SONNET. ON THE PROJECTED KENDAL AND WINDERMERE RAILWAY. Is there no nook of English ground secure sown In youth, and 'mid the busy world kept pure blown, Must perish: how can they this blight endure? And must he too his old delights disown Who scorns a false utilitarian lure 'Mid his paternal fields at random thrown? Baffle the threat, bright scene, from Orresthead Given to the pausing traveller's rapturous glance! And constant voice, protest against the wrong! WORDSWORTH. Jove spake to men-take it, my boon is free; 'Tis marked your heritage through endless time, Share it, like brethren, lovingly. Quick hies the busy race, athirst for gain; The merchant garners all his varied store; And cries, "A tenth of all is due." Ah! last of all-too late-each part assigned, THE DIVISION OF THE EARTH. 125 "Oh! woe is me! for all thy gifts abound, And portionless thou leavest thy faithful son !" Thus while his loud laments to heaven resound, He fell before th' eternal throne. "If in the land of dreams, and Fancy's reign, Fondly thou lingerest, then reproach not me; Where wert thou, Bard, when every share was ta'en ?" "I was," the poet cried, " with thee! "My ravished eye thy glorious face surveyed, My rapt ear drank the music of the skies! Forgive the soul by ecstacy betrayed, That lost earth's dull realities!" Then thus the Ruler, from his lofty throne:"Content thee, Poet! thou hast failed to share One portion girdled by the aqueous zone; ANON. AN APRIL HYMN. FOUNTAIN of good-dear God!-thou that dost make The sap to flow, And, safe from floods, the snowdrop's trance dost wake, Far 'neath the snow, Why o'er the heart still leavest thou to break Rivers of woe? It must be that the heart offendeth thee- Somewhere in secret, which no eye can see, Thou that hast Friend and Father been to me, A soul of sorrow liveth in the flowers It floats and breathes along the lustrous hours, A privilege immortal, which empowers To make me sad. AN APRIL HYMN. 127 I must have wandered from the one bright way So early taught, The sense of transport could not else decay, Into the eternal spirit of this clay With each spring thought! Well I remember how I thrilled, to mark That brought the violet to my lonely ark!— But that Old Spring is past, and ye are dark, 'Tis well to be a mourner,-well to feel And sicken at the tears that daily steal If this strong desolation should reveal Oh! tenderest chastener! whom in love, not fear, Offending whom, I have no comfort here Forgive! or when the flowers are on their bier, E. L. MONTAGU. |