How barren would this valley be, Without the golden orb that gazes On it, broadening to hues Of rose, and spreading wings of amber; Blessing it before it falls asleep.

How barren would this valley be, Without the human lives now beating In it, or the throbbing hearts Far distant, who their flower of childhood Cherish here, and water it with tears!

How barren should I be, were I Without above that loving splendour, Shedding light and warmth! without Some kindred natures of my kind To joy in me, or yearn towards me now!

VII

Summer glows warm on the meadows, and speedwell, and gold-cups, and daisies Darken 'mid deepening ma.s.ses of sorrel, and shadowy gra.s.ses Show the ripe hue to the farmer, and summon the scythe and the hay- makers Down from the village; and now, even now, the air smells of the mowing, And the sharp song of the scythe whistles daily; from dawn, till the gloaming Wears its cool star, sweet and welcome to all flaming faces afield now; Heavily weighs the hot season, and drowses the darkening foliage, Drooping with languor; the white cloud floats, but sails not, for windless Heaven's blue tents it; no lark singing up in its fleecy white valleys; Up in its fairy white valleys, once feathered with minstrels, melodious With the invisible joy that wakes dawn o'er the green fields of England.

Summer glows warm on the meadows; then come, let us roam thro' them gaily, Heedless of heat, and the hot-kissing sun, and the fear of dark freckles.

Never one kiss will he give on a neck, or a lily-white forehead, Chin, hand, or bosom uncovered, all panting, to take the chance coolness, But full sure the fiery pressure leaves seal of espousal.

Heed him not; come, tho' he kiss till the soft little upper-lip loses Half its pure whiteness; just speck'd where the curve of the rosy mouth reddens.

Come, let him kiss, let him kiss, and his kisses shall make thee the sweeter.

Thou art no nun, veiled and vowed; doomed to nourish a withering pallor!

City exotics beside thee would show like bleached linen at mid-day, Hung upon hedges of eglantine! Thou in the freedom of nature, Full of her beauty and wisdom, gentleness, joyance, and kindness!

Come, and like bees will we gather the rich golden honey of noontide; Deep in the sweet summer meadows, border'd by hillside and river, Lined with long trenches half-hidden, where smell of white meadow- sweet, sweetest, Blissfully hovers--O sweetest! but pluck it not! even in the tenderest Grasp it will lose breath and wither; like many, not made for a posy.

See, the sun slopes down the meadows, where all the flowers are falling!

Falling unhymned; for the nightingale scarce ever charms the long twilight: Mute with the cares of the nest; only known by a 'chuck, chuck,' and dovelike Call of content, but the finch and the linnet and blackcap pipe loudly.

Round on the western hill-side warbles the rich-billed ouzel; And the shrill throstle is filling the tangled thickening copses; Singing o'er hyacinths hid, and most honey'd of flowers, white field-rose.

Joy thus to revel all day in the gra.s.s of our own beloved country; Revel all day, till the lark mounts at eve with his sweet 'tirra- lirra': Trilling delightfully. See, on the river the slow-rippled surface Shining; the slow ripple broadens in circles; the bright surface smoothens; Now it is flat as the leaves of the yet unseen water-lily.

There dart the lives of a day, ever-varying tactics fantastic.

There, by the wet-mirrored osiers, the emerald wing of the kingfisher Flashes, the fish in his beak! there the dab-chick dived, and the motion Lazily undulates all thro' the tall standing army of rushes.

Joy thus to revel all day, till the twilight turns us homeward!

Till all the lingering deep-blooming splendour of sunset is over, And the one star shines mildly in mellowing hues, like a spirit Sent to a.s.sure us that light never dieth, tho' day is now buried.

Saying: to-morrow, to-morrow, few hours intervening, that interval Tuned by the woodlark in heaven, to-morrow my semblance, far eastward, Heralds the day 'tis my mission eternal to seal and to prophecy.

Come then, and homeward; pa.s.sing down the close path of the meadows.

Home like the bees stored with sweetness; each with a lark in the bosom, Trilling for ever, and oh! will yon lark ever cease to sing up there?

TO A SKYLARK

O skylark! I see thee and call thee joy!

Thy wings bear thee up to the breast of the dawn; I see thee no more, but thy song is still The tongue of the heavens to me!

Thus are the days when I was a boy; Sweet while I lived in them, dear now they're gone: I feel them no longer, but still, O still They tell of the heavens to me.

SONG--SPRING

When buds of palm do burst and spread Their downy feathers in the lane, And orchard blossoms, white and red, Breathe Spring delight for Autumn gain; And the skylark shakes his wings in the rain;

O then is the season to look for a bride!

Choose her warily, woo her unseen; For the choicest maids are those that hide Like dewy violets under the green.

SONG--AUTUMN

When nuts behind the hazel-leaf Are brown as the squirrel that hunts them free, And the fields are rich with the sun-burnt sheaf, 'Mid the blue cornflower and the yellowing tree; And the farmer glows and beams in his glee;

O then is the season to wed thee a bride!

Ere the garners are filled and the ale-cups foam; For a smiling hostess is the pride And flower of every Harvest Home.

SORROWS AND JOYS

Bury thy sorrows, and they shall rise As souls to the immortal skies, And there look down like mothers' eyes.

But let thy joys be fresh as flowers, That suck the honey of the showers, And bloom alike on huts and towers.

So shall thy days be sweet and bright; Solemn and sweet thy starry night, Conscious of love each change of light.

The stars will watch the flowers asleep, The flowers will feel the soft stars weep, And both will mix sensations deep.

With these below, with those above, Sits evermore the brooding dove, Uniting both in bonds of love.

For both by nature are akin; Sorrow, the ashen fruit of sin, And joy, the juice of life within.

Children of earth are these; and those The spirits of divine repose - Death radiant o'er all human woes.

O, think what then had been thy doom, If homeless and without a tomb They had been left to haunt the gloom!

O, think again what now they are - Motherly love, tho' dim and far, Imaged in every l.u.s.trous star.

For they, in their salvation, know No vestige of their former woe, While thro' them all the heavens do flow.

Thus art thou wedded to the skies, And watched by ever-loving eyes, And warned by yearning sympathies.

SONG

The flower unfolds its dawning cup, And the young sun drinks the star-dews up, At eve it droops with the bliss of day, And dreams in the midnight far away.