An evening prospect
Come my Susan, quit your chamber,
Greet the op'ning bloom of May,
Let us on you hillock clamber,
And around the scene survey.
See the sun is now descending,
And projects his shadows far,
And the bee her course is bending
Homeward thro' the humid air.
Mark the lizard just before us,
Singing her unvaried strain,
While the frog, abrupt in chorus,
Deepens thro' the marshy plain.
From yon grove the woodcock rises,
Mark her progress by her notes,
High in air her wings she poises,
Then like lightning down she shoots.
Now the whip-o-well beginning,
Clam'rous on a pointed rail,
Drowns the more melodious singing
Of the cat-bird, thrush, and quail.
Pensive Echo, from the mountain,
Still repeats the sylvan sounds,
And the crocus border'd fountain,
With the splendid fly abounds.
There the honeysuckle blooming,
Reddens the capricious wave;
Richer sweets---the air perfuming,
Spicy Ceylon never gave.
Cast your eyes beyond this meadow,
Painted by a hand divine,
And observe the ample shadow
Of that solemn ridge of pine.
Here a trickling rill depending,
Glitters thro' the artless bow'r;
And the silver dew descending,
Doubly radiates every flow'r.
While I speak, the sun is vanish'd,
All the gilded clouds are fled,
Music from the groves is banish'd,
Noxious vapours round us spread.
Rural toil is now suspended,
Sleep invades the peasant's eyes,
Each diurnal task is ended,
While soft Luna climbs the skies.
Queen of rest and meditation,
Thro' thy medium I adore
Him---the Author of Creation,
Infinite, and boundless pow'r.
'Tis he who fills thy urn with glory,
Transcript of immortal light;
Lord! my spirit bows before thee,
Lost in wonder and delight.
poem by Ann Eliza Bleecker from The Posthumous Works of Ann Eliza Bleecker
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Related quotes
Written From Dublin, To A Lady In The Country.
A wretch, in smoaky Dublin pent,
Who rarely sees the Firmament,
You graciously invite, to view
The Sun's enliv'ning Rays with you;
To change the Town for flow'ry Meads,
And sing beneath the sylvan Shades.
You're kind in vain -- It will not be --
Retirement was deny'd to me;
Doom'd by inexorable Fate,
To pass thro' crouded Scenes I hate.
O with what Joy could I survey
The rising, glorious Source of Day!
Attend the Shepherd's fleecy Care,
Transported with the vernal Air;
Behold the Meadow's painted Pride,
Or see the limpid Waters glide;
Survey the distant, shaded Hills,
And, pensive, hear the murm'ring Rills.
Thro' your Versailles with Pleasure rove,
Admire the Gardens, and the Grove;
See Nature's bounteous Hand adorn
The blushing Peach, and blooming Thorn;
Beheld the Birds distend their Throats,
And hear their wild, melodious Notes.
Delighted, thro' your Pastures roam,
Or see the Kine come lowing home;
Whose od'rous Breaths a Joy impart,
That sooths the Sense, and glads the Heart;
With Pleasure view the frothing Pails,
And silent hear the creaking Rails;
See whistling Hinds attend their Ploughs,
Who never hear of broken Vows;
Where no Ambition to be great,
E'er taught the Nymph, or Swain, Deccit.
Thus thro' the Day, delighted, run;
Then raptur'd view the setting Sun;
The rich, diffufive God behold,
On distant Mountains pouring Gold,
Gilding the beauteous, rising Spire,
While Crystal Windows glow with Fire;
Gaze, till he quit the Western Skies,
And long to see his Sister rise;
Prefer the silent, Silver Moon
To the too radiant, noisy Noon.
Or Northward turn, with new Delight,
To mark what Triumphs wait the Night;
When Shepherds think the Heav'ns foreshow
Some dire Commotions here below;
When Light the human Form assumes,
And Champions meet with nodding Plumes,
With Silver Streamers, wide unfurl'd,
And gleaming Spears amaze the World.
Thence to the higher Heav'ns I soar,
And the great Architect adore;
Behold what Worlds are hung in Air,
And view ten thousand Empires there;
Then prostrate to Jehovah fall,
Who into Being spake them all.
poem by Mary Barber
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The Mystery
I WAS not; now I am — a few days hence
I shall not be; I fain would look before
And after, but can neither do; some Power
Or lack of power says 'no' to all I would.
