And sore perplexity of roving dreams, The spectres manifold of murdered hours : But yet, good night-good be the night to thee, And bright the morrow:-Once again, good night. A MEDLEY. SHALL I sing of little rills, That trickle down the yellow hills, Rills, upon whose pebbly brink, Darting upwards to the sky The artless cunning of their eye; Then away, away, away— Up to the clouds that look so grey— Away, away, in the clear blue heaven, Far o'er the thin mist that beneath is driven : Now they sink, and now they soar, Now poised upon the plumy oar, If I err not-no-no-no Soar they high, or skim they low, His heart beside the mountain rill. What if we have lost the creed, Which thought the brook a God indeed? Or a flood of passionate tears, Or imagined, in the lymph, That dream'd of nought but lust and rage, Is sweeter in the lonely dell, Than the quaint fable of the wood-god's lay, Ah! never, never may the thought be mine, ; Which in the thunder, heard a voice of anger, And ruthless vengeance in the storm's loud clangour, Which found in every whisper of the woods, In every moaning of the voiceful floods. The happy, happy faith, That in deep silence hymning saith-— And every small bird, trilling joyfully, 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 Look blither, and brighter, where sunbeams have been; So little, little joys on earth, Passing gleams of restless mirth— Momentary fits of laughter 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 show the summer near ;But 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. Он, sacred Freedom! thou that art so fair, Thou 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- Then every Passion, native to the hour, Claim'd Reason's privilege and Reason's power. |