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Sorrows mingled with contents, prepare
Rest for care;
Joun FORD.- [From "The Broken Heart.”)
This common field, this little brook,
What is there hidden in these two,
Oftener than on the heavens blue?
Since last I stood upon this plank,
And watched the pebbles as they sank?
It hurries to my eager ken,
Had darkened o'er the world since then;
It is the same clear dazzling scene :-
Ne'er quits her gay and flowery crown ;
The primrose for the thistle-down.
And why should not the river's song
When I was here an urchin strong ?
For, once, the past was poor to me;
Shed life and strength, and I was free, I felt not- knew no grateful pleasure : All seemed but as the common measure : But NOW
-the experienced Spirit old Turns all the leaden past to gold !
Home-thoughts, from Abroad.
Oh! to be in England
And after April, when May follows, And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallowsHark! where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge Leans to the field and scatters on the clover Blossoms and dewdrops — at the bent spray's edgeThat's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, Lest you should think he never could recapture The first fine careless rapture ! And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The buttercups, the little children's dower, -Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower !
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk;
In some melodious plot
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
O for a draught of vintage, that hath been
Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Dance, and Provencal song, and sun-burnt mirth!
And purple-stained mouth ;
And with thee fade away into the forest dim :
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
And leaden-eyed despairs;
Or new Love pine at them beyond tomorrow.
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards : Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
But here there is no light,
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows