The wind, a sightless laborer, whistles at his task.
The gods approve The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul.
And when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet; whence he blew Soul-animating strains,-alas! too few.
Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither.
And when the stream Which overflowed the soul was passed away, A consciousness remained that it had left Deposited upon the silent shore Of memory images and precious thoughts That shall not die, and cannot be destroyed.
And the most difficult of tasks to keep Heights which the soul is competent to gain.
Far from the world I walk, and from all care.
Alas! how little can a moment show Of an eye where feeling plays In ten thousand dewy rays: A face o’er which a thousand shadows go!
Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence.
The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration.
That kill the bloom before its time, And blanch, without the owner’s crime, The most resplendent hair.
On a fair prospect some have looked, And felt, as I have heard them say, As if the moving time had been A thing as steadfast as the scene On which they gazed themselves away.
How fast has brother followed brother, From sunshine to the sunless land!
Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, Brought from a pensive though a happy place.
Sad fancies do we then affect, In luxury of disrespect To our own prodigal excess Of too familiar happiness.
But He is risen, a later star of dawn.
Tis not in battles that from youth we train The Governor who must be wise and good, And temper with the sternness of the brain Thoughts motherly, and meek as womanhood.
Stern daughter of the voice of God! O Duty! if that name thou love Who art a light to guide, a rod To check the erring and reprove.
True dignity abides with him alone Who, in the silent hour of inward thought, Can still suspect, and still revere himself, In lowliness of heart.
Pleasures newly found are sweet When they lie about our feet.