I stand upon a wide and sunless plain,
Nor chart nor steel to guide my steps aright.
Whene'er, o'ercoming fear, I dare to move,
I grope without direction and by chance.
Some feign to hear a voice and feel a hand
That draws them ever upward thro' the gloom.
But I — I hear no voice and touch no hand,
Tho' oft thro' silence infinite I list,
And strain my hearing to supernal sounds;
Tho' oft thro' fateful darkness do I reach,
And stretch my hand to find that other hand.
I question of th' eternal bending skies
That seem to neighbor with the novice earth;
But they roll on, and daily shut their eyes
On me, as I one day shall do on them,
And tell me not the secret that I ask.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Maud: A Monodrama (Part II, excerpt)
.
O that 'twere possible
.
After long grief and pain
.
To find the arms of my true love
.
Round me once again!2.
When I was wont to meet her
.
In the silent woody places
.
By the home that gave me birth,
.
We stood tranced in long embraces
.
Mixt with kisses sweeter sweeter
.
Than anything on earth.2.
A shadow flits before me,
.
Not thou, but like to thee:
.
Ah Christ, that it were possible
.
For one short hour to see
.
The souls we loved, that they might tell us
.
What and where they be.2.
It leads me forth at evening,
.
It lightly winds and steals
.
In a cold white robe before me,
.
When all my spirit reels
.
At the shouts, the leagues of lights,
.
And the roaring of the wheels.2.
Half the night I waste in sighs,
.
Half in dreams I sorrow after
.
The delight of early skies;
.
In a wakeful doze I sorrow
.
For the hand, the lips, the eyes,
.
For the meeting of the morrow,
.
The delight of happy laughter,
.
The delight of low replies.2.
'Tis a morning pure and sweet,
.
And a dewy splendour falls
.
On the little flower that clings
.
To the turrets and the walls;
.
'Tis a morning pure and sweet,
.
And the light and shadow fleet;
.
She is walking in the meadow,
.
And the woodland echo rings;
.
In a moment we shall meet;
.
She is singing in the meadow,
.
And the rivulet at her feet
.
Ripples on in light and shadow
.
To the ballad that she sings.2.
So I hear her sing as of old,
.
My bird with the shining head,
.
My own dove with the tender eye?
.
But there rings on a sudden a passionate cry,
.
There is some one dying or dead,
.
And a sullen thunder is roll'd;
.
For a tumult shakes the city,
.
And I wake, my dream is fled;
.
In the shuddering dawn, behold,
.
Without knowledge, without pity,
.
By the curtains of my bed
.
That abiding phantom cold.2.
Get thee hence, nor come again,
.
Mix not memory with doubt,
.
Pass, thou deathlike type of pain,
.
Pass and cease to move about!
.
'Tis the blot upon the brain
.
That will show itself without.2.
Then I rise, the eave-drops fall,
.
And the yellow vapours choke
.
The great city sounding wide;
.
The day comes, a dull red ball
.
Wrapt in drifts of lurid smoke
.
On the misty river-tide.2.
Thro' the hubbub of the market
.
I steal, a wasted frame;
.
It crosses here, it crosses there,
.
Thro' all that crowd confused and loud,
.
The shadow still the same;
.
And on my heavy eyelids
.
My anguish hangs like shame.2.
Alas for her that met me,
.
That heard me softly call,
.
Came glimmering thro' the laurels
.
At the quiet evenfall,
.
In the garden by the turrets
.
Of the old manorial hall.2.
Would the happy spirit descend
.
From the realms of light and song,
.
In the chamber or the street,
.
As she looks among the blest,
.
Should I fear to greet my friend
.
Or to say "Forgive the wrong,"
.
Or to ask her, "Take me, sweet,
.
To the regions of thy rest"?2.
But the broad light glares and beats,
.
And the shadow flits and fleets
.
And will not let me be;
.
And I loathe the squares and streets,
.
And the faces that one meets,
.
Hearts with no love for me:
.
Always I long to creep
.
Into some still cavern deep,
.
There to weep, and weep, and weep
.
My whole soul out to thee....
poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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A Bridal Song
SHE is more sparkling beautiful
Than dawn-light seen thro’ tears
The weeping worlds of Paradise
Shed down upon the spheres.
