« 이전계속 »
Ah, well I remember,
Ere dying December
O'er thy waters so narrow
The little brown sparrow
With a silvery skein
Wove of snow and of rain, Thou didst wander at will through the bud-laden land,
All the air a sweet psalm,
And the meadow a palm, As a blue vein meanders a liberal hand.
When the school-master's daughter
With her hands scooped the water, And laughingly proffered the crystal to me,
O, there ne'er sparkled up
A more exquisite cup Than the pair of white hands that were brimming with thee !
And there all together,
In bright summer weather,
And how silent we grew,
If the robin came too, When he looked up to pray, and then bent down to drink!
Ah, where are the faces,
From out thy still places,
As we bent hand in hand,
Thou didst double the band, As idle as daisies—and fleeting as they!
RHYMES OF THE RIVER.
Like the dawn in the cloud,
Lay the babe in its shroud,
At the mother's last look
It had opened the book,
O pure placid river,
Make music forever
For on thy far shore,
Gently drifted before,
Ah, beautiful river,
Flow onward forever!
If a tree has been shaken,
If a star has been taken,
I take up the old words,
Like the song of dead birds, That were breathed when I stood farther off from the sea :
When I heard not its hymn,
When the headlands were dim:Shall I ever again weave a rhythm for thee?
BENJAMIN F. TAYLOR.
Morning Hymn to Mont Blanc. HAS
AST thou a charm to stay the morning star
In his steep course ?—so long he seems to pause On thy bald, awful head, O sovereign Blanc ! The Arve and Aveiron at thy base Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form! Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, How silently! Around thee and above Deep is the air and dark,—substantial black,An ebon mass; methinks thou piercest it, As with a wedge! But when I look again, It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, Thy habitation from eternity!
O dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee, Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer I worshipped the Invisible alone. Yet like some sweet, beguiling melody, So sweet we know not we are listening to it, Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thoughts, Yea, with my life, and life's own secret joy,Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused, Into the mighty vision passing—there As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven,
Awake, my soul! not only passive praise
MORNING HYMN TO MONT BLANC.
Co-herald ! wake, oh wake! and utter praise.
And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad !
Ye ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain's brow
“GOD!" sing, ye meadow-streams, with gladsome voice, Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds ! And they, too, have a voice, yon piles of snow, And in their perilous fall shall thunder, “GOD!" Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost ! Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest ! Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm ! Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ! Ye signs and wonders of the elements ! Utter forth “GOD!" and fill the hills with praise !
Once more, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peak, Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene, Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast,Thou, too, again, stupendous Mountain ! thou, That, as I raise my head, awhile bowed low In adoration, upward from thy base Slow-traveling with dim eyes suffused with tears, Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud, To rise before me--rise, oh ever rise, Rise, like a cloud of incense, from the earth! Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills, Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven, Great Hierarch! tell thou the silent sky, And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, Earth, with her thousand voices, praises GOD!
SAMUEL T. COLERIDGE.
'HE scene was more beautiful far to my eye,
Than if day in its pride had arrayed it;
Looked pure as the Spirit that made it.
The murmur rose soft as I silently gazed
On the shadowy wave's playful motion,
Like a star in the midst of the ocean.
No longer the joy of the sailor boy's breast
Was heard in his wildly breathed numbers ; The sea-bird had flown to her wave-girdled nest,
And the fisherman sunk to his slumbers.