PRAISED be the Rivers, from their mountain-springs
Shouting to Freedom, "Plant thy Banners here!"
To harassed Piety, "Dismiss thy fear,
And in our Caverns smooth thy ruffled wings!"
Nor be unthanked their tardiest lingerings
'Mid reedy fens wide-spread and marshes drear,
Their own creation, till their long career
End in the sea engulphed. Such welcomings
As came from mighty Po when Venice rose,
Greeted those simple Heirs of truth divine
Who near his fountains sought obscure repose,
Yet were prepared as glorious lights to shine,
Should that be needed for their sacred Charge;
Blest Prisoners They, whose spirits are at large!
(SUGGESTED IN A WESTMORELAND COTTAGE.)
DRIVEN in by Autumn's sharpening air, From half-stripped woods and pastures bare, Brisk Robin seeks a kindlier home:
Not like a beggar is he come,
But enters as a looked-for guest,
Confiding in his ruddy breast,
As if it were a natural shield
Charged with a blazon on the field,
Due to that good and pious deed
Of which we in the Ballad read.
But pensive fancies putting by,
And wild-wood sorrows, speedily
He plays the expert ventriloquist ;
And, caught by glimpses now - now missed,
Puzzles the listener with a doubt
If the soft voice he throws about
Comes from within doors or without!
Was ever such a sweet confusion,
Sustained by delicate illusion?
The notes are from the floor or ceiling; And there's a riddle to be guessed,
'Till you have marked his heaving breast, Where tiny sinking, and faint swell, Betray the Elf that loves to dwell
In Robin's bosom, as a chosen cell.
Heart-pleased we smile upon the Bird If seen, and with like pleasure stirred Commend him, when he's only heard. But small and fugitive our gain Compared with his who long hath lain, With languid limbs and patient head, Reposing on a lone sick-bed; Where now he daily hears a strain That cheats him of too busy cares, Eases his pain, and helps his prayers. And who but this dear Bird beguiled The fever of that pale-faced Child? Now cooling, with his passing wing, Her forehead, like a breeze of Spring:
Recalling now, with descant soft
Shed round her pillow from aloft,
Sweet thoughts of angels hovering nigh,
And the invisible sympathy
Of" Matthew, Mark, and Luke, and John,
Blessing the bed she lies upon :"*
And sometimes, just as listening ends
In slumber, with the cadence blends
A dream of that low-warbled hymn
Which Old-folk, fondly pleased to trim
Lamps of faith now burning dim,
Say that the Cherubs carved in stone,
When clouds gave way at dead of night,
And the moon filled the church with light,
Used to sing in heavenly tone,
Above and round the sacred places
They guard, with wingèd baby-faces.
Thrice-happy Creature! in all lands Nurtured by hospitable hands:
"Matthew, Mark, and Luke, and John,
Bless the bed that I lie on,"
are part of a child's prayer, still in general use through the northern counties.
Free entrance to this cot has he,
Entrance and exit both yet free;
And, when the keen unruffled weather
That thus brings man and bird together,
Shall with its pleasantness be past,
And casement closed and door made fast,
To keep at bay the howling blast,
He needs not fear the season's rage,
For the whole house is Robin's cage.
Whether the bird flit here or there,
O'er table lilt, or perch on chair,
Though some may frown, and make a stir
To scare him as a trespasser,
And he belike will flinch or start,
Good friends he has to take his part;
One chiefly, who with voice and look
Pleads for him from the chimney nook,
Where sits the Dame, and wears away
Her long and vacant holiday;
With images about her heart,
Reflected, from the years gone by,
On human nature's second infancy.
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