IV. My Soul was grateful for delight The scene that opens now? Though habitation none appear, The greenness tells, man must be there; Is of the clime in which we live ; Where Toйl pursues his daily round; Where Pity sheds sweet tears, and Love, In woodbine bower or birchen grove, Inflicts his tender wound. Who comes not hither ne'er shall know How beautiful the world below; Nor can he guess how lightly leaps Farewell, thou desolate Domain ! And who is she? - Can that be Joy! Who, with a sun-beam for her guide, While Faith, from yonder opening cloud, "Whate'er the weak may dread, the wicked dare, Thy lot, O man, is good, thy portion fair!" XLI. EVENING ODE, COMPOSED UPON AN EVENING OF EXTRAORDINARY SPLENDOR AND BEAUTY. I. HAD this effulgence disappeared With flying haste, I might have sent, But 'tis endued with power to stay, What is? ah no, but what can be! Time was when field and watery cove While choirs of fervent Angels sang Their vespers in the grove; Or, ranged like stars along some sovereign height, Warbled, for heaven above and earth below, Strains suitable to both. Such holy rite, Methinks, if audibly repeated now Than doth this silent spectacle - the gleam The shadow — and the peace supreme! No sound is uttered, II. but a deep And solemn harmony pervades The hollow vale from steep to steep, Herds range along the mountain side; Thine is the tranquil hour, purpureal Eve! From worlds not quickened by the sun A portion of the gift is won; An intermingling of Heaven's pomp is spread On ground which British shepherds tread ! III. And, if there be whom broken ties Afflict, or injuries assail, Yon hazy ridges to their eyes, Climbing suffused with sunny air, To stop - no record hath told where ! And tempting fancy to ascend, And with immortal Spirits blend! Wings at my shoulder seem to play ; On those bright steps that heaven-ward raise Come forth, ye drooping old men, look abroad And wake him with such gentle heed As may attune his soul to meet the dower Bestowed on this transcendent hour! |