I ASK no fabled one of Castaly,
Who in some haunted cave doth fondly feed
On phantoms, that 'tween light and darkness
Thou to all founts of good that art the sea,
Thou that in breast of meek-eyed charity
Dost build Thy temple, unto Thee I plead,
Oh, let me from these vain high thoughts be freed;
That unreproved I may devote to Thee,
Whate'er of healing herb, or weedy flower,
By rural church, meek nook, or mouldering tower,
Thou giv'st to gather, far from rude turmoil :
Come with serener thoughts, a golden shower,
Freshening the weary spirit after toil,
Nor let the serpent Pride around Thine altar coil!
THE VALE IN ADVERSITY".
No mine of gold along the winding vale
Unfolds its glittering treasures to the moon;
No golden urn the beechen steep to crown;
But crouching from the dark December gale
Sits window'd Raggedness, and blows her nail
With empty wallet. Yet, if ought be known
Fruitful of golden thoughts in penury sown,
Thine urn may flow with gold and never fail;
A hidden well no wintry chains can marr.
E'en now if there some spirit's shadowy car
Were lingering, thou to him thy summer mirth,
And lovelier hues may'st wear; for toys of earth
Fortune may gild, but night to worlds afar
Openeth thine eye, and things of heav'nly birth.
2 The Golden Valley was mostly written about the year 1829, in a place of that name.
THE DEAF AND DUMB BOY.
'Neath yon straw cot below the sheltering wood,
Where the slant sun-beam sleeps so placidly,
Is one whose tongue and ear nature doth tie,
With her to walk in sweetest solitude;
And oft a finger, in his pensive mood,
Is on the chord of his soul's harmony,
Waking meek thankfulness, when none are nigh,
Save spirits that are aye around the good.
To him nor sings the summer nightingale,
Nor thrush her wintry matin; but yon vale
Ne'er wakes to morn, nor sounds of evening cease,
But he with upturn'd eye, and thoughts that move
Lowliness inexpressive, and deep love,
Holds commune with bright hope, and spirits of peace.
Homely scenes and simple views
Lowly thoughts may best infuse.
Sweet dweller of the valleys, with Heav'n's key
And mirror, wherein Wisdom aye doth look,
Where shall I build thy shrine, Humility?
Beside that lonely moor, the valley's nook,
And porch of rural Church, such as the book
Of memory glasseth ever; from on high
Where seen, with that calm footway tending nigh,
Which with its many feet hath spann'd the brook,
A bridgeway rude, a stony centipede.
Where all is still around thee, lonely spot,
Save stilly heard o'er ever-waving weed,
And the meek eye of blue Forget-me-not,
The sound of waters, and, by ivy cot,
The red-breast chaunts at noon his wintry need.
More sweet to me the note of lonely bird
That sits and sings to the autumnal eve,
Than all the bowers of Spring, when Love doth
heave
The stirring ravishment. Oh, 'tis a chord
Too high for this poor world, and still is heard
The key of Sadness,-unions to bereave,
And meetings but to part. Still Hope doth weave
A sable hue 'neath all she can afford,
Or hath to lend. But sweet that cheering tone, To him whom God hath hedg'd round with the thrall
Of pensive solitude-a sacred call,
Bidding to lean on Him, and Him alone,
Keeping calm watch o'er frail humanity,
And at the fountains drink of Love that cannot die.
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