porch
Thick jasmines twined ; the little landscape round
Was green and woody, and refresh'd the eye.
It was a spot which you might aptly call
The Valley of Seclusion !

Once I saw
(Hallowing his sabbath-day by quietness)
A wealthy son of commerce saunter by,
Bristowa's citizen; methought it calm'd
His thirst of idle gold, and made him muse
With wiser feelings; for he paused, and look'd
With a pleased sadness, and he gazed all round,
Then eyed our cottage, and gazed round again,
And sighed, and said it was a blessed place,
And we were blessed. Oft, with patient ear,
Long listening to the viewless sky-lark's note,
(Viewless, or haply for a moment seen
Gleaming on sunny wing) in whisper'd tones
I've said to my beloved, “Such, sweet girl!
The inobtrusive song of happiness,
Unearthly minstrelsy! then only heard
When the soul seeks to hear, when all is hush',
And the heart listens!"



Hast thou been in the woods with the honey-bee?
Hast thou been with the lamb in the pastures free?
With the hare through the copses and dingles wild?
With the butterfly over the heath, fair child ?
Yes; the light fall of thy bounding feet
Hath not startled the wren from her mossy seat;
Yet hast thou rang'd the green forest dells,
And brought back a treasure of buds and bells.

Thou know'st not the sweetness, by antique song,
Breath'd o'er the names of that flow'ry throng :
The woodbine, the primrose, the violet dim,
The lily that gleams by the fountain's brim:
These are old words, that have made each grove
A dreamy haunt for romance and love ;
Each sunny bank, where faint odours lie,
A place for the gushings of poesy.

Thou know’st not the light wherewith fairy lore
Sprinkles the turf and the daisies o'er.
Enough for thee are the dews that sleep,
Like hidden gems in the flower-urns deep;
Enough the rich crimson spots that dwell
'Midst the gold of the cowslip's perfumed cell;
And the scent by the blossoming sweetbriars shed,
And the beauty that bows the wood-hyacinth's head.
Oh! happy child, in thy fawn-like glee,
What is remembrance or thought to thee?
Fill thy bright locks with those gifts of spring;
O'er thy green pathway their colours fling;
Bind them in chaplet and wild festoon-
What if to droop and to perish soon?
Nature hath mines of such wealth- and thou
Never wilt prize its delights as now.

For a day is coming to quell the tone
That rings in thy laughter, thou joyous one !
And to dim thy brow with a touch of care,
Under the gloss of its clustering hair ;
And to tame the flash of thy cloudless eyes
Into the stillness of autumn skies;
And to teach theo that grief hath her needful part
'Midst the hidden things of each humau heart.

Yet, shall we mourn, gentle child, for this ?
Life hath enough of yet holier bliss.
Such be thy portion ! the bliss to look
With a reverent spirit through Nature's book ;
By fount, by forest, by river's line,
To track the paths of a love divine;
To read its deep meanings—to see and hear
God in earth's garden,—and not to fear.



When Love was a child, and went idling round

Among flowers the whole summer's day,
One morn in the valley a bower he found,

So sweet it allured him to stay.
O'er head from the trees hung a garland fair,

A fountain ran darkly beneath ; 'Twas Pleasure that hung the bright flowers up there,

Love knew it and jumped at the wreath.
But Love did not know, and at his weak years,

What urchin was likely to know
That sorrow had made of her own salt tears,

That fountain which murmured below ?
He caught at the wreath but with too much haste,

As boys when impatient will do,
It fell in those waters of briny taste,

And the flowers were all wet through.
Yet this is the wreath, he wears night and day;

And though it all sunny appears
With Pleasure's own lustre, each leaf, they say,

Still tastes of the fountain of tears.


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