Or wheel about, all in and out, As if within a maze; A pleating neat those ribbons sweet, Whilst all the village gaze. In fact, all nature is alive! And everything awake, In woodland, moorland, meadow, hive, In river, sea, and lake. For 'tis the spring,--the time of flowers! The season when soft vernal showers, Oh! who can thus each passing year, Without a thought of future life, And faith, dear Lord, in Thee? If such there are, their souls are dead; I pity their estate! No God, no hope, no life beyond! Oh, most unhappy fate! To such, O Lord, Thy Spirit give, The icy fogs in which they live, May soon dissolve away. Then, as their range of vision clears, Like sailors on life's sea, Who can discern their whereabouts; So may they steer to Thee! Composed at Brawby at various intervals during the springs of 189091; finished June 6, 1891. A COUNTRY WALK. I. ONE morn I sauntered through the fields, Which wander'd winding through the meads, An old and weather-beaten plank, Grown o'er in various parts, With lichens, moss, and fungi red, Did duty for a rustic bridge, Athwart the stream below; Which, rippling pleasantly along, With sparkling crystal flow, Gave life and beauty to the scene, And verdure to the bank; And fed the glowing marigolds, And sword-like rushes rank. Awhile I stood and gazed down, Into the waters clear; And viewed the speckled minnows crowd, Like herd of startled deer, Amid the cresses green and weeds,— The forests of their home, Or dart athwart the wavy sands, How often had I when a boy Their silver breasts and golden sides, As skilfully they swam about, Whilst flashed their burnished mail. II. As thus I stood I saw a leaf Fall fluttering from a tree; 'Twas lovely with autumnal tints, Most beautiful to see! I watched it as it settled down Upon the purling stream, And saw it as it floated by, To vanish from the scene Amid the windings of the banks, Men see us for a brief short time Adorn the Tree of Life, Till widening space of four-score years, Removes us from the strife. Like leaves we come forth in the spring, The early days of youth; Then all is joyous happiness, And free from bitter ruth. The summer comes, to manhood grown We flourish as the bay, Till autumn with its frosts sets in, The heralds of decay. Our years advance, then winter comes; We pass into the sere ; As yellow leaves fall from the trees We fall and disappear Into that ever-flowing stream Whose name is Time and Death, Upon whose breast the Tree of Life Sheds leaves at every breath. 'Tis thus we spend the seasons here, But scattered far on every hand We find at length a resting-place III. And musing thus, I onward sped, Yet halted soon again To listen to the skylark's song, A most delicious strain. Mid that green mead all clover-clad, The minstrel's form to view |