Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/190

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SUMMER.
As far—to space's utmost ends,In one glad reign of bliss extends!Before thy strength,—before thy power,'Tis felt,—oh! even in childhood's hour,Or e'er the mind hath garnered thought,Instinct to worship that hath taught!'Tis that which gave yon gushing stream,'Tis that which gave this gladdening beam,This flowery mead, yon spreading lawn,The healthful breeze of early dawn,The yellow broom, yon heather-bell,The primrose blushing in yon dell,The pearly dew that crowns each stem,Each flower, each leaf with many a gemFairer than decks a diadem. And, nor the last nor least, with praiseAnd swelling heart, in artless lays,Giv'st me to kneel before Thy throne,Here, in this temple of Thine own:Its roof yon arch of azure hue,A clear, calm, holy, cloudless blue:Its altar yon steep hills that riseIn misty grandeur to the skies;Its incense that one fleecy cloud,Stainless as infant beauty's shroud;Its matin hymn that swelling noteThat warbles through the lark's clear throat,This humble love, yet strong, sincere,This pensive joy, this happy tearIts worship all. Its priest the thought,With prostrate adoration fraught,That Thou art all in all!—that man, what is he?—nought!
Summer.
I'm coming along with a bounding pace, To finish the work that Spring begun;I've left them all with a brighter face— The flowers in the vales through which I've run.
I have hung festoons from laburnum trees, And clothed the lilac, the birch, and broom;I've wakened the sound of humming bees, And decked all Nature in brighter bloom.
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