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BOOK I.
- 'TIS early dawn, and morning's welcome ray
- Gilds the blue mountains, rising far away
- From out the bosom of a mimic sea,
- Where the white vapours float along the lea;
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- Till the proud sun, exulting in his might,
- Enrobes the earth in universal light.
- 'Tis spring's bright morn—and oh! what tongue can tell
- The mingled melodies that mount and swell,
- And float upon the flowery scented gale,
- Wakeninig sweet echoes throughi the verdant vale—
- Harmonious voices—mellow-toned, and shrill,
- Liquid, and murmuring, and almost still,
- So small the fountain, and so pure the stream
- From whence it flows, like music in a dream.
- Yet, not the feeblest note of forest bird,
- E'er by the brink of woodland-waters heard,
- Nor loudest clarion that salutes the morn,
- But bath some note of gladness, still upborne,
- A hymn of gratitude for life and light,
- To the clear heavens fresh opening on the sight.
- 'Tis spring's sweet morn; and let our poets say
- Whate'er they list, of that cerulean day,
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- That rises o'er Italia's clasic shore.
- My native land for me! I ask no more.
- My native land, clad in her robe of flowers.
- Her daisied meadows, and her woodbine bowers
- Her lilacs gay, her bright laburniums, seen
- Like fringe of gold beneath a mantle green;
- Her streams that wander through the shady grove.
- With cadence gentle as the voice of love;
- Her patient herds that slumber on the lea,
- Her gales that waft the honey-laden bee,
- Her blooming orchards girt around with may,
- That falls like snow, when from the scented spray
- The song-bird flutters on his joyous wing,
- To soar away to the blue skies and sing;
- Her pastures with the yellow cowslip rife,
- And sportive lambs, in wantonness of life,
- Wildly careering o'er the grassy downs,
- Where furze, or broom, the goal of triumph crowns;
- Her verdant hills beyond the village spire,
- And many a heath-clad mountain rising higher,
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- Around whose base the circling river winds,
- Or through the vale its path of beauty finds.
- Such are thy pictures, and I love to dwell
- On scenes so long remembered, and so well—
- Scenes that I gazed on fondly from my birth,
- That made thee then the loveliest spot of earth.
- And such thou art, beloved land, to me,
- And ever wilt be—come what may to thee.
- On spring's bright morn, 'mid such a scene as this,
- Where all we realize of earthly bliss
- Is gathered round us by a hand divine,
- Till nought remains for which the heart can pine,
- Laden with perfume woke the early breeze,
- Gorgeous in sunshinie stood the ancient trees,
- The stately elm, and feathery ash, that grew
- Around a dwelling almost hid from view—
- A long, and low-roofed dwelling, where the door
- Looked as if all might enter—rich and poor.
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- There was no sloping lawn before that spot,
- But gravel-walk, and just one little plot
- Of new-mown grass, so freshly green and smooth,
- It seemed the traveller's weary eye to soothe.
- No massive gate of entrance marked the road,
- Nor graceful sweep its doubtful welcome showed:
- But hid beneath a honeysuckle screen
- A garden wicket opened on the green.
- While on one side a blooming border lay,
- Enriched with fragrant herbs, and flowerets gay:
- The fairy leaf of classic thyme was there,
- The purple panzy, and the primrose fair,
- And ancient southernwood, and box, and rue,
- And wall-flower sweet, within that garden grew.
- While over-head, dispensing rich perfume,
- There hung a canopy of roseate bloom,
- Or, shaken by the gently waving trees,
- A shower of blossoms fluttered in the breeze:
- The blushing promise of expectant spring,
- Sweet pledge of all the waning year might bring.
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- These here strewed the ground, a carpet far more fair
- Than man's ingenious labour could prepare,
- With toil of weary hands and curious care.
- High above all, in outline broad and bold,
- Stood the tall ash, the elm, and chestnut old;
- Stretching athwart that lowly roof their arms,
- Faithful through every change, through winds, and storms,
- Breaking the tempest, sheltering from the rain,
- Shadowing from noontide heat that scorched the plain,
- Tempering the air with freshness and delight,
- Parting the moonbeams into gems of light,
- True to the promise of their early prime,
- Verdant again with every sweet spring-time.