Her eyes are bright and passionate
With love’s immortal flame—
The flowers of a wildwood tree
In petals write her name.
Her breath of life ’s so wondrous sweet
The bees halt, in amaze,
Their streaming honey-laden fleet
Above the meadow ways;
And every little singing thing
Atween the breasted hill
And God’s high-vaulted cloistering
Upraises with a will
Paeans of laud, and cheery chaunts
Of her, who now is mine—
Queen-Angel of angelic haunts
Thro’ months of mead and wine.
poem by Hugh McCrae
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A Voyager's Dream Of Land
His very heart athirst
To gaze at nature in her green array,
Upon the ship's tall side he stands, possess'd
With visions prompted by intense desire;
Fair fields appear below, such as he left
Far distant, such as he would die to find:
He seeks them headlong, and is seen no more. ~ Cowper
The hollow dash of waves!–the ceaseless roar!
Silence, ye billows! vex my soul no more.
There's a spring in the woods by my sunny home,
Afar from the dark sea's tossing foam;
Oh! the fall of that fountain is sweet to hear,
As a song from the shore to the sailor's ear!
And the sparkle which up to the sun it throws,
Thro' the feathery fern and the olive boughs,
And the gleam on its path as it steals away
Into deeper shades from the sultry day,
And the large water-lilies that o'er its bed
Their pearly leaves to the soft light spread,
They haunt me! I dream of that bright spring's flow,
I thirst for its rills, like a wounded roe!
Be still, thou sea-bird, with thy clanging cry!
My spirit sickens, as thy wing sweeps by.
Know ye my home, with the lulling sound
Of leaves from the lime and the chestnut round?
Know ye it, brethren! where bower'd it lies,
Under the purple of southern skies?
With the streamy gold of the sun that shines
In thro' the cloud of its clustering vines,
And the summer-breath of the myrtle-flowers,
Borne from the mountain in dewy hours,
And the fire-fly's glance thro' the dark'ning shades,
Like shooting stars in the forest-glades,
And the scent of the citron at eve's dim fall
Speak! have ye known, have ye felt them all?
The heavy rolling surge! the rocking mast!
Hush! give my dream's deep music way, thou blast!
Oh! the glad sounds of the joyous earth!
The notes of the singing cicala's mirth,
The murmurs that live in the mountain pines,
The sighing of reeds as the day declines,
The wings flitting home thro' the crimson glow
That steeps the wood when the sun is low,
The voice of the night-bird that sends a thrill
To the heart of the leaves when the winds are still
I hear them! round me they rise, they swell,
They call back my spirit with Hope to dwell,
They come with a breath from the fresh spring-time,
And waken my youth in its hour of prime.
The white foam dashes high away, away!
Shroud my green land no more, thou blinding spray!
It is there! down the mountains I see the sweep
Of the chestnut forests, the rich and deep,
With the burden and glory of flowers that they bear,
Floating upborne on the blue summer-air,
And the light pouring thro' them in tender gleams,
And the flashing forth of a thousand streams!
Hold me not, brethren! I go, I go,
To the hills of my youth, where the myrtles blow,
To the depths of the woods, where the shadows rest,
Massy and still, on the greensward's breast,
To the rocks that resound with the water's play
I hear the sweet laugh of my fount give way!
Give way! the booming surge, the tempest's roar,
The sea-bird's wail, shall vex my soul no more.
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Remembered
She sang, and I listened the whole song thro'.
(It was sweet, so sweet, the singing.)
The stars were out and the moon it grew
From a wee soft glimmer way out in the blue
To a bird thro' the heavens winging.
She sang, and the song trembled down to my breast,--
(It was sweet, so sweet the singing.)
As a dove just out of its fledgling nest,
And, putting its wings to the first sweet test,
Flutters homeward so wearily winging.
She sang and I said to my heart 'That song,
That was sweet, so sweet i' the singing,
Shall live with us and inspire us long,
And thou, my heart, shalt be brave and strong
For the sake of those words a-winging.'
The woman died and the song was still.
(It was sweet, so sweet, the singing.)
But ever I hear the same low trill,
Of the song that shakes my heart with a thrill,
And goes forever winging.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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On the Death of J.C. an Infant
No more the flow'ry scenes of pleasure rife,
Nor charming prospects greet the mental eyes,
No more with joy we view that lovely face
Smiling, disportive, flush'd with ev'ry grace.
