The tone of languid nature. Mighty winds,
That sweep the skirt of some far-spreading wood
Of ancient growth, make music not unlike
The dash of ocean on his winding shore,
And lull the spirit while they fill the mind;
Nor less composure waits upon the roar
Of distant floods, or on the softer voice
Of neighboring fountain, or of rills that slip
Through the cleft rock, and, chiming as they fall
Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length
In matted grass, that with a livelier green
Betrays the secret of their silent course.
The earth was made so various, that the mind
Of desultory man, studious of change
And pleased with novelty, might be indulged.
Prospects, however lovely, may be seen
Till half their beauties fade; the weary sight,
Too well acquainted with their smiles, slides off
Fastidious, seeking less familiar scenes.
VANITY OF EARTHLY POSSESSIONS.
All flesh is grass, and all its glory fades
Like the fair flower dishevelled in the wind:
Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream:
The man we celebrate must find a tomb,
And we, that worship him, ignoble graves.
Nothing is proof against the general curse
Of vanity, that seizes all below.
The only amaranthine * flower on earth
Is virtue; the only lasting treasure, truth.
Who loves a garden loves a greenhouse too.
Unconscious of a less propitious clime,
There blooms exotic beauty, warm and snug,
While the winds whistle and the snows descend.
The spiry myrtle with unwithering leaf
Shines there, and flourishes.
Of Portugal and Western India there,
The ruddier orange, and the paler lime,
Peep through their polished foliage at the storm,
And seem to smile at what they need not fear.
Hark! 'tis the twanging horn o'er yonder bridge,
That with its wearisome but needful length
Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon
Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright;
He comes, the herald of a noisy world,
With spattered boots, strapped waist, and frozen locks;
News from all nations lumbering at his back.
True to his charge, the close-packed load behind,
Yet careless what he brings, his one concern
Is to conduct it to the destined inn;
And, having dropped the expected bag, pass on.
He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch,
Cold and yet cheerful: messenger of grief
Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some;
To him indifferent whether grief or joy.
O Winter, ruler of the inverted year,
Thy scattered hair with sleet-like ashes filled,
Thy breath congealed upon thy lips, thy cheeks
Fringed with a beard made white with other snows
Than those of age, thy forehead wrapped in clouds,
A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne
A sliding car, indebted to no wheels,
But urged by storms along its slippery way,-
I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st,
And dreaded as thou art.
Come, evening, once again, season of peace;
Return, sweet evening, and continue long!
Methinks I see thee in the streaky west,
With matron step slow-moving, while the Night
Treads on thy sweeping train; one hand employed
In letting fall the curtain of
On bird and beast, the other charged for man
With sweet oblivion of the cares of day;
Not sumptuously adorned, not needing aid,
Like homely-featured Night, of clustering gems;
A star or two, just twinkling on thy brow,
Suffices thee; save that the moon is thine,
Not less than hers, not worn indeed on high,
With ostentatious pageantry, but set
With modest grandeur in thy purple zone,
Resplendent less, but of an ampler round.
WISDOM AND Knowledge.
Knowledge and Wisdom, far from being one, Have ofttimes no connection. Knowledge dwells In heads replete with thoughts of other men; Wisdom in minds attentive to their own. Knowledge, a rude, unprofitable mass,
The mere materials with which Wisdom builds, Till smoothed, and squared, and fitted to its place,
Does but encumber whom its seems t' enrich.
Knowledge is proud that he has learned so much;
Wisdom is humble that he knows no more.
The walk still verdant under oaks and elms,
Whose outspread branches overarch the glade.
The roof, though movable through all its length
As the wind sways it, has yet well sufficed,
And intercepting in their silent fall
The frequent flakes, has kept a path for me.
No noise is here, or none that hinders thought.
The redbreast warbles still, but is content
With slender notes, and more than half suppressed.
Pleased with his solitude, and flitting light
From spray to spray, where'er he rests he shakes
From many a twig the pendent drops of ice,
That tinkle in the withered leaves below;
Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft,
Charms more than silence.
[The Saco has its springs in New Hampshire, near the Notch of the White Mountains, and reaches the Atlantic after a winding course through the State of Maine. It receives the waters of many lakes and streams, passes over numerous falls, and is throughout remarkable for its clearness and beauty.]
FORTH from New Hampshire's granite steeps
Fair Saco rolls in chainless pride,
Rejoicing as it laughs and leaps
Down the gray mountain's rugged side:
The stern, rent crags, and tall, dark pines,
Watch that young pilgrim passing by, While close above them frowns or shines The black, torn cloud, or deep-blue sky.
Soon, gathering strength, it swiftly takes Through Bartlett's vales its tuneful way, Or hides in Conway's fragrant brakes,
Retreating from the glare of day; Now, full of vigorous life, it springs From the strong mountain's circling arms, And roams, in wide and lucid rings Among green Fryburg's woods and farms.
Here, with low voice, it comes and calls
For tribute from some hermit lake;
And here it wildly foams and falls,
Bidding the forest echoes wake:
Now sweeping on, it runs its race
By mound and mill in playful glee;
Now welcomes with its pure embrace
The vestal waves of Ossipee.
At last, with loud and solemn roar,
Spurning each rocky ledge and bar,
It sinks where, on the sounding shore,
The broad Atlantic heaves afar.
There on old ocean's faithful breast
Its wealth of waves it proudly flings:
And there its weary waters rest,
Clear as they left their crystal springs.
Sweet stream! it were a fate divine,
Till this world's tasks and toils were done,
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