- Such friends were they, those venerable trees;
- Boast ye who may of friends more true than these.
- Was there not one within that peaceful home
- Who might have boasted, had the question come
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- To her fond heart, for she was proud to be
- The creature of one soul's idolatry.
- And such a soul—so manly and so clear,
- So firm of purpose, upright, and sincere,
- Untaught of schools, yet filled with noble aims,
- And that high virtue, which all praise disclaims,
- With patriot fire to emulate a Tell,
- And but one weakness—that he loved too well.
- Yet she he loved was worthy of his care,
- So gentle and so true, so fond and fair,
- So self-devoted, looking to the end
- For the remoter good, and thus his friend.
- Ne'er seeking sunshine from his weary brow,
- Nor urging service when his step was slow;
- Not tiring his vexed ear with puny grief,
- Nor asking, when she ought to have given, relief.
- As some will tax the patience with a train
- Of twice-told wrongs, and undeserved pain.
- Till very kindness deems its duty is
- To wish the sufferer in a world of bliss.
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- If such things could be, Mary knew them not.
- She felt no wrongs, was cheerful in her lot:
- To her the sweet return of morning light
- Brought a new life, still fraught with new delight;
- For she had one to love, and serve, and cheer,
- Who paid her back in kindness as sincere;
- And both felt bound their earthly course to make,
- As smooth as might be, for the other's sake.
- And now with that sweet morn of spring they rose
- To offer up to heaven their early vows,
- With jovful spirits to kneel down and pray,
- And bless the light that brought another day,
- Laden with all things needful—all things good,
- They only asked for deeper gratitude,
- Love that was less of earth, hopes more on high,
- And greater willingness to live, or die.
- For they were growing to that lovely scene,
- As if their very root of life had been
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- Within the earth's deep bosom planted there,
- To live, and bloom, for ever fresh and fair.
- They looked around them with a joy so pure
- And felt the blessings of each day so sure,
- They were so fain to hope, so glad to trust,
- They failed to think what might be, or what must—
- Of dark or drear, calamitous or strange,
- They knew no evil, and they feared no change.
- Thus while that sun his radiant course pursued,
- He found no hearts more filled with gratitude,
- More free to own that mercy crowned their days
- To tune their thankfulness to hymns of praise.
- It was the spring-tide flow of life to them,
- Might not some rock—some gale—that current stem?
- Might not that tide with natural ebb fall back,
- And leave behind a waste and sterile track?
- Were they prepared, in sorrow's wintry hour,
- To own, and bless the same benignant power?
- When darkening clouds should overcast their sun,
- To bow the head, and say, “Thy will be done?”
- Harsh question and injurious thought, away!
- A happier theme is ours—the dawn of day,
- A day of homely toil, and household care,
- Where faithful hands the task of labour share,
- Leaving no burden for the weak to bear.
- To each, an equal and appropriate part
- Assigned by her, who ruled o'er every heart.
- With gentle grace, but undisputed power.
- As if the right to rule had been her dower.
- So lightly fell the rein, it seemed to be
- By skilful management, not mastery,
- That all were brought to labour, or to learn.
- While willing service yielded quick return.
- There was this secret in her household sway,
- She rose the earliest with the rising day,
- She was the first within that happy home—
- The very first, at duty's call to come;
- And, let their daily task be great or small,
- She was the most industrious of them all:
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- So thoughtless of herself, that he whose care
- Was ever watchful, bade the servants spare
- Their gracious mistress—bade them tend her well,
- Observe this sacred charge, but never tell
- That they had been thus schooled in arts of love,
- And thus they tried their faithfulness to prove.
- Nor was the stir of active life alone
- Within that dwelling. To the fields were gone
- A band of sturdy workmen, some to clear
- The weedy bank, and some the fence to rear,
- Some to lead forth the lazy team, and some
- To drive the kine from their green pastures home.
- While he, their honoured master, bent his way
- To where his patient flocks in quiet lay,
- His faithful dog companion by his side,
- Bound by the twofold chain of love and pride,
- As first he leads the way, and then looks back
- To mark if well his master minds the track.
