One small spot Where my tired mind may rest and call it home. There is a magic in that little word; It is a mystic circle that surrounds
Comforts and virtues never known beyond The hallowed limit. Here have I found at last a home of peace To hide me from the world; far from its noise,
To feed that spirit, which, though sprung from earth And link'd to human beings by the bond Of earthly love, hath yet a loftier aim Than perishable joy, and through the calm
That sleeps amid the mountain-solitude, Can hear the billows of eternity, And hear delighted. Many a mystic gleam,
Lovely though faint, of imaged happiness Fell on my youthful heart, as oft her light Smiles on a wandering cloud, ere the fair Moon Hath risen in the sky. And oh! Ye dreams
That to such spiritual happiness could shape The lonely reveries of my boyish days, Are ye at last fulfill'd? Ye fairy scenes, That to the doubting gaze of prophecy
Rose lovely, with your fields of sunny green, Your sparkling rivulets and hanging groves Of more than rainbow lustre, where the swing Of woods primeval darken'd the still depth
Of lakes bold-sweeping round their guardian hills, Even like the arms of Ocean, where the roar Sullen and far from mountain cataract Was heard amid the silence, like a thought
Of solemn mood that tames the dancing soul When swarming with delight;— Ye fairy scenes! Fancied no more, but bursting on my heart In living beauty, with adoring song
I bid you hail! and with as holy love As ever beautified the eye of saint Hymning his midnight orisons, to you I consecrate my life,— till the dim stain
Left by those worldly and unhallow'd thoughts That taint the purest soul, by bliss destroyed, My spirit travel like a summer sun, Itself all glory, and its path all joy.
Nor will the musing penance of the soul, Perform'd by moonlight, or the setting sun, To hymn of swinging oak, or the wild flow Of mountain-torrent, ever lead her on
To virtue, but through peace. For Nature speaks A parent's language, and, in tones as mild As e'er hush'd infant on its mother's breast, Wins us to learn her lore. Yea! even to guilt,
Though in her image something terrible Weigh down his being with a load of awe, Love mingles with her wrath, like tender light Stream'd o'er a dying storm. And thus where'er
Man feels as man, the earth is beautiful. His blessings sanctify even senseless things, And the wide world in cheerful loveliness Returns to him its joy. The summer air,
Whose glittering stillness sleeps within his soul, Stirs with its own delight: The verdant earth, Like beauty waking from a happy dream, Lies smiling: Each fair cloud to him appears
A pilgrim travelling to the shrine of peace; And the wild wave, that wantons on the sea, A gay though homeless stranger. Ever blest The man who thus beholds the golden chain
Linking his soul to outward Nature fair, Full of the living God! And where, ye haunts Of grandeur and of beauty! shall the heart,
That yearns for high communion with its God, Abide, if e'er its dreams have been of you? The loveliest sounds, forms, hues, of all the earth Linger delighted here: Here guilt might come,
With sullen soul abhorring Nature's joy, And in a moment be restored to Heaven. Here sorrow, with a dimness o'er his face, Might be beguiled to smiles,— almost forget
His sufferings, and, in Nature's living book, Read characters so lovely, that his heart Would, as it bless'd them, feel a rising swell Almost like joy!— O earthly paradise!
Of many a secret anguish hast thou healed Him, who now greets thee with a joyful strain. And oh! if in those elevated hopes That lean on virtue,— in those high resolves
That bring the future close upon the soul, And nobly dare its dangers;— if in joy Whose vital spring is more than innocence, Yea! Faith and Adoration!— if the soul
Of man may trust to these,— and they are strong, Strong as the prayer of dying penitent,— My being shall be bliss. For witness, Thou! Oh Mighty One! whose saving love has stolen
On the deep peace of moon-beams to my heart,— Thou! who with looks of mercy oft hast cheer'd The starry silence, when, at noon of night, On some wild mountain thou hast not declined
The homage of thy lonely worshipper,— Bear witness Thou! that, both in joy and grief, The love of nature long hath been with me The love of virtue:— that the solitude
Of the remotest hills to me hath been Thy temple:— that the fountain's happy voice Hath sung thy goodness, and thy power has stunn'd My spirit in the roaring cataract!
Such solitude to me! Yet are there hearts,— Worthy of good men's love, nor unadorn'd With sense of moral beauty,— to the joy That dwells within the Almighty's outward shrine,
Senseless and cold. Aye, there are men who see The broad sun sinking in a blaze of light, Nor feel their disembodied spirits hail With adoration the departing God;
Who on the night-sky, when a cloudless moon Glides in still beauty through unnumber'd stars, Can turn the eye unmoved, as if a wall Of darkness screen'd the glory from their souls.
