| |
| THOU glorious mocker of the world! I hear | |
| Thy many voices ringing through the glooms | |
| Of these green solitudes; and all the clear, | |
| Bright joyance of their song enthralls the ear, | |
| And floods the heart. Over the spherëd tombs | 5 |
| Of vanished nations rolls thy music-tide: | |
| No light from History’s starlit page illumes | |
| The memory of these nations; they have died: | |
| None care for them but thou; and thou mayst sing | |
| O’er me, perhaps, as now thy clear notes ring | 10 |
| Over their bones by whom thou once wast deified. | |
| |
| Glad scorner of all cities! Thou dost leave | |
| The world’s mad turmoil and incessant din, | |
| Where none in others’ honesty believe, | |
| Where the old sigh, the young turn gray and grieve, | 15 |
| Where misery gnaws the maiden’s heart within. | |
| Thou fleest far into the dark green woods, | |
| Where, with thy flood of music, thou canst win | |
| Their heart to harmony, and where intrudes | |
| No discord on thy melodies. Oh, where, | 20 |
| Among the sweet musicians of the air, | |
| Is one so dear as thou to these old solitudes? | |
| |
| Ha! what a burst was that! The Æolian strain | |
| Goes floating through the tangled passages | |
| Of the still woods; and now it comes again, | 25 |
| A multitudinous melody, like a rain | |
| Of glassy music under echoing trees, | |
| Close by a ringing lake. It wraps the soul | |
| With a bright harmony of happiness, | |
| Even as a gem is wrapped when round it roll | 30 |
| Thin waves of crimson flame, till we become, | |
| With the excess of perfect pleasure, dumb, | |
| And pant like a swift runner clinging to the goal. | |
| |
| I cannot love the man who doth not love, | |
| As men love light, the song of happy birds; | 35 |
| For the first visions that my boy-heart wove, | |
| To fill its sleep with, were that I did rove | |
| Through the fresh woods, what time the snowy herds | |
| Of morning clouds shrunk from the advancing sun, | |
| Into the depths of Heaven’s blue heart, as words | 40 |
| From the poet’s lips float gently, one by one, | |
| And vanish in the human heart; and then | |
| I revelled in such songs, and sorrowed, when, | |
| With noon-heat overwrought, the music-gush was done. | |
| |
| I would, sweet bird, that I might live with thee, | 45 |
| Amid the eloquent grandeur of these shades, | |
| Alone with Nature!—but it may not be: | |
| I have to struggle with the stormy sea | |
| Of human life until existence fades | |
| Into death’s darkness. Thou wilt sing and soar | 50 |
| Through the thick woods and shadow-chequered glades, | |
| While pain and sorrow cast no dimness o’er | |
| The brilliance of thy heart; but I must wear, | |
| As now, my garments of regret and care, | |
| As penitents of old their galling sackcloth wore. | 55 |
| |
| Yet, why complain? What though fond hopes deferred | |
| Have overshadowed Life’s green paths with gloom? | |
| Content’s soft music is not all unheard: | |
| There is a voice sweeter than thine, sweet bird, | |
| To welcome me, within my humble home; | 60 |
| There is an eye, with love’s devotion bright, | |
| The darkness of existence to illume. | |
| Then why complain? When Death shall cast his blight | |
| Over the spirit, my cold bones shall rest | |
| Beneath these trees; and from thy swelling breast | 65 |
| Over them pour thy song, like a rich flood of light. | |
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