From The Month.
THE FAIREST FAIR.
(FROM ST. JOHN OF THE CROSS.)
"My beloved is the mountains,
The solitary wooded valleys."
—St. John of the Cross.
I.
Mountains, that upward to the clouds arise,
Odorous with thyme, whereon the wild bees linger,
Jewell'd with flowers of a thousand dyes.
Their petals tinted by no mortal finger;
How solemn in their gray-worn age they stand,
Hills piled on hills in silent majesty!
Lofty and strong, and beautiful and grand:
All this and more is my belov'd to me.
II.
Come forth into the woods,—in yonder valley.
Where rippling waters murmur through the glade;
There, 'neath the rustling boughs of some green alley,
We'll watch the golden light and quivering shade:
Or couch'd on mossy banks we'll lie and listen
To song-birds pouring forth their vernal glee.
Wave on, ye woods; ye faery fountains, glisten:
But more, far more is my beloved to me.
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III.
Know ye the land where fragrant winds awaken
In spicy forests hidden from the eye:
Where richest perfumes from the boughs are shaken,
And flowers unnotic'd bloom and blush and die?
Sweet is th' eternal spring that there reposes
On wondrous isles that gem the sunny sea,
And sweet the gales that breathe o'er beds of roses:
But sweeter far is my belov'd to me.
IV.
The roaring torrents from the ice-cliffs leaping—
I see them foaming down the mountain side,
Through the green dells and valleys onward sweeping,
They fill the hollows with their mighty tide:
Their voice is as the voice of many waters;
Onward they rush, exulting to be free;
But ah! their thunder fails, their music falters:
Far more than this is my belov'd to me.
V.
A gentler sound wakes in the hush of even.
The whisper of a light and cooling breeze;
It stirs when twilight shades are in the heaven,'
And bows the tufted foliage of the trees;
It fans my cheek; its music softly stealing
Speaks to my heart in loving mystery.
Ah, gentle breeze! full well thou art revealing
The joy that my beloved is to me.
VI.
Night comes at last, in mystic shadows folding
The nodding forest and the verdant lawn,
Till the day breaks, and Nature starts, beholding
The golden chariot of the coming dawn:
Then on each bough the feathered chanters, waking,
Pour forth their music over bush and tree.
Cease, cease your songs, ye birds; my heart-strings breaking
Lack words to say what Jesus is to me.
VII.
Yea, all the fairest forms that Nature scatters.
And all melodious sounds that greet the ear;
The murmuring music of the running waters.
The golden harvest-fields that crown the year,
The crimson morn, the calm and dewy even,
The tranquil moonlight on the slumbering' sea,—
All are but shadows, forms of beauty given
To tell what my beloved is to me.
THE GODFREY FAMILY;
OR, QUESTIONS OF THE DAY.
CHAPTER IX.
RELIGION—PHILOSOPHY: WHICH IS THE TRUTH?
But we must return to Cambridge. Eugene made inquiries respecting his late visitor, M. Bertolot, and finding that he taught his own language as a means of subsistence, he applied to him for instruction, not indeed to learn the language, which he knew how to read already, but, as he said, for practice in speaking and so forth.