Methinks that there abides in thee And wherefore? Man is soon deprest ; Or on his reason; But Thou would'st teach him how to find A hope for times that are unkind XVI. TO A SKY-LARK. Up with me! up with me into the clouds! Up with me, up with me into the clouds! With clouds and sky about thee ringing, That spot which seems so to thy mind! I have walked through wildernesses dreary And to-day my heart is weary ; Had I now the wings of a Faery, Up to thee would I fly. There's madness about thee, and joy divine In that song of thine; Lift me, guide me high and high To thy banqueting-place in the sky. Joyous as morning, Thou art laughing and scorning; Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest, Happy, happy Liver, With a soul as strong as a mountain River Alas! my journey, rugged and uneven, I, with my fate contented, will plod on, And hope for higher raptures, when Life's day is done. XVII. TO A SEXTON. LET thy wheel-barrow alone In thy Bone-house bone on bone? In a field of battle made, Where three thousand skulls are laid; These died in peace each with the other, Mark the spot to which I point! Andrew's whole fire-side is there. Here, alone, before thine eyes, Simon's sickly daughter lies, From weakness now, and pain defended, Whom he twenty winters tended. Look but at the gardener's pride By the heart of Man, his tears, Thou, old Grey-beard! art the Warden Thus then, each to other dear, Let them all in quiet lie, Andrew there, and Susan here, Neighbours in mortality. And, should I live through sun and rain XVIII. WHO fancied what a pretty sight Was it the humour of a Child? I asked 'twas whispered, The device To each and all might well belong : It is the Spirit of Paradise That prompts such work, a Spirit strong, That gives to all the self-same bent Where life is wise and innocent. XIX. SONG FOR THE WANDERING JEW. THOUGH the torrents from their fountains Yet they find among the mountains Clouds that love through air to hasten, Helmet-like themselves will fasten What, if through the frozen centre If on windy days the Raven Though the Sea-horse in the Ocean Yet he slumbers - by the motion - Rocked of many a gentle wave. The fleet Ostrich, till day closes, Brooding on her eggs reposes When chill night that care demands. Day and night my toils redouble, Night and day, I feel the trouble Of the Wanderer in my soul. |