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- Now through the vale their winding path they take,
- Brushing the dew-drops from the heathery brake;
- Now on the top of breezy hill they stand,
- The hill from whence they look o'er all the land;
- And well the farmer loved to linger there,
- To count his herds, and mark his meadows fair,
- The rows of spiral corn, advancing slow
- With verdant green still deepening as they grow,
- The scented bean-field, and the purple clover,
- Rustling and waving as the wind sweeps over.
- The hawthorn hedge with tufts of scented may,
- And rebel weeds, luxuriant, wild, and gay,
- Bounding the greenest fields of all his farm,
- Where sheltering sheds defend from wind and storm
- His choice young cattle, and his favourite steed
- Unrivalled, both in safety and in speed,
- That comes, and tosses high his flowing mane,
- With joy to hear his master's voice again,
- Then wheeling backward, bounds along the turf,
- Like a proud galley o'er the ocean surf.
- These, and ten thousand well-known sights, present
- A view, that to the farmer's heart was sent
- Like incense, for he drank such draughts of joy,
- His was the happiness without alloy
- Of which we dream, and so he dreamed awhile,
- Wearing the aspect of an inward smile.
- Deeper than laughter was the bliss that broke
- Forth from his eye, and echoed when he spoke;
- Yet never half so radiant was his look,
- As when at eve his homeward path he took,
- After the absence of some long, long day,
- For long it seemed to him, and far away,
- When duty called him to the neighbouring town,
- Though gathering wealth his frugal pains might crown.
- But there was light within his sheltered home,
- And smiles, and hopes, and better things to come.
- That woo'd him back, where'er his lot might be,
- From stirring sights, and sounds of revelry.
- A sweeter voice he knew would welcome him,
- When his own fire shone through the twilight dim,
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- Shooting its ray athwart the grass-plot green,
- The mossy boughs of orchard-trees between.
- Yes, and he knew that star of promise well,
- Even at the distant gate, his eye could tell
- If bright it burned, if cheerful looked his hearth,
- If like itself, that loveliest spot of earth.
- Nor came the day when burned that fire less bright,
- While spoke that voice in tones of less delight;
- For she, who had her handmaids at her call,
- And her own babes, more welcome far than all,
- Her friendly neighbours, and her social cheer,
- Was lonely still, till he she loved was near—
- Lonely in busy hall, in garden bower,
- But lonely most in evening's silent hour,
- When fall the lengthening shadows on the hill,
- And childhood's happy voice grows hushed and still.
- In that sweet hour, when sleeps the brooding dove
- Within the cradle of her nestling's love,
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- When sings the forest bird his last sweet song,
- And echoing woods the melody prolong,
- When distant sounds of falling water come
- Like tidings from a long-remembered home,
- And softly sighs the breath of evening breeze,
- Wakening an answer from the whispering trees,
- And slowly fade the sunbeams from the west,
- Melting away in ocean's billowy breast;
- In that sweet hour, it was her faithful part
- To nurse the cherished idol of her heart,
- To think him nobler, kinder than before,
- Recall his gentle ways, and count them o'er—
- As broods the miser on his secret hoard,
- To dwell at last upon the tenderest word.
- And now she starts to hear the wished-for sound,
- He comes not yet—it is the restless hound.
- The dews are falling, and the hour is late—
- Again! she hears the clap of distant gate.
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- It is the foot-fall of that faithful steed,
- She knows it well—he comes—he comes with speed!
- Triumphant war-horse in proud castle-yard
- Was never yet with more of rapture heard.
- The hearth has long been swept, she stirs the fire,
- And then piles up the blazing fabric lhigher,
- Till pours the kettle forth its cheering song,
- While treads a manly step the garden-walk along.
- It was no vulgar bliss that crowned their lot,
- They were industrious, but they ne'er forgot
- The treasures of the mind, the heart's warm store,
- Than all their household comforts valued more.
- They were untaught, in modern schools at least.
- Yet much they loved an intellectual feast,
- And such they deemed it, as the night closed in,
- At that blest hour, when social joys begin,
- To muse upon the well-selected page
- Of favourite poet, or of wiser sage.
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- There was a niche beside their cheerful hearth,
- That held an ancient book-case, with the worth
- Of many minds, concentrated, and clear,
- And thoughts that to the reader's eye appear
- His own, so natural and familiar.
