III. I listen'd to the blackbird's song, Each in its turn, some witching note ; Such was the summer feeling there, God's love seem❜d breathing every where. IV. The water-lilies in the waves Rear'd up their crowns all freshly green, And, bursting forth as from their graves, King-cups and daffodils were seen; The lambs were frisking in the mead; Beneath the white-flower'd chestnut tree The ox reclin'd his stately head, And bent his placid knee; From brakes the linnets carol'd loud, V. I stood upon a high green hill, Beneath me, on a daisied mound, Girt with its orchard branches round, Rich cherry-trees, whose blossoms white VI. There dozed the mastiff on the green- Sin, strife, or sorrow cannot come, VII. Far from the hum of crowds remote, Life's silent tenor here to know; pure To gaze with and blameless eyes; To nurse those holy thoughts within Which fit us for the skies, And to regenerate hearts dispense VIII. We make our sorrows; Nature knows Our fate for frailties all our own, Plunge we in sin's black flood, yet dream To rise unsullied from such stream? IX. Vain thought! far better, then, to shun The turmoils of the rash and vain, And pray the Everlasting One To keep the heart from earthly stain ; Within some sylvan home like this, To hear the world's far billows roll; And feel, with deep contented bliss, They cannot shake the soul, Or dim the impress bright and grand, Stamp'd on it by the Maker's hand. X. When round this bustling world we look, What treasures observation there? Doth it not seem as man mistook This passing scene of toil and care For an eternity? As if This cloud-land were his final home; 1 As if his faith were built in these? 1 XL To Power he says-" I trust in thee!" And disappoint the funeral urn: And necromantic rod!" Down Time's far stream he darts his eye, Nor dreams that he shall ever die. XII. Oh, fool, fool, fool!—and is it thus From out the myriads of the past, Two only have been spared by Death;2 And deem'st thou that a spell thou hast To deprecate his wrath? Or dost thou hope, in frenzied pride, By threats to turn his scythe aside? XIII. Where are the warrior-chiefs of old? Where are the realms on which they trod? While conquest's blood-red flag unroll'd, And man proclaim'd himself a god! Where are the sages and their saws, Whence wisdom shone with dazzling beams? The legislators, and their laws, What are they now but dreams? The prophets, do they still forebode? XIV. Our fathers! We ourselves have seen But household recollections now? Who, with ourselves, were such at school, Although one parish gave them birth, XV. Where are the blazon'd dreams of Youth, |