PLEASANT it was, when woods were green, And winds were soft and low, To lie amid some sylvan scene, Where, the long drooping boughs between, Alternate come and go; Or where the denser grove receives A slumberous sound, -a sound that brings As of innumerable wings, As, when a bell no longer swings, O'er meadow, lake, and stream. Where the sailing clouds went by, Dreams that the soul of youth engage And, loving still these quaint old themes, I feel the freshness of the streams, Therefore, at Pentecost, which brings I sought the woodlands wide. The green trees whispered low and mild; They were my playmates when a child And ever whispered, mild and low, 66 'Come, be a child once more!" Into the woodlands hoar; Into the blithe and breathing air, Into the solemn wood, Solemn and silent everywhere! Nature with folded hands seemed there, Kneeling at her evening prayer! Like one in prayer I stood. Before me rose an avenue Of tall and sombrous pines; Abroad their fan-like branches grew, And, where the sunshine darted through, Spread a vapour soft and blue, In long and sloping lines. And, falling on my weary brain, Like a fast-falling shower, The dreams of youth came back again, Low lispings of the summer rain, Dropping on the ripened grain, As once upon the flower. Visions of childhood! Stay, oh stay! "The land of Song within thee lies, "Learn that henceforth thy song shall be, "Athwart the swinging branches cast, We can return no more!' "Look, then, into thine heart, and write! HYMN TO THE NIGHT. I HEARD the trailing garments of the Night I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light I felt her presence by its spell of might, The calm, majestic presence of the Night, I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, The manifold, soft chimes, That fill the haunted chambers of the Night, From the cool cisterns of the midnight air My spirit drank repose; The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,-- O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear Thou layst thy finger on the lips of Care, Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer! The welcome, the thrice-prayed-for, the most fair, A PSALM OF LIFE. WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST. TELL me not, in mournful numbers, "Life is but an empty dream!" For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest ! And the grave is not its goal; Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. In the world's broad field of battle, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! We can make our lives sublime, Footprints, that perhaps another, THE LIGHT OF STARS. THE night is come, but not too soon; And sinking silently, All silently, the little moon Drops down behind the sky. There is no light in earth or heaven, Is it the tender star of love? The star of love and dreams? O no! from that blue tent above, And earnest thoughts within me rise, Suspended in the evening skies, The shield of that red star. O star of strength! I see thee stand And smile upon my pain; Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand, Within my breast there is no light, The star of the unconquered will, And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art, O fear not in a world like this, And thou shalt know ere long, Know how sublime a thing it is To suffer and be strong. |