In every moaning of the voiceful floods, The happy, happy faith That in deep silence hymning saith That every little rill, And every small bird, trilling joyfullyTells a sweet tale of hope, and love, and peace, Bidding to cease The heart's sharp pangs, aye throbbing woefully. Or shall I sing of happy hours, Number'd by opening and by closing flowers? Softly heard in leafy bowers, Blent with the whisper of the vine, The half-blush of the eglantine, And the pure sweetness of the jessamine : What is it those sighs confess? Idle are they, as I guess, And yet they tell, all is not well:- Then away to the meadows, where April's swift shadows Glide soft o'er the vernal bright patches of green, Like waves on the ocean, the wheat blades in motion, Look blither, and brighter, where sunbeams have been; So little, little joys on earth, Still bequeath a blessing after- And a joy for memory. Such themes I sang-and such I fain would sing, Oft as the green buds shew the summer nearBut what availeth me to welcome spring, When one dull winter is my total year. When the pure snow-drops couch beneath the snow, And storms long tarrying, come too soon at last, I see the semblance of my private woe, Yet will I hail the sunbeam as it flies- THOUGHTS. OH, sacred Freedom! thou that art so fair, That all, who once have seen thee, love thee everThou apparition, that hast been so rare That wise men say thou wert embodied never; And learned sages, doating on their lore, When Reason-that whate'er it is, must be- Claim'd Reason's privilege and Reason's power. Yet some there are, and some that still have been, The fate that whirls around the restless wheelSome to the stars ascribe the inborn evil, Some to the Gods, and others to the devil, To live without a living soul, To feel the spirit daily pining, Sinking beneath the base control Of mindless chance, itself consigning To the dull impulse of oppressive time, Of thoughts that, boasting to be free, Perchance they roam in Duty's sacred name, Their duty still is Duty to deny, To burst her bonds and cast her cords away: As some turn rebels for pure loyalty, And some, to save the soul, the body slay: If any law they own, that law decrees, That sovereign right is born of each man's phantasies. "Twere woe to tell what lamentable wreck Thralls of the world, to whom the world affords The master of a slave is never free, But still himself the slave of sensual fear:- The slaves of slaves. The only freedom here |