Flower of the wild! whose purple glow
Adorns the dusky mountain's side,
Not the gay hues of Iris' bow,
Nor garden's artful, varied pride,
With all its wealth of sweets could cheer,
Like thee, the hardy mountaineer.
Flower of his heart! thy fragrance mild,
Of peace and freedom seems to breathe,
To pluck thy blossoms in the wild,
And deck his bonnet with the wreath,
Where dwelt of old his rustic sires,
Is all his simple wish requires.
Flower of his dear-loved native land!
Alas, when distant, far more dear!
When he from some cold foreign strand,
Looks homeward through the blinding tear,
How must his aching heart deplore,
That home and thee he sees no more!
HERE is a tongue in every leaf!
A voice in every rill!
A voice that speaketh everywhere,
In flood and fire, through earth and air;
A tongue that's never still!
'Tis the Great Spirit, wide diffused
Through everything we see,
That with our spirits communeth
Of things mysterious-Life and Death,
Time and Eternity.
I see Him in the blazing sun,
And in the thunder cloud;
I hear him in the mighty roar
That rushes through the forest hoar,
When winds are piping loud.
I see him, hear him, everywhere,
In all things-darkness, light,
Silence, and sound; but, most of all,
When slumber's dusky curtains fall
At the dead hour of night.
I feel Him in the silent dews
By grateful earth betrayed;
I feel Him in the gentle showers,
The soft south wind, the breath of flowers, The sunshine, and the shade.
And yet (ungrateful that I am!)
I've turned in sullen mood
From all these things whereof He said
When the great whole was finished,
My sadness on the loveliest things
Fell like unwholesome dew-
The darkness that encompass'd me,
The gloom I felt so palpably,
Mine own dark spirit threw.
Yet He was patient-slow to wrath,
Though every day provoked
By selfish, pining discontent,
Acceptance cold or negligent,
And promises revoked.
And still the same rich feast was spread
For my insensate heart.-
Not always so I woke again,
To join Creation's rapturous strain,
"O Lord, how good Thou, art!"
The clouds drew up, the shadows fled,
The glorious sun broke out,
And love, and hope, and gratitude,
Dispell'd that miserable mood
Of darkness and of doubt.
BLESS'D is the turf, serenely bless'd
Where throbbing hearts may sink to rest,
Where life's long journey turns to sleep,
Nor ever pilgrim wakes to weep.
A little sod, a few sad flowers,
A tear for long-departed hours,
Is all that feeling hearts request
To hush their weary thoughts to rest.
There shall no vain ambition come
To lure them from their quiet home;
Nor sorrow lift, with heart-strings riven,
The meek imploring eye to heaven;
Nor sad remembrance stoop to shed
His wrinkles on the slumberer's head;
And never, never love repair
To breathe his idle whispers there!
N youth from rock to rock I went,
From hill to hill, in discontent
Of pleasure high and turbulent,
Most pleased when most uneasy;
But now my own delights I make,
My thirst at every rill can slake,
And Nature's love of thee partake,
Her much-loved daisy !
Thee Winter in the garland wears
That thinly decks his few grey hairs;
Spring parts the clouds with softest airs,
That she may sun thee;
Whole summer-fields are thine by right;
And Autumn, melancholy wight!
Doth in thy crimson head delight,
When rains are on thee.
Be violets in their secret mews
The flowers the wanton zephyrs choose;
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