To the beautiful the Spirit
Open'd wide her loving breast,
Wooed their souls to nestle near it
And from life's excitement rest,
Whispering, "Sleep on Sorrow's bosom,
Dear ones, and your souls will rise
With fresh sweetness on their blossom,
Richer perfume, brighter dyes."
Most shrunk from her, but some weeping
Yielded to her soft controul;
And whilst on that bosom sleeping
Heaven-dew fell upon each soul.
Young and old fled from her ever
Waving off her proffered grace,
Thwarting each divine endeavour,
Trembling still before her face;
And she said "Ah! ye are blinded,
Seeing not the things that are,
For unto the earnest-minded
Sorrow is life's guiding star;
"Not delusive, not unsparing,
Richer fraught with good than pain,
Unto life sweet blessings bearing
Though she scatter them in rain."
I.
Written at Ulleswater.
The tide is rippling to my very feet,
The mountains are before me, and around,
Stretching in misty grandeur till they meet
In one dim bourne, their hoary summits crown'd
With cloudy chaplets, such as might have bound
The new-born Thunderer when Saturn fell,
All wonder-stricken, from his mighty throne.
The sun is shining upon wooded slopes,
And distant headlands, with faint shadows thrown
Amid its brightness like the shatter'd hopes
Of a young noontide, and its golden light
Crests the upheaving waters till each swell
Is tremulous with glory, and the sight
Pictures strange fancies which no tongue can tell.