Now, speaking in grave, deliberate terms, what do we mean by contentment? For my part, I cannot tell, precisely. But that particular prospect, to use the old figure, which is set before me, and becomes my future, is, Heaven knows, sufficiently cheerless and uninteresting. And yet, if I were asked to exchange it for any other in the world, I should be compelled to answer, no. Still, I am far from being contented. Not but that the present is well enough, because it receives its character from the future; but with the future itself I am dissatisfied. Dreary as my circumstances are, I would not alter them, nor the past; I would not undo any thing that has been done; but show me some road by which I can regain the position which I once occupied, or by which I can gain another position which I desire, and I despise the past and present, and am contented. That is to say, contentment has respect mainly to the future. This is a bungling and circuitous way of coming at a simple idea; but this truth explains to my mind some things concerning happiness; and among the rest, how it is that this beautiful young woman can be contented, perfectly satisfied, with her lot, in these forests. And how it is (which I have often wondered at) that men whose views are bounded by the limits of their own farm, can be as happy as those who take in at one glance a whole kingdom. And a blessed thing it is, much as those of the latter class may be disposed to sneer, that a few small objects, to the eye accustomed to look at them, can grow into sufficient magnitude and importance to become the objects of life. And I would ask these scorners if they are not afraid that some higher class still will scorn them too? for their pursuits and means of happiness, though large in their own eyes, may be as small to the sight of some being whose glance takes in the world, as the poor man's is to theirs. I am sure I don't know, if I could have my choice, whose lot I would prefer.
But I am no sneerer, my gentle hostess. If I could, I would contract my roving vision and desires; like yourself, make my most desired object of attainment, comfort, and rustic health; confine my thoughts to my own neighborhood; study and fall in love with Nature; grow wise in that wisdom which is from within—and be happy. I have been trying to do so; but there is something in me that rebels. It cannot be, and I must go restlessly and sorrowfully wandering on. And when I am gone, and you forget the wayfarer, he will not forget you, nor the heart-felt benediction, 'May it remain with you forever!' which he leaves with your household.
[ODE TO BEAUTY.]
'A THING OF BEAUTY IS A JOY FOR EVER.'—Keats.
Spirit of Beauty! thou whose glance
Doth fill the universe with light
Which is the shadow of thy might,
Whose fair, immortal countenance
Transcends all human sight! O where,
Within what calm and blessed sphere
Of earth, or air, or heaven, doth dwell
The glory of thy presence? Now
All things repose beneath thy spell.
Bright essence, pure, invisible,
Blest spirit! where art thou?
Beyond stern Boreas' crystal throne
Dost hold thy court with meteors dancing,
And phantom gleams mid shadows wan,
Like thought from earth to heaven glancing?
Art sphered in light within the glorious Sun
When upward on his burning course he hies,
Or in the golden west when day is done,
Weaving his gorgeous robe of thousand dyes?
Hast thou thy home far in yon silvery star,
Aye twinkling silently,
As fondly struggling to reveal
The secret of its mystery;
Whose radiance floating from afar,
Like music o'er the heart doth steal,
Making the listening soul to be
Part of its own deep melody?
Dost dwell in the trembling moonbeam's smile,
When, wakened by the midnight spell,
Light fairies trip through each silent dell,
Their dewy ringlets dancing, while
Beneath the shadowy mountain's base
The vales lie steeped in loveliness,
And the breathing lawns afar do seem
The soft creation of a dream?
Thy spell is abroad on the Ocean's breast
When the Sun awakes from his dreamless rest,
And the crimsoned waves leap exultingly
Beneath the glance of his golden eye.
Thou reignest in the glowing haze
Of noontide, like a presence brooding
Above the fields in radiance dressed,
When amber gleams the woods are flooding,
And insects sport mid the quivering rays;
And the flowers their trembling zones unbind
To the soft caress of the wooing wind.
Thou com'st on airy footsteps, blest
With a spirit-power in the twilight hour,
When the dreaming lake lies hushed below,
And the heavens above with looks of love
Keep watch as the shadows come and go.
All hours, all worlds, thy spell obey;
Yet not alone within the circling pale
Of universal Nature's wide domain
Extends thy sovereign reign;
The Soul hath beauty of her own
Which oft doth penetrate the mortal veil
That shrouds the spirit's viewless throne,
Winning to something of celestial ray
The charms that blossom only to decay.
It lives in all the nameless grace
Of wreathed line and shifting hue,
(That speak the pent soul shining through,)
It sleeps in the unruffled face
Of holy, smiling infancy,
Wherein, as in a lake of blue,
Lies mirrored heaven's own purity.
But most in Woman's soul-lit eye,
Within whose depths lies eternity!
And in those smiles that gleam and tremble
Through the veil that seems to shroud
Their full effulgence, and resemble
Lightnings hovering in a cloud;
And in the light serene and clear
Of her own vestal purity,
Which surrounds her like an atmosphere.
Spirit of Beauty! here confess
Thy divinest dwelling-place!