Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,
The periwinkle trail'd its wreaths;
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.
The birds around me hopp'd and play'd;
Their thoughts I cannot measure :-
But the least motion which they made,
It seem'd a thrill of pleasure.
The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air ;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.
If I these thoughts may not prevent,
If such be of my creed the plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, 1770-1850.
I LOVE (and have some cause to love) the Earth;
She is my Maker's creature; therefore good:
She is my mother, for she gave me birth;
She is my tender nurse-she gives me food;
But what's a creature, Lord, compared with Thee? Or what's my mother, or my nurse to me?
I love the Air: her dainty sweets refresh
My drooping soul, and to new sweets invite me;
Her shrill-mouth'd choir sustains me with their flesh,
And with their Polyphonian notes delight me :
But what's the air or all the sweets that she
Can bless my soul withal, compared to Thee?
I love the Sea: she is my fellow-creature,
My careful purveyor; she provides me store:
She walls me round; she makes my diet greater;
She wafts my treasure from a foreign shore :
But, Lord of oceans, when compared with Thee,
What is the ocean, or her wealth to me?
To heaven's high city I direct my journey,
Whose spangled suburbs entertain mine eye;
Mine eye, by contemplation's great attorney,
Transcends the crystal pavement of the sky:
But what is heaven, great God, compared to Thee?
Without Thy presence heaven 's no heaven to me.
Without Thy presence earth gives no refection;
Without Thy presence sea affords no treasure;
Without Thy presence air's a rank infection;
Without Thy presence heaven itself no pleasure:
If not possess'd, if not enjoy'd in Thee,
What's earth, or sea, or air, or heaven to me?
The highest honours that the world can boast,
Are subjects far too low for my desire;
The brightest beams of glory are (at most)
But dying sparkles of Thy living fire:
The loudest flames that earth can kindle, be
But nightly glow-worms, if compared to Thee.
Without Thy presence wealth is bags of cares; Wisdom but folly; joy disquiet-sadness: Friendship is treason, and delights are snares; Pleasures but pain, and mirth but pleasing madness; Without Thee, Lord, things be not what they be, Nor have they being, when compared with Thee.
In having all things, and not Thee, what have I ?
Not having Thee, what have my labours got?
Let me enjoy but Thee, what further crave I?
And having Thee alone, what have I not?
I wish nor sea nor land; nor would I be
Possess'd of heaven, heaven unpossess'd of Thee.
FRANCIS QUARLES, 1592-1644.
(SERENITY OF MIND INDUCED BY SERENITY IN NATURE.)
DELIGHTFUL looks this clear, calm sky,
With Cynthia's silver orb on high!
Delightful looks this smooth green ground,
With shadows cast from cots around;
Quick-twinkling lustre decks the tide;
And cheerful radiance gently falls
On that white town, and castle walls,
That crown the spacious river's further side.
And now along the echoing hills
The night birds' strain melodious trills;
And now the echoing dale along
Soft flows the shepherd's tuneful song;
And now, wide o'er the water borne,
The city's mingled murmur swells,
And lively change of distant bells,
And varied warbling of the deep-toned horn.
Their influence calms the soften'd soul,
The passions feel their strong control;
While fancy's eye, where'er it strays,
A scene of happiness surveys;
Through all the various walks of life
No natural ill nor moral sees,
No famine fell, nor dire disease,
Nor war's infernal, unrelenting strife.
For these, behold a heavenly band
Their white wings waving o'er the land!
Sweet innocence, a cherub fair,
And peace and joy, a sister-pair;
And kindness mild, their kindred grace,
Whose brow serene complacence wears,
Whose hand her liberal bounty bears
O'er the vast range of animated space!
Blest vision! O for ever stay!
O far be guilt and pain away!
And yet, perhaps, with Him, whose view
Looks at one glance creation through;
To general good our partial ill
Seems but a sand upon the plain,
Seems but a drop amid the main,
And some wise unknown purpose may fulfil.
JOHN SCOTT, 1730-1783.
THIS world is all a fleeting show,
For man's illusion given;
The smiles of Joy, the tears of Woe,
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow—
There's nothing true, but Heaven!
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