The forest trees antique Are his familiar friends, With the spirit of the woods His own for ever blends: And voices of the past, With fancies of old times, Do their murmurings recall Which he fondly puts in rhymes.
Echoes of distant lands Beyond the western sea, Or in the burning east, Where'er they chance to be, Are brought to him at night And cheer his spirit then, When sleep forsakes the eyes Of care-worn worldly men. And ever for his kind Doth his spirit warmly yearn, And his verses speak of things Which only he can learn.
The human heart, and all Its feelings, hopes and fears, All that it fondly loves, All that it blindly fears, Its sympathies, affections, Its duties and desires, All that its doubts foreshadow, All that its pride inspires,
Its sorrows and its faintings, Its buoyancy and glee, Its passions and its promptings, Its truth and constancy; He knows, and can depicture, For of the human mind He is the chosen minister, The prophet of his kind.
Such, yea and more, the poet is, Had he had a choice Of destinies, if in his fate Had been heard his voice; It might have been so that he had Been a worldling born, And looked solemn like his scorners, And had gravely worn A black coat too, of fashion's cut, And smoothed trim his beard, And shook his head wisely, and been Sententious, and feared The world's opinion, and condemned Poetry as idle, But in his vocation he can Ne'er his feelings bridle. His thoughts are in a stronger hand Than his own, his mind Has thinks passing in it still, that Cannot be confined: Like the birds flying as they list Through the summer air, Or the clouds driven by the breeze Floating everywhere.
SHINE down, fair sun, on vale and hill, And light each height and hollow;-- No shade rests in the air, but still On earth the shadows follow.
Grow green, old trees, where'er you may Your festival be keeping;-- On branch and stem, on leaf and spray, Decay is slowly creeping.
Bloom bright, fair flowers, in wild or mead, Around you all perfuming;-- The blight that mingles with each seed, The blossom is consuming.
Grow well, sweet fruit, on garden walls, Or in hot-houses hasting;-- The sooner ripe, the sooner falls Corruption with its wasting.
Flow on, calm river, still flow on With ever constant motion;-- Soon shalt thou mingle, all unknown, Forgotten in the Ocean.