With humble pride I bless the Holy One For sights to these denied. And oh! how oft In seasons of depression,— when the lamp Of life burn'd dim, and all unpleasant thoughts
Subdued the proud aspirings of the soul,— When doubts and fears with-held the timid eye From scanning scenes to come, and a deep sense Of human frailty turn'd the past to pain,
How oft have I remember'd that a world Of glory lay around me, that a source Of lofty solace lay in every star, And that no being need behold the sun,
And grieve, that knew WHO hung him in the sky. Thus unperceived I woke from heavy grief To airy joy: and seeing that the mind Of man, though still the image of his God,
Lean'd by his will on various happiness, I felt that all was good; that faculties, Though low, might constitute, if rightly used, True wisdom; and when man hath here attain'd
The purpose of his being, he will sit Near Mercy's throne, whether his course hath been Prone on the earth's dim sphere, or, as with wing Of viewless eagle, round the central blaze.
Then ever shall the day that led me here Be held in blest remembrance. I shall see, Even at my dying hour, the glorious sun That made Winander one wide wave of gold,
When first in transport from the mountain-top I hail'd the heavenly vision! Not a cloud, Whose wreaths lay smiling in the lap of light, Not one of all those sister-isles that sleep
Together, like a happy family Of beauty and of love, but will arise To chear my parting spirit, and to tell That Nature gently leads unto the grave
All who have read her heart, and kept their own In kindred holiness. But ere that hour Of awful triumph, I do hope that years
Await me, when the unconscious power of joy Creating wisdom, the bright dreams of soul Will humanize the heart, and I shall be More worthy to be loved by those whose love
Is highest praise:— that by the living light That burns for ever in affection's breast, I shall behold how fair and beautiful A human form may be.— Oh, there are thoughts
That slumber in the soul, like sweetest sounds Amid the harp's loose strings, till airs from Heaven On earth, at dewy night-fall, visitant, Awake the sleeping melody! Such thoughts,
My gentle Mary, I have owed to thee. And if thy voice e'er melt into my soul With a dear home-toned whisper,— if thy face E'er brighten in the unsteady gleams of light
From our own cottage-hearth;— O Mary! then My overpowered spirit will recline Upon thy inmost heart, till it become, O sinless seraph! almost worthy thee.
Then will the earth,— that oft-times to the eye Of solitary lover seems o'erhung With too severe a shade, and faintly smiles With ineffectual beauty on his heart,—
Be clothed with everlasting joy; like land Of blooming faery, or of boyhood's dreams Ere life's first flush is o'er. Oft shall I turn My vision from the glories of the scene
To read them in thine eyes; and hidden grace, That slumbers in the crimson clouds of Even, Will reach my spirit through their varying light, Though viewless in the sky. Wandering with thee,
A thousand beauties never seen before Will glide with sweet surprise into my soul, Even in those fields where each particular tree Was look'd on as a friend,— where I had been
Frequent, for years, among the lonely glens. Nor,‘ mid the quiet of reflecting bliss, Will the faint image of the distant world Ne'er float before us:— Cities will arise
Among the clouds that circle round the sun, Gorgeous with tower and temple. The night-voice Of flood and mountain to our ear will seem Like life's loud stir:— And, as the dream dissolves,
With burning spirit we will smile to see Only the Moon rejoicing in the sky, And the still grandeur of the eternal hills. Yet, though the fulness of domestic joy
Bless our united beings, and the home Be ever happy where thy smiles are seen, Though human voice might never touch our ear From lip of friend or brother;— yet, oh! think
What pure benevolence will warm our hearts, When with the undelaying steps of love Through you o'ershadowing wood we dimly see A coming friend, far distant then believed,
And all unlook'd-for. When the short distrust Of unexpected joy no more constrains, And the eye's welcome brings him to our arms, With gladden'd spirit he will quickly own
That true love ne'er was selfish, and that man Ne'er knew the whole affection of his heart Till resting on another's. If from scenes Of noisy life he come, and in his soul
The love of Nature, like a long-past dream, If e'er it stir, yield but a dim delight, Oh! we shall lead him where the genial power Of beauty, working by the wavy green
Of hill-ascending wood, the misty gleam Of lakes reposing in their peaceful vales, And, lovelier than the loveliness below, The moonlight Heaven, shall to his blood restore
An undisturbed flow, such as he felt Pervade his being, morning, noon, and night, When youth's bright years pass'd happily away, Among his native hills, and all he knew
Of crowded cities, was from passing tale Of traveller, half-believed, and soon forgotten. And fear not, Mary! that, when winter comes, These solitary mountains will resign
The beauty that pervades their mighty frames, Even like a living soul. The gleams of light Hurrying in joyful tumult o'er the cliffs, And giving to our musings many a burst
Of sudden grandeur, even as if the eye Of God were wandering o'er the lovely wild, Pleased with his own creation;— the still joy Of cloudless skies; and the delighted voice
Of hymning fountains,— these will leave awhile The altered earth:— But other attributes Of Nature's heart will rule, and in the storm We shall behold the same prevailing Power
That slumbers in the calm, and sanctify, With adoration, the delight of love. I lift my eyes upon the radiant Moon, That long unnoticed o'er my head has held
Her solitary walk, and as her light Recals my wandering soul, I start to feel That all has been a dream. Alone I stand Amid the silence. Onward rolls the stream
Of time, while to my ear its waters sound With a strange rushing music. O my soul! Whate'er betide, for aye remember thou These mystic warnings, for they are of Heaven.
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