His duties of the day will seem The fact of life, and mine the dream:

The destinies that bards have sung, Regeneration to the young, Reverberation of the truth, And virtuous culture unto youth!

Youth! in whose season let abound All flowers and fruits that strew the ground, Voluptuous joy where love consents, And health and pleasure pitch their tents:

All rapture and all pure delight; A garden all unknown to blight; But never the unnatural sight That throngs the shameless song this night!

SONG

Under boughs of breathing May, In the mild spring-time I lay, Lonely, for I had no love; And the sweet birds all sang for pity, Cuckoo, lark, and dove.

Tell me, cuckoo, then I cried, Dare I woo and wed a bride?

I, like thee, have no home-nest; And the twin notes thus tuned their ditty, - 'Love can answer best.'

Nor, warm dove with tender coo, Have I thy soft voice to woo, Even were a damsel by; And the deep woodland crooned its ditty, - 'Love her first and try.'

Nor have I, wild lark, thy wing, That from bluest heaven can bring Bliss, whatever fate befall; And the sky-lyrist trilled this ditty, - 'Love will give thee all.'

So it chanced while June was young, Wooing well with fervent song, I had won a damsel coy; And the sweet birds that sang for pity, Jubileed for joy.

PASTORALS

I

How sweet on sunny afternoons, For those who journey light and well, To loiter up a hilly rise Which hides the prospect far beyond, And fancy all the landscape lying Beautiful and still;

Beneath a sky of summer blue, Whose rounded cloudlets, folded soft, Gaze on the scene which we await And picture from their peacefulness; So calmly to the earth inclining Float those loving shapes!

Like airy brides, each singling out A spot to love and bless with love, Their creamy bosoms glowing warm, Till distance weds them to the hills, And with its latest gleam the river Sinks in their embrace.

And silverly the river runs, And many a graceful wind he makes, By fields where feed the happy flocks, And hedge-rows hushing pleasant lanes, The charms of English home reflected In his shining eye:

Ancestral oak, broad-foliaged elm, Rich meadows sunned and starred with flowers, The cottage breathing tender smoke Against the brooding golden air, With glimpses of a stately mansion On a woodland sward;

And circling round, as with a ring, The distance spreading amber haze, Enclosing hills and pastures sweet; A depth of soft and mellow light Which fills the heart with sudden yearning Aimless and serene!

No disenchantment follows here, For nature's inspiration moves The dream which she herself fulfils; And he whose heart, like valley warmth, Steams up with joy at scenes like this Shall never be forlorn.

And O for any human soul The rapture of a wide survey - A valley sweeping to the West, With all its wealth of loveliness, Is more than recompense for days That taught us to endure.

II

Yon upland slope which hides the sun Ascending from his eastern deeps, And now against the hues of dawn One level line of tillage rears; The furrowed brow of toil and time; To many it is but a sweep of land!

To others 'tis an Autumn trust, But unto me a mystery; - An influence strange and swift as dreams; A whispering of old romance; A temple naked to the clouds; Or one of nature's bosoms fresh revealed,

Heaving with adoration! there The work of husbandry is done, And daily bread is daily earned; Nor seems there ought to indicate The springs which move in me such thoughts, But from my soul a spirit calls them up.

All day into the open sky, All night to the eternal stars, For ever both at morn and eve Men mellow distances draw near, And shadows lengthen in the dusk, Athwart the heavens it rolls its glimmering line!

When twilight from the dream-hued West Sighs hush! and all the land is still; When, from the lush empurpling East, The twilight of the crowing c.o.c.k Peers on the drowsy village roofs, Athwart the heavens that glimmering line is seen.

And now beneath the rising sun, Whose shining chariot overpeers The irradiate ridge, while fetlock deep In the rich soil his coursers plunge - How grand in robes of light it looks!

How glorious with rare suggestive grace!

The ploughman mounting up the height Becomes a glowing shape, as though 'Twere young Triptolemus, plough in hand, While Ceres in her amber scarf With gentle love directs him how To wed the willing earth and hope for fruits!

The furrows running up are fraught With meanings; there the G.o.ddess walks, While Proserpine is young, and there - 'Mid the late autumn sheaves, her voice Sobbing and choked with dumb despair - The nights will hear her wailing for her child!

Whatever dim tradition tells, Whatever history may reveal, Or fancy, from her starry brows, Of light or dreamful l.u.s.tre shed, Could not at this sweet time increase The quiet consecration of the spot.

Blest with the sweat of labour, blest With the young sun's first vigorous beams, Village hope and harvest prayer, - The heart that throbs beneath it holds A bliss so perfect in itself Men's thoughts must borrow rather than bestow.

III

Now standing on this hedgeside path, Up which the evening winds are blowing Wildly from the lingering lines Of sunset o'er the hills; Unaided by one motive thought, My spirit with a strange impulsion Rises, like a fledgling, Whose wings are not mature, but still Supported by its strong desire Beats up its native air and leaves The tender mother's nest.

Great music under heaven is made, And in the track of rushing darkness Comes the solemn shape of night, And broods above the earth.

A thing of Nature am I now, Abroad, without a sense or feeling Born not of her bosom; Content with all her truths and fates; Ev'n as yon strip of gra.s.s that bows Above the new-born violet bloom, And sings with wood and field.

IV

Lo, as a tree, whose wintry twigs Drink in the sun with fibrous joy, And down into its dampest roots Thrills quickened with the draught of life, I wake unto the dawn, and leave my griefs to drowse.

I rise and drink the fresh sweet air: Each draught a future bud of Spring; Each glance of blue a birth of green; I will not mimic yonder oak That dallies with dead leaves ev'n while the primrose peeps.

But full of these warm-whispering beams, Like Memnon in his mother's eye, - Aurora! when the statue stone Moaned soft to her pathetic touch, - My soul shall own its parent in the founts of day!

And ever in the recurring light, True to the primal joy of dawn, Forget its barren griefs; and aye Like aspens in the faintest breeze Turn all its silver sides and tremble into song.

V

Now from the meadow floods the wild duck clamours, Now the wood pigeon wings a rapid flight, Now the homeward rookery follows up its vanguard, And the valley mists are curling up the hills.

Three short songs gives the clear-voiced throstle, Sweetening the twilight ere he fills the nest; While the little bird upon the leafless branches Tweets to its mate a tiny loving note.

Deeper the stillness hangs on every motion; Calmer the silence follows every call; Now all is quiet save the roosting pheasant, The bell-wether's tinkle and the watch-dog's bark.

Softly shine the lights from the silent kindling homestead, Stars of the hearth to the shepherd in the fold; Springs of desire to the traveller on the roadway; Ever breathing incense to the ever-blessing sky!

VI