That urn of flowers and lustral dews,
Whose sacred balm, o'er all things shed,
Revives the weak, the old renews,
And crowns with votive wreaths the dead.
Once more the cuckoo's call I hear;
I know, in many a glen profound,
The earliest violets of the year
Rise up like water from the ground.
The thorn I know once more is white;
And, far down many a forest dale,
The anemones in dubious light
Are trembling like a bridal veil.
By streams released that singing flow
From craggy shelf through sylvan glades,
The pale narcissus, well I know,
Smiles hour by hour on greener shades.
The honeyed cowslip tufts once more
The golden slopes;—with gradual ray
The primrose stars the rock, and o'er
The wood-path strews its milky way.
—From ruined huts and holes come forth
Old men, and look upon the sky!
The Power Divine is on the earth:—
Give thanks to God before ye die!
And ye, O children worn and weak,
Who care no more with flowers to play,
Lean on the grass your cold, thin cheek,
And those slight hands, and whispering, say,
"Stern Mother of a race unblest—
In promise kindly, cold in deed;
Take back, O Earth, into thy breast,
The children whom thou wilt not feed."