Were borne upon the air; and, sailing slow,
The broad-winged stork sought on the church-tower
His consecrated nest. O lovely scenes!
I gazed upon you with intense delight,
And yet with thoughts that weigh the spirit down.
I was a stranger in a foreign land;
And, knowing that these eyes should nevermore Behold that glorious prospect, Earth itself Appeared the place of pilgrimage it is.
I love the homely and familiar phrase; And I will call thee Cousin Margaret, However quaint amid the measured line The good old term appears.
When delicate tongues disclaim old terms of kin,
Sir-ing and Madam-ing as civilly
As if the road between the heart and lips Were such a weary and Laplandish way, That the poor travellers came to the red gates Half frozen.. Trust me, Cousin Margaret, For many a day my memory hath played
The creditor with me on your account,
And made me shame to think that I should owe So long the debt of kindness. But in truth, Like Christian on his pilgrimage, I bear So heavy a pack of business, that, albeit
I toil on mainly, in our twelve hours' race Time leaves me distanced. Loath indeed were I That for a moment you should lay to me
Unkind neglect. Mine, Margaret, is a heart That smokes not; yet methinks there should be
Who know its genuine warmth. I am not one Who can play off my smiles and courtesies To every lady, of her lapdog tired,
Who wants a plaything; I am no sworn friend Of half an hour, as apt to leave as love; Mine are no mushroom feelings, which spring up At once without a seed, and take no root, Wiseliest distrusted. In a narrow sphere, The little circle of domestic life,
I would be known and loved: the world beyond Is not for me. But, Margaret, sure I think That you should know me well; for you and I Grew up together, and, when we look back Upon old times, our recollections paint The same familiar faces. Did I wield The wand of Merlin's magic, I would make Brave witchcraft. We would have a fairy ship, — Ay, a new ark, as in that other flood
Which swept the sons of Anak from the earth;
The Sylphs should waft us to some goodly isle, Like that where whilom old Apollidon, Retiring wisely from the troublous world, Built up his blameless spell; and I would bid The Sea-nymphs pile around their coral bowers, That we might stand upon the beach, and mark The far-off breakers shower their silver spray, And hear the eternal roar, whose pleasant sound Told us that never mariner should reach Our quiet coast. In such a blessed isle We might renew the days of infancy, And life, like a long childhood, pass away Without one care. It may be, Margaret, That I shall yet be gathered to my friends; For I am not of those who live estranged Of choice, till at the last they join their race In the family vault. If so, if I should lose, Like my old friend the Pilgrim, this huge pack So heavy on my shoulders, I and mine Right pleasantly will end our pilgrimage. If not, if I should never get beyond This Vanity-town, there is another world Where friends will meet. And often, Margaret, I gaze at night into the boundless sky, And think that I shall there be born again, The exalted native of some better star; And, like the untaught American, I look
To find. in heaven the things I loved on earth.
NAY, William, nay, not so! the changeful year, In all its due successions, to my sight Presents but varied beauties, transient all, All in their season good. These fading leaves, That with their rich variety of hues Make yonder forest in the slanting sun So beautiful, in you awake the thought Of winter,
Each like a fleshless skeleton shall stretch
Its bare, brown boughs; when not a flower shall spread
Its colors to the day, and not a bird Carol its joyance; but all nature wear One sullen aspect, bleak and desolate, To eye, ear, feeling, comfortless alike. To me their many-colored beauties speak Of times of merriment and festival, The year's best holiday: I call to mind The schoolboy-days, when in the falling leaves I saw with eager hope the pleasant sign Of coming Christmas; when at morn I took My wooden calendar, and, counting up Once more its often-told account, smoothed off Each day with more delight the daily notch. To you the beauties of the autumnal year Make mournful emblems; and you think of man
Doomed to the grave's long winter, spirit-broken, Bending beneath the burden of his years, Sense-dulled and fretful, “full of aches and pains," Yet clinging still to life. To me they show The calm decay of nature when the mind Retains its strength, and in the languid eye Religion's holy hopes kindle a joy
That makes old age look lovely. All to you Is dark and cheerless: you in this fair world See some destroying principle abroad,- Air, earth, and water full of living things, Each on the other preying; and the ways Of man a strange, perplexing labyrinth, Where crimes and miseries, each producing each, Render life loathsome, and destroy the hope That should in death bring comfort. Oh, my friend, That thy faith were as mine! that thou couldst see Death still producing life, and evil still
Working its own destruction! couldst behold The strifes and troubles of this troubled world With the strong eye that sees the promised day Dawn through this night of tempest! All things
Would minister to joy; then should thine heart Be healed and harmonized, and thou wouldst feel GOD always, everywhere, and all in all.
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