The tear of sorrow flows from ev'ry eye,
Groans answer groans, and sighs to sighs reply;
What sudden pangs shot thro' each aching heart,
When, Death, thy messenger dispatch'd his dart?
Thy dread attendants, all-destroying Pow'r,
Hurried the infant to his mortal hour.
Could'st thou unpitying close those radiant eyes?
Or fail'd his artless beauties to surprise?
Could not his innocence thy stroke control,
Thy purpose shake, and soften all thy soul?
The blooming babe, with shades of Death o'erspread,
No more shall smile, no more shall raise its head,
But, like a branch that from the tree is torn,
Falls prostrate, wither'd, languid, and forlorn.
"Where flies my James?" 'tis thus I seem to hear
The parent ask, "Some angel tell me where
"He wings his passage thro' the yielding air?"
Methinks a cherub bending from the skies
Observes the question, and serene replies,
"In heav'ns high palaces your babe appears:
"Prepare to meet him, and dismiss your tears."
Shall not th' intelligence your grief restrain,
And turn the mournful to the cheerful strain?
Cease your complaints, suspend each rising sigh,
Cease to accuse the Ruler of the sky.
Parents, no more indulge the falling tear:
Let Faith to heav'n's refulgent domes repair,
There see your infant, like a seraph glow:
What charms celestial in his numbers flow
Melodious, while the foul-enchanting strain
Dwells on his tongue, and fills th' ethereal plain?
Enough--for ever cease your murm'ring breath;
Not as a foe, but friend converse with Death,
Since to the port of happiness unknown
He brought that treasure which you call your own.
The gift of heav'n intrusted to your hand
Cheerful resign at the divine command:
Not at your bar must sov'reign Wisdom stand.
poem by Phillis Wheatley
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Epi-strauss-ium
Matthew and Mark and Luke and holy John
Evanished all and gone!
Yea, he that erst his dusky curtains quitting,
Thro’ Eastern pictured panes his level beams transmitting,
With gorgeous portraits blent,
On them his glories intercepted spent.
Southwestering now, thro’ windows plainly glassed,
On the inside face his radiance keen hath cast,
And in the lustre lost, invisible and gone,
Are, say you, Matthew, Mark and Luke and holy John?
Lost, is it, lost, to be recovered never?
However,
The place of worship the meantime with light
Is, if less richly, more sincerely bright,
And in blue skies the Orb is manifest to sight.
poem by Arthur Hugh Clough
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To Miss Catharine Ten Eyck
Come and see our habitation,
condescend to be our guest;
Tho' the veins of warring nations
Bleed, yet here secure we rest.
By the light of Cynthia's crescent,
Playing thro' the waving trees;
When we walk, we wish you present
To participate our bliss.
Late indeed, the cruel savage
Here with looks ferocious stood;
Here the rustic's cot did ravage,
Stain'd the grass with human blood.
Late their hands sent conflagration
Rolling thro' the blooming wild,
Siez'd with death, the brute creation
Mourn'd, while desolation smil'd.
Spiral flames from tallest cedar
Struck to heav'n a heat intense;
They cancell'd thus with impious labour,
Wonders of Omnipotence.
But when Conquest rear'd her standard,
And th' Aborigines were fled,
Peace, who long an exile wander'd,
Now return'd to bless the shade.
Now Æolus blows the ashes
From sad Terra's black'ned brow,
While the whist'ling swain with rushes
Roofs his cot, late levell'd low.
From the teeming womb of Nature
Bursting flow'rs exhale perfume;
Shady oaks, of ample stature,
Cast again a cooling gloom.
Waves from each reflecting fountain,
Roll again unmix'd with gore,
And verging from the lofty mountain,
Fall beneath with solemn roar.
Here, embosom'd in this Eden,
Cheerful all our hours are spent;
Here no pleasures are forbidden,
Sylvan joys are innocent.
poem by Ann Eliza Bleecker from The Posthumous Works of Ann Eliza Bleecker
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The Spanish Chapel
I made a mountain-brook my guide
Thro' a wild Spanish glen,
And wandered, on its grassy side,
Far from the homes of men.
