464 Meditations on a Scene in Summer. 



Then downward glancing I survey the earth 

 In the green grandeur of its summer dress, 

 Glad with the gush of loud melodious mirth, 

 And gentle flowers, that spring in wild excess, 

 Strong in the natural spell of loveliness, 

 Fervid and fragrant as an infant's cheek 

 Beneath its mother's rapturous caress. 

 Thus smiles the sun upon each tender streak, 

 Teaching the timid leaves and blushing buds to speak. 



Oh ! flowers have voices, for the human ear 

 Too tremulously fine, but to a sense 

 By holy hopes and native truth severe 

 Refined and quickened, with a tone intense, 

 An almost silent, rich intelligence, 

 They breathe of various themes to wisdom known, 

 And oft the world hath gained a virtue thence, 

 Which man amid his pride is slow to own, 

 In many a tender trope and touching moral shown. 



Far down, the stately sculpture of the wood, 

 Groupings of glorious beauty, meet the view ; 

 Shapes that have like some olden statue stood, 

 Forms free as ever antique genius drew : 

 Romance, among yon mazes ever new, 

 Would seem like Reason won from worldly wiles ; 

 The stream, that like a spirit glideth through, 

 His sole companion in those dim defiles, 

 Gushing in music down or stealing forth in smiles. 



And other paths are there, where Pleasure's feet 

 Touch airily the daisy's trembling head ; 

 Where Idlesse stretcheth in indulgence sweet 

 His sun-sick frame upon a branched bed ; 

 Or, by the light of clustering lilies led, 

 In the fond patience of her pilgrimage 

 Comes Melancholy there, unseen to shed 

 A human tear o'er life's illusive page, 

 The dazzling dreams of youth and dreary wants of age. 



Let me from hence explore each haunted nook, 

 With an all-wondering and expectant gaze ; 

 And let me in the fresh and bubbling brook 

 Hear harmonies and long-remembered lays. 

 Each passing sound is full of nature's praise ; 

 The winds come whispering with a fervent power, 

 And every turf an altar seems to raise, 

 With welcome incense, won from many a flower, 

 Loading the happy air and hallowing the hour. 



And oh ! to sit upon this quiet hill 

 To track the flower-like footmarks of the Spring, 

 To look upon the clouds thus calm and still, 

 The glorious water ever wandering, 

 The shadows flung from many a shining thing, 

 Green mead and mountain grey ; and high in air 

 A bird by natural transport taught to sing, 

 As if to mark the limit of despair 

 This is to me a joy a triumph over care. 



L. B. 



