Forests, and lakes, the majesty of mountains,
The dazzling glaciers, and the musical sound
Of waves and winds, or softer gush of fountains:
In sights and sounds like these thy soul has found
Sublime delight; but can the visible bound
Of this small globe be the sole nurse and mother
Of knowledge and of feeling? Look around!
Mark how one being differs from another;
Yet the world’s book is spread before each human brother
Was this world, then, the parent and the nurse
Of him whose mental eye outlived the sight
Of all its beauties? Him who sang the curse
Of that forbidden fruit, which did invite
Our first progenitors, whom that foul sprite,
In serpent form, seduced from innocence.
By specious promises, that wrong and right,
Evil and good, when they had gathered thence,
Should be distinctly seen, as by diviner sense?
They plucked, and paid the awful penalty
Of disobedience: yet man will not learn
To be content with knowledge that is free
To all. There are, whose soaring spirits spurn
At humble lore, and, still insatiate, turn
From living fountains to forbidden springs;
Whence having proudly quaffed, their bosoms burn
With visions of unutterable things,
Which restless fancy’s spell in shadowy glory brings.
Delicious the delirious bliss, while new;
Unreal phantoms of wise, good, and fair,
Hover around, in every vivid hue
Of glowing beauty; these dissolve in air,
And leave the barren spirit bleak and bare
As Alpine summits: it remains to try
The hopeless task (of which themselves despair)
Of bringing back those feelings, now gone by,
By making their own dreams the code of all society.
All fear, none aid them, and few comprehend;
And then comes disappointment, and the blight
Of hopes, that might have blessed mankind, but end
In stoic apathy, or starless night:
And thus hath many a spirit pure and bright,
Lost that efflulgent and ethereal ray,
Which, had religion nourished it, still might
Have shone on, peerless, to that perfect day,
When death’s veil shall be rent, and darkness dashed away.
Ere it shall prove too late, thy steps retrace:
The heights thy muse has scaled, can never be
Her loveliest, or her safest dwelling-place.
In the deep valley of humilty,
The river of immortal life flows free
For thee—for all. Oh! taste its limpid wave,
As it rolls murmuring by, and thou shalt see
Nothing in death the Christian dares not brave,
Whom faith in God has given a world beyond the grave!
They may cant of costumes, and of brilliant head-dresses,
A la Grecque—a la Françoise—or what else they will;
They may talk of tiaras, that glitter on tresses
Enwreathed by the Graces, and braided with skill:
Yet to my partial glance, I confess the drab bonnet
Is the loveliest of any,—and most when it bears
Not only the bright gloss of neatness upon it—
But, beneath,—the expression Benevolence wears!
Then let fashion exult in her vapid vagaries,
From her fascinations my favourite is free:
Be folly’s the head-gear that momently varies,
But a Bonnet of drab is the sweetest to me.
Though stately the ostrich-plume, gracefully throwing
Its feathery flashes of light on the eye;
Though tasty and trim the straw-bonnet, when glowing
With its ribbons so glossy of various dye :—
Yet still I must own, although none may seem duller
Than a simple drab bonnet to many a gaze—
It is, and it will be, the favourite colour,
Around which my fancy delightedly plays :—
And it well suits my muse with a garland to wreathe it,
And echo its praises with gratefullest glee,—
For, knowing the goodness that oft lurks beneath it,
The Bonnet of drab beats a turban with me.
Full many a rare gem—the poet has chaunted—
In the depths of the ocean flings round it its sheen;
And many a floweret, its beauties unvaunted,
Springs to life, sheds its perfume, aud withers unseen:
And well do I know that our sisterhood numbers,
Arrayed in the livery that coxcombs reprove,
Forms as fair as e’er rose on a poet’s sweet slumbers,
And faces as lovely as ever taught love.
This I know, and have felt;—and, thus knowing and feeling,
A recreant minstrel I surely should be,
If my heart-felt attachment ignobly concealing,
The Bonnet of drab passed unhonoured by me!
I have basked in the blaze of both beauty and fashion,
Have seen these united with gifts rich and rare,
And crowned with a heart that could cherish compassion,
And by sympathy soften what sorrow must bear.
Yet acknowledging this—which I can do sincerely,—
Far the highest enjoyment this bosom e’er knew,
The glance which it treasures most fondly, most dearly,
Beamed from under a Bonnet of drab-coloured hue.
’Twas my pleasure,—my pride!—it is past, and has perished,
Like the track of a ship o’er the dark heaving sea;
But its loveliness lives, its remembrance is cherished,
And the Bonnet of drab is still beauteous to me!
Say not the Law Divine
Is hidden from thee, or afar removed;
That Law within would shine,
If there its glorious light were sought and loved.
Soar not on high,
Nor ask who thence shall bring it down to earth;
That vaulted sky
Hath no such star, didst thou but know its worth.
Nor launch thy bark
In search thereof upon a shoreless sea,
Which has no ark,
No dove to bring this olive-branch to thee.
Then do not roam
In search of that which wandering cannot win
At home, at home,
That word is placed, thy mouth, thy heart within.
O seek it there,
Turn to its teachings with devoted will;
Watch unto prayer,
And in the power of faith this love fulfil.
It flows through flowery meads,
Gladdening the herds that on its margin browse
Its quiet bounty feeds
The alders that o’ershade it with their boughs.
Gently it murmurs by
The village churchyard, with a plaintive tone
Of dirge-like melody,
For worth and beauty modest as its own.
More gaily now it sweeps
By the small school house, in the sunshine bright,
And o’er the pebbles leaps,
Like happy hearts by holiday made light.