It lured me with a singing tone,
And many a sunny glance,
To a green spot of beauty lone,
A haunt for old romance.
A dim and deeply-bosom'd grove
Of many an aged tree,
Such as the shadowy violets love,
The fawn and forest-bee.
The darkness of the chestnut bough
There on the waters lay,
The bright stream reverently below,
Check'd its exulting play;
And bore a music all subdued,
And led a silvery sheen,
On thro' the breathing solitude
Of that rich leafy scene.
For something viewlessly around
Of solemn influence dwelt,
In the soft gloom and whispery sound,
Not to be told, but felt;
While sending forth a quiet gleam
Across the wood's repose,
And o'er the twilight of the stream,
A lowly chapel rose.
A pathway to that still retreat
Thro' many a myrtle wound,
And there a sight–how strangely sweet!
My steps in wonder bound.
For on a brilliant bed of flowers,
Even at the threshold made,
As if to sleep thro' sultry hours,
A young fair child was laid.
To sleep?–oh! ne'er on childhood's eye,
And silken lashes press'd,
Did the warm living slumber lie,
With such a weight of rest!
Yet still a tender crimson glow
Its cheek's pure marble dyed–
'Twas but the light's faint streaming flow
Thro' roses heap'd beside.
I stoop'd–the smooth round arm was chill,
The soft lip's breath was fled,
And the bright ringlets hung so still–
The lovely child was dead!
'Alas!' I cried, 'fair faded thing!
Thou hast wrung bitter tears,
And thou hast left a wo, to cling
Round yearning hearts for years!'
But then a voice came sweet and low–
I turn'd, and near me sate
A woman with a mourner's brow,
Pale, yet not desolate.
And in her still, clear, matron face,
All solemnly serene,
A shadow'd image I could trace
Of that young slumberer's mien.
'Stranger! thou pitiest me,' she said,
With lips that faintly smil'd,
'As here I watch beside my dead,
My fair and precious child.
'But know, the time-worn heart may be
By pangs in this world riven,
Keener than theirs who yield, like me,
An angel thus to Heaven!'
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Behold the Hour, the Boat, Arrive
Behold the hour, the boat arrive;
Thou goest, the darling of my heart;
Sever'd from thee, can I survive,
But Fate has will'd and we must part.
I'll often greet the surging swell,
Yon distant Isle will often hail:
"E'en here I took the last farewell;
There, latest mark'd her vanish'd sail."
Along the solitary shore,
While flitting sea-fowl round me cry,
Across the rolling, dashing roar,
I'll westward turn my wistful eye:
"Happy thou Indian grove," I'll say,
"Where now my Nancy's path may be!
While thro' thy sweets she loves to stray,
O tell me, does she muse on me!"
poem by Robert Burns
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Behold the Hour, the Boat Arrive
Behold the hour, the boat arrive;
Thou goest, the darling of my heart;
Sever'd from thee, can I survive,
But Fate has will'd and we must part.
I'll often greet the surging swell,
Yon distant Isle will often hail:
"E'en here I took the last farewell;
There, latest mark'd her vanish'd sail."
Along the solitary shore,
While flitting sea-fowl round me cry,
Across the rolling, dashing roar,
I'll westward turn my wistful eye:
"Happy thou Indian grove," I'll say,
"Where now my Nancy's path may be!
While thro' thy sweets she loves to stray,
O tell me, does she muse on me!"
poem by Robert Burns
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Comin' Through the Rye
O, Jenny's a' weet, poor body,
Jenny's seldom dry:
She draigl't a' her petticoatie,
Comin thro' the rye!
Chorus:
Comin thro' the rye, poor body,
Comin thro' the rye,
She draigl't a' her petticoatie,
Comin thro' the rye!
Gin a body meet a body
Comin thro' the rye,
Gin a body kiss a body,
Need a body cry?
(chorus)
Gin a body meet a body
Comin thro' the glen,
Gin a body kiss a body,
Need the warl' ken?
(chorus)
Gin a body meet a body
Comin thro' the grain;
Gin a body kiss a body,
The thing's a body's ain.
(chorus)
Ev'ry Lassie has her laddie,
Nane, they say, have I,
Yet all the lads they smile on me,
When comin' thro' the rye.
poem by Robert Burns
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Ode to Della Crusca
ENLIGHTEN'D Patron of the sacred Lyre?
