The night-flowers round that door, Still breathe pure fragrance on the untainted air ; Thou, thou alone art worthy now no more Hark, hark!—it is my mother's voice I hear Sadder than once it seem'd-yet soft and clear— Doth she not seem to pray? My name!-I caught the sound! Oh! blessed tone of love-the deep, the mildMother, my mother! Now receive thy child, Take back the lost and found! A THOUGHT OF PARADISE. We receive but what we give, And in our life alone does nature live: Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud! And from the soul itself must there be sent COLERIDGE. GREEN spot of holy ground! If thou couldst yet be found, Far in deep woods, with all thy starry flowers; If not one sullying breath Of time, or change, or death, Had touched the vernal glory of thy bowers; Might our tired pilgrim-feet, Worn by the desert's heat, On the bright freshness of thy turf repose? Might our eyes wander there Through heaven's transparent air, And rest on colours of the immortal rose? Say, would thy balmy skies And fountain-melodies Our heritage of lost delight restore? Could thy soft honey-dews Through all our veins diffuse The early, child-like, trustful sleep once more? And might we, in the shade By thy tall cedars made, With angel voices high communion hold? Would their sweet solemn tone Give back the music gone, Our Being's harmony, so jarred of old? Oh! no-thy sunny hours Might come with blossom showers, All thy young leaves to spirit lyres might thrill; But we should we not bring Into thy realms of spring The shadows of our souls to haunt us still? What could thy flowers and airs Do for our earth-born cares? Would the world's chain melt off and leave us free? No!-past each living stream, Still would some fever dream Track the lorn wanderers, meet no more for thee! Should we not shrink with fear, If angel steps were near, Feeling our burdened souls within us die? How might our passions brook The still and searching look, The star-like glance of seraph purity? |