I give an extract from an author of no repute, but agreeable; and the more so to me, because inoffensive. It is not defiled by the Idolatry of the Barbarians:—
"Spring-time of life, with open-eyed delight,
Wondering at beautiful earth and sky!
Budding in sweet expectancy, and bright
With smiles and charming grace, and blushingly
Unconscious of a Love, just to be born—
A trembling Joy, which smiles and tears adorn!"
From the same, written in the open country; which, though obscure sometimes, flows on finely, eloquently:—
"Stretched to the brilliant sky, on all sides clear,
Are hills, and dales, and groves, and golden corn—
Whilst in the peerless air, all things are near;
And far or near they each and all adorn!
Here, let us rest, on this fair, breezy hill,
Beneath the shade of this high, spreading beech—
And feel and see that we are Nature's still:
Her Peace and Beauty ever in our reach.
Her calm, majestic glory, harvest-crowned,
Fills heaven and earth, and blends them into one.
How vast and solemn bends the blue profound;
How sweet and strong th' immortal gods move on!
Move on, resistless, yet, with tender grace—
Inflexible, yet soft as summer rain—
Intangible—as where yon shadows race,
With nimble Zephyrs, o'er the waving grain!
Ineffable, though murmurs everywhere,
Swell into Anthems of delightful tone;
And smiling hill-tops, and the radiant air,
Rest in expressive Silence, all their own!
And there, by Avon's stream, are Warwick's towers;
And, here, is labour toiling in the fields:
For Lord [Tchou] or serf alike, the patient hours
Give back to Nature all which Nature yields.
Still human hope aspires and will not die;
Will rear aloft its monumental walls;
Informed by Instinct builds as builds the bee—
Mounting secure where stumbling Reason falls!
So Temples rise Immortelles of the race;
Where mouldering with the stones tradition clings—
Touching the landscape with ennobling grace,
And giving dignity to common things.
The day declines, and so my holiday;
Care slumbering by my side awakes again;
Grasps on my hand and leads my steps away—
So rudely rules the Martha of my brain!"
The Martha is a scolding, busy house-wife [bro-msti], taken from an incident narrated in the Sacred Writings. The writer refers to Temples in a pleasing way, and to the "mouldering stones," where, about the dead, innumerable legends survive. Burials are near to the Temples, and the graves are on Holy ground. His reference is comprehensive—meaning the universal Hope of Immortality, symbolized by the lofty Fanes.
I give below a few of the absurdities from the Comic, taken from a greatly esteemed author in this Line.
"Three wise men of Gotham
Went to sea in a bowl [tou-se];
If the bowl had been stronger,
My tale had been longer!"
The meaning of which is, I suppose, that when wise men do foolish things they no more escape the consequences of folly than others.