Whose ever-varying, ever-witching song
Revibrates on the heart
With magic thrilling touch,
Till ev'ry nerve with quiv'ring throb divine,
In madd'ning tumults, owns thy wondrous pow'r;
For well thy dulcet notes
Can wind the mazy song,
In labyrinth of wild fantastic form;
Or with empassion'd pathos woo the soul
With sounds more sweetly mild,
Than SAPPHO's plaint forlorn,
When bending o'er the wave she sung her woes,
While pitying ECHO hover'd o'er the deep,
Till in their coral caves,
The tuneful NEREIDES wept.
AH! whither art thou flown? where pours thy song?
The model and the pride of British bards!
Sweet STAR of FANCY's orb,
"O, tell me, tell me, where?"
Say, dost thou waste it on the viewless air
That bears it to the confines of high Heav'n?
Or does it court the meed
Of proud pre-eminence?
Or steals it o'er the glitt'ring Sapphire wave,
Calming the tempest with its silver sounds?
Or does it charm to love
The fond believing maid?
Or does it hover o'er the ALPINE steep,
Or softly breathing under myrtle shades,
With SYMPATHY divine,
Solace the child of woe?
Where'er thou art, Oh! let thy gentle strain
Again with magic pow'r delight mine ear,
Untutor'd in the spells,
And mysteries of song.
Then, on the margin of the deep I'll muse,
And bless the rocking bark ordain'd to bear
My sad heart o'er the wave,
From this ungrateful isle;
When the wan queen of night, with languid eye,
Peeps o'er the mountain's head, or thro' the vale
Illumes the glassy brook,
Or dew-besprinkled heath,
Or with her crystal lamp, directs the feet
Of the benighted TRAV'LLER, cold, and sad,
Thro' the long forest drear,
And pathless labyrinth,
To the poor PEASANT's hospitable cot,
For ever open to the wretch forlorn;
O, then I'll think on THEE,
And iterate thy strain,
And chaunt thy matchless numbers o'er and o'er,
And I will court the sullen ear of night,
To bear the rapt'rous sound,
On her dark shad'wy wing,
To where encircled by the sacred NINE,
Thy LYRE awakes the never-dying song!
Now, BARD admir'd, farwel!
The white sail flutters loud,
The gaudy streamers lengthen in the gale,
Far from my native shore I bend my way;
Yet, as my aching eye
Shall view the less'ning cliff,
'Till its stupendous head shall scarce appear
Above the surface of the swelling deep;
I'll snatch a ray of hope,
For HOPE's the lamp divine
That lights and vivifies the fainting soul,
With extacies beyond the pow'rs of song!
That ere I reach those banks
Where the loud TIBER flows,
Or milder ARNO slowly steals along,
To the soft music of the summer breeze,
The wafting wing of TIME
May bear this last ADIEU,
This wild untutor'd picture of the heart,
To HIM, whose magic verse INSPIR'D THE STRAIN.
poem by Mary Darby Robinson
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Let's Power Our Wish
Let's power our wish thro' Sankara prophesy,
Divining sacred-self, killing ego malady.
Let's power our wish thro' Chanakya pledge,
Capturing the center, digging out edge.
Let's power our wish thro' Kabir tale,
Shaping up unity, splitting up let fail.
Let's power our wish thro' Gandhian path,
Eyeing on patience, ruling out spleen dirt.
Let's power our wish thro' Raman effect,
Opining on noesis, closing out ignorance defect.
Let's power our wish thro' Teresa style,
Dealing with generosity, banging greed by mile.
poem by Ramesh Anand
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Hymn of Joy
To the music of Beethoven's ninth symphony
Joyful, joyful, we adore Thee,
God of glory, Lord of love;
Hearts unfold like flowers before Thee,
Praising Thee their sun above.
Melt the clouds of sin and sadness;
Drive the dark of doubt away;
Giver of immortal gladness,
Fill us with the light of day!
All Thy works with joy surround Thee,
Earth and heaven reflect Thy rays,
Stars and angels sing around Thee,
Centre of unbroken praise:
Field and forest, vale and mountain,
Blooming meadow, flashing sea,
Chanting bird and flowing fountain,
Call us to rejoice in Thee.
Thou art giving and forgiving,
Ever blessing, ever blest,
Well-spring of the joy of living,
Ocean-depth of happy rest!