- 'Twas not the wealth of circulating lore
- That reached the farmer's hospitable door,
- Nor pile of newly-written books, passed on
- From hand to hand, their titles only known;
- But volumes chosen with attentive care,
- Read, and remembered, and still treasured there,
- Like friends of early days, that answer vet
- In the loved voice we never can forget.
- Such was the evening's happiness to those
- Who thus could meet at busy day's sweet close;
- Such their enjoyment, when their meal was done,
- And well-filled tray and smoking kettle gone,
- The curtains drawn, the blazing fire burnt clear,
- The farmer seated in his elbow-chair,
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- The rosy sleeper, from its mother's breast
- Gently translated to its cradled nest,
- The tired domestics gathered in from toil,
- Some to repose, and some to sit and smile
- Around the genial glow of kitchen hearth,
- Whiling away the hours in harmless mirth.
- But they more blest, that unpretending pair,
- Who felt the weightier load of daily care,
- Theirs was an equal share of bliss to know,
- Of deeper joys from happier thoughts that flow.
- And now they kindly speak of all that brings
- Around the heart such fond familiar things,
- That, had their language marked some written page,
- It well had met the scorn of learned sage;
- So trifling seems each item of that whole,
- That still may weigh upon the burdened soul.
- And now their mutual store of separate thought,
- Which that long day's divided interest brought,
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- Unfolded to each other, no reserve
- On either side, no different end to serve,
- They choose what volume shall the evening close,
- Who shall instruct, or soothe them to repose,
- What bard shall tune his soft melodious lay,
- Thompson, or Burns, or melancholy Gray,
- What stricter moralist, with sober pen
- In storied page describe the ways of men,
- Goldsmith, or Addison with faultless style,
- Or weightier Johnson with his wordy pile
- Of cumbrous epithets, and periods round,
- Taxing the ear with endless pomp of sound.
- These, and their wise compatriots, all were there,
- And all content that narrow space to share,
- Men for whose range of thought the heavens were small,
- And the vast earth but as an infant's ball,
- Who found such jarring elements in other minds,
- As none but mighty genius ever finds;
- Yet here they dwelt together, side by side,
- Alike bereft of love, and hate, and pride.
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- All meekly bound, all quiet, close, and still,
- Silent, or vocal, at another's will;
- Their petty faults extinct—forgotten—lost,
- For ever fixed, what men applauded most.
- But now, all lighter pages laid aside,
- That holy book, the comfort, stay, and guide
- Of erring wanderers through this vale of tears,
- At wonted hour of needful rest appears.
- Deeply sonorous was the solemn voice
- Of him who read that sacred strain, his choice
- Falling, as if by instinct, on such part
- As seemed most meet to animate the heart
- With aspirations to the joys of heaven,
- And gratitude profound for blessings given.
- It is the holy hour of evening prayer,
- Descend, thou peaceful Dove, in mercy there.
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- Lo! the poor suppliant his sorrow brings,
- Descend, thou Dove, with healing on thy weing,
- If weary laden in a world of grief,
- Behold he kneels! with tears he asks relief;
- Fainting beneath the burden of the day,
- He seeks the shadowy night, to weep and pray.
- If in the pomp of manly power he stand,
- Asking a boon, yet seeming to command,
- Descend, thou Dove, his earth-born pride control,
- Come, with the dews of evening, melt his soul.
- If he hath ought against his brother, come,
- Come, heavenly Dove, and let one happy home
- Receive them both, one bower of peace be theirs,
- Angel of mercy, listen to their prayers!
- If he have wandered from the ways of truth,
- Blighting the promise of his early youth,
- Call back the prodigal, thou gentle Dove,
- Teach him once more to trust a Father's love!
- But if his earthly home be all too fair,
- Then, holy Dove, descend, yet spare! oh spare!
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- Let the dim shadow of thy hovering wings
- Warn him, without the weight of grief that brings
- A blight upon the bosom where it falls,
- Deeper for all the bliss its touch recalls.
- Warn him, but gently tell thy tale of tears,
- Blast not his hopes, but yet awake his fears.
- Listen! he prays thee to behold his heart,
- Canst thou not purify the vital part
- With less than torture—less than fiery trial?
- Angel of mercy! then uplift thy phial,
- Pour down the burning flood, so let the end
- Be glorious, thou the mourner's friend.
