But man alone to bounteous Heaven,
Thanksgiving's conscious strains can raise ; To favoured man alone 'tis given
To join the angelic choir in praise!
COWSLIP of all beloved, of all admired! Thee let me sing, the homely shepherd's pride; Fit emblem of the maid I love, a form Gladdening the sight of man; a sweet perfume, Sending its balmy fragrance to the soul; Daughter of Spring, and Messenger of May! Which shall I first declare, which most extol, Thy sovereign beauties, or thy sovereign use? With thee the rural dame a draught prepares, A nectar draught, more luscious to my taste Than all thy boasted wine, besotted Bacchus ! Maidens with thee their auburn tresses braid; Or, with the daisy and the primrose pale Thy flowers entwining, weave a chaplet fair, To grace that pole round which the village train Lead on their dance to greet the jocund May; Oft on that merry morn, I've joined their throng A glad spectator; oft their uncouth dance Eyed most attentive; when, with tawdry show, Ill-sorted ribbons decked each maiden's cap, And cowslip-garlands every rustic hat.
The Cowslip or Paigle, Primula veris, is called by the French peasants, Fleur de coucou, from its blooming at the time the cuckoo appears. The corolla is marked within with five orange spots, in which Shakspeare supposed its sweet odour to reside:
The Cowslips tall her pensioners be
In their gold coats spots you see; Those be rubies, fairy favours,
In those freckles live their savours.
THERE is a bay, all still and lone, And in the shade one broad grey stone, Where at the evening hour,
The sun upon the water weaves Motions of light among the leaves
Of a low-hanging bower;
And one old sycamore that dips Into the stream its dark green tips,
And drinks all day and night: And opposite, the mountain high Doth intercept the deep blue sky, And shuts it out from sight.
Last year it was my haunted seat, And every evening did I meet A grave and solemn Wren: He sat and never spoke a word A holy and religious bird
He seemed unto me then.
I thought perchance, that sin and strife Might in a winged creature's life, Be somehow strangely blent; So hermit-like he lived apart, And might be in his little heart A woodland penitent!
Deceitful thing! into the brook Hour after hour, a stedfast look From off his perch was sent ; And yet, I thought, his eyes too bright, Too happy for an anchorite
On lonely penance bent.
Ah! yes, for long his nest hath been Behind yon alder's leafy screen
By Rothay's chiming waters;
Two rapid years are run, and now This monk hath peopled every bough With little sons and daughters.
I will not blame thee, Friar Wren, Because among stout-hearted men Some truant monks there be; And, if you could their names collect, I rather more than half suspect
That I should not be free.
Ere while I dreamed of cloistered cells, Of gloomy courts and matin bells, And painted windows rare; But common life's less real gleams Shone warm on my monastic dreams, And melted them in air.
My captive heart is altered now; And, had I but one little bough
Of thy green alder-tree,
I would not live too long alone, Or languish there for want of one To share the nest with me!
From Cherwell Water-Lily and other Poems by REV. F. W. FABER, M. A.
ОH! when my friend and I
In some thick wood have wandered heedless on, Hid from the vulgar eye, and sat us down Upon the sloping cowslip-covered bank, Where the pure limpid stream has slid along In grateful errors through the underwood,
Sweet murmuring; methought the shrill-tongued thrush Mended his song of love; the sooty blackbird Mellowed his pipe, and softened every note : The eglantine smelled sweeter, and the rose Assumed a dye more deep; whilst every flower Vied with its fellow plant in luxury
Of dress.—Oh! then, the longest Summer's day Seem'd too, too much in haste: still the full heart Had not imparted half: 'twas happiness Too exquisite to last. Of joys departed, Not to return, how painful the remembrance.
UPON THE SHALLOWNESS OF HUMAN KNOWLEDGE.
IF of the smallest star in sky We know not the dimensity;}
If those pure sparks that stars compose, The highest human wit do pose;
How then, poor shallow man, canst thou The Maker of these glories know?
If we know not the air we draw, Nor what keeps winds and waves in awe ; If our small skulls cannot contain The flux and saltness of the main;
If scarce a cause we ken below; How shall we the Supernal know?
If it be a mysterious thing,
Why steel should to the loadstone cling: If we know not why jet should draw, And with such kisses hug a straw; If none can truly yet reveal, How sympathetic powders heal;
If we scarce know the earth we tread, Or half the simples that are bred, With minerals, and thousand things Which for man's health and food she brings; If Nature's so obscure, then how Can we the God of Nature know?
What the bat's eye is to the sun; Or of a glow-worm to the moon; The same is human intellect,
If on our Maker we reflect,
Whose magnitude is so immense,
That it transcends both soul and sense.
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