And many a bud, by rainbow and by ray
Nursed into bloom throughout the varied day;
While breezes of the ocean, hour by hour,
Waft soft the fragrance of our western bower.
A bower of sweets-of mirth and melody-
Loved by the early butterfly and bee:
Beautiful Endsleigh! when on rainbow wing
Floats o'er thee, thus, the angel of the Spring,
Still let me wander in thy breathing woods,
Still let me linger near thy murmuring floods,
And list as brook and river rush along;
Of brook and river that soft liquid song,
Which ceases not at Winter's voice severe,
But falls for ever on Devonia's ear;-
Mingled with woodland melodies that run
From bough to bough incessant, and anon
His voice that gives to all things else a charm,
Poured 'mid the fickle shower and sun-glance warm
The voice of the frank lark. But I must stray
Far from thy smiling fields and golden day;
Farewell, ye matchless scenes!-the world hath power
To call me hence,-and Care will have his hour.
Pampering the coward heart
With feelings all too delicate for use.
He was not old when I beheld him last,
Although the sunrise of his life was past;
And beauty shed her gleams around him still,—
Beauty that grows from mind, and thoughts that fill
The mind with images of grace and might,
As streams reflecting stars look heavenly bright.
Genius was on him as a softening power,
And love and sadness wove for him a bower,
Where, like a delicate bird, his spirit fond
Warbled and slept-fearing the world beyond!
But Genius panoplied in lofty will,
And made by Reason more majestic still,
That builds a tower of strength within the soul,
And thence controlling all things, spurns control,-
Genius, that struggles with the stormiest tide,
And never yet self-immolating died,—
Not these the Dreamer had; and, far away,
Far from his kind, when sorrow on him lay,
Stole to the woods, and hid in their green gloom,
Forgot alike Man's duty and his doom!
There sent his spirit forth upon the breeze,
That is itself the spirit of the trees,
A wanderer, roaming upon viewless wings,
Speaking with many voices, many things.
Yet more the Dreamer, couched on wilding flowers,
The music loved of waterfalls and showers,
Lulling the senses that the birds would waken,
With the shrill notes from their glad bosoms shaken;
They, feathered minstrels, sang of love and strife,
And seemed to chide him back to human life.
And wherefore loved he not,-when Love was made To fashion life into an Indian braid;
Upon each pricking briar and grieving thorn
Placing bright buds, to hide and to adorn?
And wherefore loved he not? Alas! too well,
Too early on his heart, Love's influence fell:
One had he loved,-with worship loved that one,
As old Chaldeans gazed upon the sun;—
Gazed, until Fancy with its passionate sense,
Gave to their spiritual dreams, omnipotence:
Till fable grew to truth, and sternest ill
Loosened not love and worship from their will.
So loved the Dreamer! and when blight came on
Of death, or change, or distance (all are one)
He did not pluck the arrow from his heart;
He did not bribe his madness to depart;
He did not look upon the world remaining;
He did not seek what yet was worth the gaining;
But made in blooming solitude his lair,
(Bland Nature but the Hebe to despair)
And nursed sick thoughts and fancies, till he found
In every lovely sight and pleasant sound,
Even the lark's song, and the dancing leaf,
The fitting food of lovelorn, passionate grief.
And so he died-a Dreamer in his prime!
A Dreamer in the glorious summer-time,
When Nature, full of majesty and health,
Is ripening in her bosom future wealth!
O. Nature! wise as lovely, glad as wise,
When shall we learn of thee from storms to rise!
The earthquake and the whirlwind sink to rest,
And thou dost shake their influence from thy breast;
Repairest tint by tint, and flower by flower,
Beauty rent from thee in the trial-hour,
And o'er the ravage that may not be hidden,
Sheddest new grace, unlooked for and unbidden :-
O, Nature! wise as lovely, glad as wise,
When shall we learn of thee from storms to rise,
And feel that suffering only vivifies!
DEPENDENT from an oaken beam, which spans
The little unceiled church of Wilydale,
There waves a Maiden's Garland. One might think That this sad symbol's filmy garniture
Was on the cushion wrought with slenderest thread, By busy bobbins intricately plied,
So lace-like is the texture of its web.
It is not so; 't is but a hoop enwrapt
pure unsullied paper, deftly cut
Into a mimic pattern by the hand
Of the poor girl, for whom the fragile thing
Will serve as a memento some few years,
Then drop to the dust, as she did.
Whose birthplace was beneath a peasant's roof,
But whose bland countenance and faultless form
Would fitlier have adorned a lady's bower;
For Esther Ashton looked too delicate,
E'en in the laughing days of childish health,
To stand the gusts of wintry poverty.
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