Like a freed vernal stream. I may not tread With them those pathways,-to the feverish bed Of sickness bound; yet oh, my God! I bless Thy mercy, that with Sabbath peace hath fill'd My chasten'd heart, and all its throbbings still'd To one deep calm of lowliest thankfulness.

BACK

RECOVERY.

ACK then, once more to breast the waves of life, To battle on against the unceasing spray, To sink o'erwearied in the stormy strife, And rise to strife again; yet on my way,. Oh! linger still, thou light of better day, Born in the hour of loneliness; and you, Ye childlike thoughts, the holy and the true, Ye that came bearing, while subdued I lay, The faith, the insight of life's vernal morn Back on my soul, a clear bright sense, new-born, Now leave me not! but as, profoundly pure, A blue stream rushes through a darker lake Unchanged, e'en thus with me your journey take, Wafting sweet airs of heaven through this low world obscure.

WOOD WALK AND HYMN.

"Move along these shades

In gentleness of heart: with gentle hand,
Touch-for there is a spirit in the woods."

FATHER-CHILD.

Wordsworth.

Child. There are the aspens with their silvery leaves

Trembling, for ever trembling; though the lime And chestnut boughs, and those long arching

sprays

Of eglantine, hang still, as if the wood

Were all one picture!

Father.

Hast thou heard, my boy,

The peasant's legend of that quivering tree?
Child. No, father; doth he say the fairies dance
Amidst the branches?

Father.
Oh! a cause more deep,
More solemn far, the rustic doth assign
To the strange restlessness of those wan leaves!
The cross he deems, the blessed cross, whereon
The meek Redeemer bow'd His head to death,
Was framed of aspen wood; and since that hour,
Through all its race, the pale tree hath sent down
A thrilling consciousness, a secret awe,

Making them tremulous when not a breeze
Disturbs the airy thistle-down, or shakes
The light lines of the shining gossamer.

Child (after a pause). Dost thou believe it, father?

Father.

Nay, my child:

We walk in clearer light. But yet, even now,
With something of a lingering love, I read
The characters, by that mysterious hour,
Stamp'd on the reverential soul of man
In visionary days, and thence thrown back
On the fair forms of nature. Many a sign
Of the great sacrifice which won us heaven
The woodman and the mountaineer can trace
On rock, on herb, and flower. And be it so!
They do not wisely that, with hurried hand,
Would pluck these salutary fancies forth
From their strong soil within the peasant's breast,
And scatter them-far, far too fast!-away

As worthless weeds. Oh! little do we know
When they have soothed, when saved!

But come, dear boy! My words grow tinged with thought too deep for

thee.

Come-let us search for violets.

Child.

Know you not

More of the legends which the woodmen tell
Amidst the trees and flowers?

Father.

Wilt thou know more?

Bring, then, the folding leaf, with dark-brown

stains,

There-by the mossy roots of yon old beech,
'Midst the rich tuft of cowslips-see'st thou not?
There is a spray of woodbine from the tree
Just bending o'er it with a wild bee's weight.
Child. The arum leaf?

Father. Yes; these deep-inwrought marks,
The villager will tell thee (and with voice
Lower'd in his true heart's reverent earnestness),

Are the flower's portion from th' atoning blood
On Calvary shed. Beneath the cross it grew;
And, in the vase-like hollow of its leaf,
Catching from that dread shower of agony
A few mysterious drops, transmitted thus
Unto the groves and hills their sealing stains,
A heritage, for storm or vernal wind

Never to waft away!

And hast thou seen

The passion-flower?-It grows not in the woods, But 'midst the bright things brought from other climes.

Child. What, the pale, star-shaped flower, with purple streaks

And light green tendrils?

Father. Thou hast mark'd it well. Yes, a pale, starry, dreamy-looking flower, As from a land of spirits!-To mine eye Those faint wan petals-colourless—and yet Not white, but shadowy, with the mystic lines (As letters of some wizard language gone) Into their vapour-like transparence wrought, Bear something of a strange solemnity, Awfully lovely!-and the Christian's thought Loves, in their cloudy pencilling, to find Dread symbols of his Lord's last mortal pangs, Set by God's hand: the coronal of thornsThe cross-the wounds-with other meanings deep, Which I will teach thee when we meet again That flower the chosen for the martyr's wreath, The Saviour's holy flower.

But let us pause.

Now have we reach'd the very inmost heart
Of the old wood.-How the green shadows close

Into a rich, clear, summer darkness round,
A luxury of gloom! Scarce doth one ray,
Even when a soft wind parts the foliage, steal
O'er the bronzed pillars of these deep arcades;
Or if it doth, 'tis with a mellow'd hue
Of glow-worm colour'd light.

Here, in the days
Of pagan visions, would have been a place
For worship of the wood-nymphs! Through these
oaks

A small, fair-gleaming temple might have thrown
The quivering image of its Dorian shafts
On the stream's bosom; or a sculptured form,
Dryad, or fountain-goddess of the gloom,
Have bow'd its head o'er that dark crystal down,
Drooping with beauty, as a lily droops

Under bright rain: but we, my child, are here
With God, our God, a Spirit, who requires
Heart-worship, given in spirit and in truth;
And this high knowledge-deep, rich, vast enough
To fill and hallow all the solitude-

Makes consecrated earth where'er we move,
Without the aid of shrines.

What! dost thou feel

The solemn whispering influence of the scene
Oppressing thy young heart, that thou dost draw
More closely to my side, and clasp my hand
Faster in thine? Nay, fear not, gentle child!
'Tis love, not fear, whose vernal breath pervades
The stillness round. Come, sit beside me here,
Where brooding violets mantle this green slope
With dark exuberance-and beneath these plumes
Of wavy fern, look where the cup-moss holds
In its pure crimson goblets, fresh and bright,