Harper's New Monthly Magazine, Vol III, No 13, 1851. Various

Harper's New Monthly Magazine, Vol III, No 13, 1851 - Various


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multitudes. But chief the forest boughs,

      That dance unnumber'd to the playful breeze,

      The downy orchard, and the melting pulp

      Of mellow fruit, the nameless nations feed

      Of evanescent insects. Where the pool

      Stands mantled o'er with green, invisible

      Amid the floating verdure millions stray.

      Each liquid, too, whether it pierces, soothes,

      Inflames, refreshes, or exalts the taste,

      With various forms abounds. Nor is the stream

      Of purest crystal, nor the lucid air,

      Though one transparent vacancy it seems,

      Void of their unseen people. These, conceal'd

      By the kind art of forming Heaven, escape

      The grosser eye of man: for, if the worlds

      In worlds inclos'd should on his senses burst,

      From cates ambrosial, and the nectar'd bowl,

      He would abhorrent turn; and in dead night.

      When silence sleeps o'er all, be stunn'd with noise.

      Let no presuming impious railer tax

      Creative Wisdom, as if aught was form'd

      In vain, or not for admirable ends.

      Shall little haughty ignorance pronounce

      His works unwise, of which the smallest part

      Exceeds the narrow vision of her mind?

      As if upon a full-proportion'd dome,

      On swelling columns heav'd, the pride of art!

      A critic fly, whose feeble ray scarce spreads

      An inch around, with blind presumption bold,

      Should dare to tax the structure of the whole.

      And lives the man whose universal eye

      Has swept at once the unbounded scheme of things,

      Mark'd their dependence so, and firm accord,

      As with unfaltering accent to conclude

      That this availeth naught? Has any seen

      The mighty chain of beings, lessening down

      From Infinite Perfection to the brink

      Of dreary nothing, desolate abyss!

      From which astonish'd thought, recoiling, turns?

      Till then, alone let zealous praise ascend,

      And hymns of holy wonder, to that Power,

      Whose wisdom shines as lovely on our minds,

      As on our smiling eyes his servant-sun.

      Thick in yon stream of light, a thousand ways,

      Upward and downward, thwarting and convolv'd,

      The quivering nations sport; till, tempest-wing'd,

      Fierce Winter sweeps them from the face of day

      Even so, luxurious men, unheeding pass,

      An idle summer-life in fortune's shine,

      A season's glitter! thus they flutter on

      From toy to toy, from vanity to vice;

      Till, blown away by death, oblivion comes

      Behind, and strikes them from the book of life.

      Now swarms the village o'er the jovial mead

      The rustic youth, brown with meridian toil,

      Healthful and strong; full as the summer rose

      Blown by prevailing suns, the ruddy maid,

      Half-naked, swelling on the sight, and all

      Her kindled graces burning o'er her cheek.

      Even stooping age is here; and infant hands

      Trail the long rake, or, with the fragrant load

      O'ercharg'd, amid the kind oppression roll.

      Wide flies the tedded grain; all in a row

      Advancing broad, or wheeling round the field,

      They spread the breathing harvest to the sun,

      That throws refreshful round a rural smell;

      Or, as they rake the green-appearing ground,

      And drive the dusky wave along the mead,

      The russet haycock rises thick behind,

      In order gay: while heard from dale to dale,

      Waking the breeze, resounds the blended voice

      Of happy labor, love, and social glee.

      Or rushing thence, in one diffusive band,

      They drive the troubled flocks, by many a dog

      Compell'd, to where the mazy-running brook

      Forms a deep pool; this bank abrupt and high,

      And that, fair-spreading in a pebbled shore.

      Urg'd to the giddy brink, much is the toil,

      The clamor much, of men, and boys, and dogs,

      Ere the soft fearful people to the flood

      Commit their woolly sides. And oft the swain,

      On some impatient seizing, hurls them in:

      Embolden'd, then, nor hesitating more,

      Fast, fast they plunge amid the flashing wave,

      And panting labor to the farther shore.

      Repeated this, till deep the well-wash'd fleece

      Has drank the flood, and from his lively haunt

      The trout is banish'd by the sordid stream,

      Heavy and dripping, to the breezy brow

      Slow move the harmless race; where, as they spread

      Their swelling treasures to the sunny ray,

      Inly disturb'd, and wondering what this wild

      Outrageous tumult means, their loud complaints

      The country fill – and, toss'd from rock to rock,

      Incessant bleatings run around the hills.

      At last, of snowy white, the gather'd flocks

      Are in the wattled pen innumerous press'd,

      Head above head; and rang'd in lusty rows

      The shepherds sit, and whet the sounding shears.

      The housewife waits to roll her fleecy stores,

      With all her gay-dress'd maids attending round.

      One, chief, in gracious dignity enthron'd,

      Shines o'er the rest, the pastoral queen, and rays

      Her smiles, sweet-beaming, on her shepherd-king,

      While the glad circle round them yield their souls

      To festive mirth, and wit that knows no gall.

      Meantime, their joyous task goes on apace:

      Some, mingling, stir the melted tar, and some,

      Deep on the new-shorn vagrant's heaving side

      To stamp his master's cipher ready stand;

      Others the unwilling wether drag along;

      And, glorying in his might, the sturdy boy

      Holds by the twisted horns the indignant ram.

      Behold where bound, and of its robe bereft,

      By needy man, that all-depending lord,

      How meek, how patient, the mild


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