Feed on, glad birds, you will not long
Scud round these meads in rapid ring;
A call is heard your sires among,
For each to imp his wing.
The summons has arrived; for flight
Our summer visitors prepare :·
I saw a concave yesternight
Assembled in the air,
Incessant twittering filled the sky,
Just as the first star sparkled forth;
I knew it as their gathering-cry,
Before they quit the North.
Twilight's grey vault was all astir
With the black swarm that speckled it,
Not long will they their voyage defer,
Their clarions sound retreat.
Their privilege I envy not,
Of living, wheresoe'er they roam,
In summer sunshine,- since 't is bought At the expense of home!
Strangers ye are―itinerants
Pilgrims, that wend from feast to feastAn annual caravan, that haunts
This pleasant stage for rest.
No wanderer I-me 't would not suit
To have my sensibilities
Scattered, where they would bear no fruit, 'Neath ever-shifting skies;
Plant-like, once fixed, I joy to spread
The fibres of intense affection
O'er one small circuit, where they feed
On sight and recollection.
To-morrow comes,-the swallow race
Reck not, they leave these scenes behind,
While I hope here through life to pass,
And here a grave to find.
See, from these elms the bounds you trace
Which girdle in my parsonage;
Own, friend,— that in a pleasant place
Hath fall'n my heritage!
Unhasped, there swings my rustic gate;
Enter, and see what, in his wane,
The ripening sun hath done of late
Within my small domain.
My shrubs encroach upon my walks ;
My flower-beds are a wilderness
Of seeded husks and rampant stalks
A tangled, self-willed mass.
The vine, that wraps my wall, and craves
For entrance at each casement nook,
Has lost the deep green of its leaves,
And wears a tarnished look;
The clusters now more obvious are,
Each venturing from its summer hold,
Mark what a sunward tinge they bear-
A flush of flamy gold.
Nor let me, thankless, fail to point
That other vine, whose lowlier stems
Are hung at every knot and joint
With amethystine gems.
Live we not in a verdant bower?
That calm delight of Paradise,
Which flowed from tending fruit and flower,
My garden-plot supplies.
-Such were the topics which obtained
Place in our desultory talk,
As, followed by a college friend,
I led the homeward walk.
It was by merest accident
That I had won him for a guest,
For, when I met him, he was bent
On travel to the West.
My saunter had conducted me
Where the mail passes every day,—
I saw him in it, and my plea
Persuaded him to stay.
He still was dwelling lingeringly
In Oxford's crowded solitude
('T is such to yearning hearts), while I
Had left the brotherhood;
Long left the college, well content
To take this pastoral benefice,
And gained my Mary's frank consent
An humble board to bless.
Studies severe, since we had met,
Had wrought upon his every feature,
Furrowing a polished brow,-and yet
No book-worm he by nature.
Pure thoughts, quick feelings, homage high For Nature's every oracle,
These had been his-and did not die
In his monastic cell.
Such was the friend to whom my stock
Of simple pleasures I produced,
Nor feared to feel the numbing shock
Of sympathy refused.
-Come, friend, examine all within,
There's comfort in my little nest,
Nor wants there proof of genuine,
Although uncostly taste.
We lack no charm which music makes,
That chest-like frame of hidden strings
Beneath my Mary's fingers wakes
Responsive as she sings.
The walls betray my pencil's work;
Yet with it Mary's needle may
Boast rivalry; no tints can lurk
Unsubject to her sway.
See, by our hearth, her flowers endure
The winter through on rug and cushion;
Yea, all the adapted furniture,
Her choice or execution.
And she, this casket's single gem,—
Who brightens 'neath her husband's glance, And, moon-like, radiates light on them, Who share his countenance;
She (all unweeting) will prevail,
In making you this truth confess,—
If woes the married state assail,
The single knows not bliss!
Hail, wedded love! thy constant flame,
Like that of lamps of yore entombed,
Nor age's palsying hand can tame,
Nor is it self-consumed!
Look round, I call this room my own,
For see, my books display themselves ;
You'll find some old acquaintance, known
Long since on college shelves.
This open window gives to view
The bell-tower of my village church,
Peering above that ancient yew,
Which guards its cross-crowned porch.
Full to the south, the hallowed field
Opens its bosom, while behind,
A knot of elms, with leafy shield,
Repels the northern wind.
There weekly am I circled round,
By an attentive multitude,
To whom, I trust that I am found
A minister of good.
The cots pour out their various groups;
Grandsire and dame on staff's support,
And strong-limbed youth, infants, and troops,
But half-restrained from sport.
The old men stand erect, and look
Intent upon the preacher's face,
Loving to hear explained that book,
Which speaks of faith and grace;
While the young crowd that fill the aisle,
Their prayers put up, their praises paid,
Decorous sit, but wish the while
The final blessing said.
I know their every joy and woe,
How they are swayed by hope and fear;
Summoned or not, 't is mine to go,
The death-bed's gloom to cheer.
Their children's guardian I; a train
On me await, their minds to store
With love to God, and love to man,
And other gospel lore.
|