TO PRIMROSES FILLED WITH MORNING DEW. HY do ye weep, sweet babes? Can WHY tears Speak grief in you Who were but born Just as the modest morn Teemed her refreshing dew? Alas! ye have not known that shower That mars a flower; Speak, whimpering younglings, and make known The reason why Ye droop and weep; Is it for want of sleep, Or childish lullaby? Or that ye have not seen as yet The violet? 'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell that From every source your sanction bids me swingeth, And tolls its perfume on the passing air, Makes Sabbath in the fields and ever ringeth A call to prayer. Not to the domes where crumbling arch and column Attest the feebleness of mortal hand, But to that fane, most catholic and solemn, Which God hath planned. To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder, Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply; Its choir the winds and waves, its organ thunder, Its dome the sky. There as in solitude and shade I wander Through the green aisles, or stretched upon the sod, treasure Harmless delight. Ephemeral sages! what instructors hoary Each fading calyx a memento mori, Posthumous glories! angel-like collection: Upraised from seed or bulb interred in earth, Ye are to me a type of resurrection, Were I, O God, in churchless lands remaining, Far from all voice of teachers or divines, My soul would find, in flowers of thy ordain ing, Priests, sermons, shrines! HORACE SMITH. |