Thou our Father, Christ our Brother, --
All who live in love are Thine:
Teach us how to love each other,
Lift us to the Joy Divine.
Mortals join the mighty chorus,
Which the morning stars began;
Father-love is reigning o'er us,
Brother-love binds man to man.
Ever singing march we onward,
Victors in the midst of strife;
Joyful music lifts us sunward
In the triumph song of life.
poem by Henry Van Dyke
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Ballad
Oh Ladye fair, oh Ladye fair and mine,
Where'er thou be,
Canst thou divine
The Love that hungers thus in me?
The secret cell where lone I lie and sigh for thee?
Long, long I wait, but shall I wait in vain?
How long the Summer waited for the Rose!
Ah say, oh say I shall not wait in vain!
How long, ah fairest! must I keep
The vigil of unsleeping eyes?
Summer's sighs avail,
Summer that sang himself to sleep,
Summer that piping in a grove all day
Played out his lovelorn soul upon the nightingale,
Oh songs more blest than mine, ah happier sighs!
For at rich midnight all the bells
Of all the valley-lilies rang a tune
Like moonlight up and down the dells,
And June
As a naked maiden thro' the shades
Slipt thro' the woods and took her throne.
By this the east is red and white,
The queen of months is seen and known,
Like flocks of doves that soar and fall,
Like butterflies that hover and alight,
Like tears of ecstasy when tear on tear
From both wild eyes rains thro' the wreathèd hands,
The blush of morning drops upon the lands,
The Rose, the Rose is here!
And rapture, rapture crowns the passion of the year
Hark, hark,
Something stirs the arching green,
Thro' the verdurous aisles the doves are cooing,
And the birds of smaller quire,
As fairies that do run and sing
Before the bridal of their queen,
Flittering and fondly twittering,
Lead thro' the languid air the sick delight of wooing.
Sure thro' the distance dim I see the morn again!
Leaves that meet and part the hues of dawn disclose.
Has she heard my woes?
Has she pitied all my pain?
'Tis she! 'tis she!
As Summer waited for the Rose
I shall not wait in vain!
As June soft slipping warms the purple Dark,
So thou slippest thro' the shades to me,
So throbs my throbbing heart its thickening throbs to thee.
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
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To The Golden Heart That He Wore Around His Neck
OH thou token loved of joys now perish'd
That I still wear from my neck suspended,
Art thou stronger than our spirit-bond so cherish'd?
Or canst thou prolong love's days untimely ended?
Lily, I fly from thee! I still am doom'd to range
Thro' countries strange,
Thro' distant vales and woods, link'd on to thee!
Ah, Lily's heart could surely never fall
So soon away from me!
As when a bird bath broken from his thrall,
And seeks the forest green,
Proof of imprisonment he bears behind him,
A morsel of the thread once used to bind him;
The free-born bird of old no more is seen,
For he another's prey bath been.
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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Mountaineer-Song
BLOW, mountain-breeze! all wild, like thee,
Unfetter'd as thy wing, I rove;
With airy step and spirit free,
From snowy cliff, to shadowy grove!
And teach lone echoes to prolong,
From Caves remote, my sprightly song,
Blow, mountain-breeze!
No sigh for pomp or state I breathe,
For me, the sun-beam smiles in gold!
I envy not the victor's wreath,
For me the Alpine flow'rs unfold!
Gay, simple, free, I rove along,
And wood and hill resound my song,
Blow, mountain-breeze!
When morning wakes, with humid eye,
And cheek that kindling, bright'ning, glows;
When the soft blushes of the sky,
With roseate lustre tinge the snows;
I lead my flocks, I leave my home,
And carol gaily as I roam,
Blow, mountain-breeze!
When fervid beams of noon invade,
And bloom and verdure faint with heat;
The palm, the pine, the cedar-shade,
Afford me still a cool retreat!
Where shelter'd from th' oppressive ray,
I wake soft echoes with my lay,
Blow, mountain-breeze!
Deep in a glen, retir'd and green,
How sweetly smiles my native cot;
Where peace, and joy, and love serene,
Have sanctified the tranquil spot!
How blest! there ever to remain,
And warble still th' untutor'd strain,
Blow, mountain-breeze!
