Of self-congratulation, to the heart
Of each recalling his peculiar boons,
His charters and exemptions; and, perchance, Though he to no one give the fortitude And circumspection needful to preserve His present blessings, and to husband up The respite of the season, he, at least, And 't is no vulgar service, makes them felt.
Many, I believe, there are
Who live a life of virtuous decency, Men who can hear the Decalogue and feel No self-reproach; who of the moral law Established in the land where they abide Are strict observers; and not negligent In acts of love to those with whom they dwell, Their kindred, and the children of their blood. Praise be to such, and to their slumbers peace!
But of the poor man ask, the abject poor; Go, and demand of him, if there be here, In this cold abstinence from evil deeds, And these inevitable charities,
Wherewith to satisfy the human soul?
No, man is dear to man; the poorest poor
Long for some moments in a weary life
When they can know and feel that they have been, Themselves, the fathers and the dealers-out
Of some small blessings; have been kind to such As needed kindness, for this single cause,
That we have all of us one human heart.
Such pleasure is to one kind being known,
My neighbor, when with punctual care each week, Duly as Friday comes, though pressed herself By her own wants, she from her store of meal Takes one unsparing handful for the scrip Of this old mendicant, and from her door Returning with exhilarated heart,
Sits by her fire, and builds her hope in heaven.
Then let him pass, a blessing on his head! And while, in that vast solitude to which The tide of things has borne him, he appears To breathe and live but for himself alone, Unblamed, uninjured, let him bear about The good which the benignant law of Heaven Has hung around him; and while life is his, Still let him prompt the unlettered villagers To tender offices and pensive thoughts.
- Then let him pass, a blessing on his head! And long as he can wander, let him breathe The freshness of the valleys; let his blood Struggle with frosty air and winter snows; And let the chartered wind that sweeps the heath Beat his gray locks against his withered face. Reverence the hope whose vital anxiousness Gives the last human interest to his heart. May never HOUSE, misnamed of INDUSTRY, Make him a captive ! -- for that pent-up din, Those life-consuming sounds that clog the air, Be his the natural silence of old age! Let him be free of mountain solitudes, And have around him, whether heard or not,
The pleasant melody of woodland birds. Few are his pleasures: if his eyes have now Been doomed so long to settle upon earth That not without some effort they behold The countenance of the horizontal sun, Rising or setting, let the light at least
Find a free entrance to their languid orbs.
And let him, where and when he will, sit down Beneath the trees, or on a grassy bank
Of highway side, and with the little birds Share his chance-gathered meal; and, finally,
As in the eye of Nature he has lived, So in the eye of Nature let him die!
ANIMAL TRANQUILLITY AND DECAY. 1798.- 1798.
THE little hedge-row birds,
That peck along the road, regard him not. He travels on, and in his face, his step, His gait, his one expression,- every limb, His look and bending figure, all bespeak
A man who does not move with pain, but moves With thought. He is insensibly subdued
To settled quiet; he is one by whom
All effort seems forgotten; one to whom Long patience hath such mild composure given That patience now doth seem a thing of which He hath no need. He is by Nature led To peace so perfect that the young behold With envy what the old man hardly feels.
(I speak of one from many singled out), One of those heavenly days that cannot die; When, in the eagerness of boyish hope, I left our cottage threshold, sallying forth With a huge wallet o'er my shoulders slung, A nutting-crook in hand, and turned my step Toward some far-distant wood, a figure quaint, Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds, Which for that service had been husbanded, By exhortation of my frugal dame,- Motley accoutrement, of power to smile
At thorns, and brakes, and brambles, and, in truth, More ragged than need was! O'er pathless rocks, Through beds of matted fern and tangled thickets, Forcing my way, I came to one dear nook Unvisited, where not a broken bough Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious sign Of devastation; but the hazels rose Tall and erect, with tempting clusters hung, A virgin scene! A little while I stood, Breathing with such suppression of the heart As joy delights in; and with wise restraint, Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed
The banquet; or beneath the trees I sate
Among the flowers, and with the flowers I played, —
A temper known to those who, after long And weary expectation, have been blest With sudden happiness beyond all hope. Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves The violets of five seasons reappear And fade, unseen by any human eye; Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on Forever; and I saw the sparkling foam,
And, with my cheek on one of those green stones That, fleeced with moss, under the shady trees, Lay round me, scattered like a flock of sheep, I heard the murmur and the murmuring sound, In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay Tribute to ease; and of its joy secure, The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, And on the vacant air. Then up I rose,
And dragged to earth both branch and bough, with crash And merciless ravage; and the shady nook
Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower, Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up Their quiet being: and unless I now Confound my present feelings with the past, Ere from the mutilated bower I turned Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings, I felt a sense of pain when I beheld
The silent trees, and saw the intruding sky. Then, dearest maiden, move along these shades In gentleness of heart; with gentle hand
« ПредыдущаяПродолжить » |