The mountain stirr'd its bushy crown, The linden broke her ranks and rent The shock-head willows two and two Came wet-shot alder from the wave, Each pluck'd his one foot from the grave, Old elms came breaking from the vine, And was n't it a sight to see, When, ere his song was ended, As dash'd about the drunken leaves Oh, nature first was fresh to men, You moved her at your pleasure. "Tis vain! in such a brassy age I could not move a thistle; But what is that I hear? a sound O Lord! 't is in my neighbor's ground, They read Botanic Treatises, And Works on Gardening thro' there And Methods of transplanting trees, To look as if they grew there. The wither'd Misses! how they prose By squares of tropic summer shut But these, tho' fed with careful dirt, Better to me the meanest weed That blows upon its mountain, The vilest herb that runs to seed And I must work thro' months of toil, Upon my proper patch of soil To grow my own plantation. I'll take the showers as they fall, I will not vex my bosom: Enough if at the end of all A little garden blossom. ST. AGNES' EVE. DEEP on the convent-roof the snows The shadows of the convent-towers Still creeping with the creeping hours Or this first snowdrop of the year As these white robes are soil'd and dark, To yonder shining ground; As this pale taper's earthly spark, To yonder argent round; So shows my soul before the Lamb, So in mine earthly house I am, To that I hope to be. Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far, Thro' all yon starlight keen, Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, He lifts me to the golden doors; For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits, A light upon the shining sea The Bridegroom with his bride! SIR GALAHAD. of men, My good blade carves the casques The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, They reel, they roll in clanging lists, And when the tide of combat stands, Perfume and flowers fall in showers, That lightly rain from ladies' hands. How sweet are looks that ladies bend For them I battle till the end, To save from shame and thrall: But all my heart is drawn above, My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine : I never felt the kiss of love, Nor maiden's hand in mine. More bounteous aspects on me beam, When down the stormy crescent goes, Then by some secret shrine I ride; I hear a voice, but none are there; Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres I leap on board: no helmsman steers: A gentle sound, an awful light! Three angels bear the holy Grail: When on my goodly charger borne The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, The tempest crackles on the leads, And, ringing, springs from brand and mail; But o'er the dark a glory spreads, And gilds the driving hail. I leave the plain, I climb the height; A maiden knight to me is given Such hope, I know not fear; I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven I muse on joy that will not cease, Pure spaces clothed in living beams, Pure lilies of eternal peace, Whose odors haunt my dreams; This weight and size, this heart and eyes, The clouds are broken in the sky, A rolling organ-harmony Swells up, and shakes and falls. Then move the trees, the copses nod, Wings flutter, voices hover clear: |