In rich festoons, the mantling vine,
Embow'ring, o'er its casement waves;
And bloomy clusters dangling, shine,
Thro' tendrils and luxuriant leaves—
While, as I train each wayward spray,
I carol still the artless lay,
Blow, mountain-breeze!
Mine is the breath of zephyr pure,
The Alpine sweet that scents the gale;
The slumber light, the life secure,
The boundless range of hill and dale!
Fearless I rove, exploring, free,
Spirit of air! all wild like thee,
Blow, mountain-breeze!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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The Ruin And Its Flowers
Sweets of the wild! that breathe and bloom,
On this lone tow'r, this ivy'd wall;
Lend to the gale a rich perfume,
And grace the ruin in its fall;
Tho' doom'd, remote from careless eye,
To smile, to flourish, and to die,
In solitude sublime,
Oh! ever may the spring renew,
Your balmy scent and glowing hue,
To deck the robe of time!
Breathe, fragrance! breathe, enrich the air,
Tho' wasted on its wing unknown!
Blow, flow'rets! blow, tho' vainly fair,
Neglected and alone!
These tow'rs, that long withstood the blast,
These mossy tow'rs are mouldering fast,
While Flora's children stay;
To mantle o'er the lonely pile,
To gild destruction with a smile,
And beautify decay!
Sweets of the wild! uncultur'd blowing,
Neglected in luxuriance glowing;
From the dark ruins frowning near,
Your charms in brighter tints appear,
And richer blush assume;
You smile with softer beauty crown'd,
Whilst, all is desolate around,
Like sun-shine on a tomb!
Thou hoary pile! majestic still,
Memento of departed fame!
While roving o'er the moss-clad hill,
I ponder on thine ancient name!
Here grandeur, beauty, valour, sleep,
That here, so oft have shone supreme;
While glory, honor, fancy, weep,
That vanish'd is the golden dream!
Where are the banners, waving proud,
To kiss the summer-gale of ev'n?
All purple as the morning-cloud,
All streaming to the winds of heav'n!
Where is the harp, by rapture strung,
To melting song, or martial story?
Where are the lays the minstrel sung,
To loveliness, or glory?
Lorn echo of these mouldering walls,
To thee no festal measure calls;
No music thro' the desert-halls,
Awakes thee to rejoice!
How still thy sleep! as death profound,
As if, within this lonely round,
A step-a note-a whisper'd sound,
Had ne'er arous'd thy voice!
Thou hear'st the zephyr murmuring, dying,
Thou hear'st the foliage waving, sighing;
But ne'er again shall harp, or song,
These dark, deserted courts along,
Disturb thy calm repose;
The harp is broke, the song is fled,
The voice is hush'd, the bard is dead;
And never shall thy tones repeat,
Or lofty strain, or carol sweet,
With plaintive close!
Proud castle! tho' the days are flown,
When once thy tow'rs in glory shone;
When music thro' thy turrets rung,
When banners o'er thy ramparts hung,
Tho' 'midst thine arches, frowning lone,
Stern desolation rear his throne;
And silence, deep and awful, reign,
Where echoed once the choral strain;
Yet oft, dark ruin! ling'ring here,
The muse will hail thee with a tear;
Here, when the moon-light, quiv'ring, beams,
And thro' the fringing ivy streams,
And softens ev'ry shade sublime,
And mellows ev'ry tint of time,
Oh ! here shall contemplation love,
Unseen, and undisturb'd, to rove;
And bending o'er some mossy tomb,
Where valor sleeps, or beauties bloom,
Shall weep for glory's transient day,
And grandeur's evanescent ray!
And list'ning to the swelling blast,
Shall wake the spirit of the past,
Call up the forms of ages fled,
Of warriors and of minstrels dead;
Who sought the field, who struck the lyre,
With all ambition's kindling fire!
Nor wilt thou, Spring! refuse to breathe,
Soft odours on this desert-air;
Refuse to twine thine earliest wreath,
And fringe these tow'rs with garlands fair
Sweets of the wild, oh! ever bloom,
Unheeded on this ivy'd wall!
Lend to the gale a rich perfume,
And grace the ruin in its fall!
Thus, round Misfortune's holy head,
Would Pity wreaths of honor spread;
Like you, thus blooming on this lonely pile,
She seeks despair, with heart-reviving smile!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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