The maiden Meditation, hard to win,
For terms of apt significance. Nor then,
When Winter, better pleas'd, puts on a smile,
And round his garden at high noon he walks,
Not unattended, and the daffodil
And early snowdrop welcomes, pensive flow'r.
Nor needs he then excuse, what time he starts,
To mark the progress of the morning sun,
As northward from his equinox he steers,
And once again brings on the glorious year.
Sweet are the graces which the steps attend
Of early morning, when, the clouded brow
Of winter smooth'd, up from her orient couch
She springs, and, like a maid betroth'd, puts on
Her bridal suit, and with an ardent smile
Comes forth to greet her lover. To my eye,
As well as thine, Alcanor, grateful 'tis,
Ay passing sweet, to mark the cautious pace
Of slow-returning Spring, e'en from the time
When first the matted apricot unfolds
His tender bloom, till the full orchard glows;
From when the gooseberry first shows a leaf,
Till the high wood is clad, and the broad oak
Yields to the fly-stung ox a shade at noon
Sun proof. How charming 'tis, to see sweet May
Laugh in the rear of Winter, and put on
Her gay apparel to begin anew
The wanton year! See where apace she comes
As fair, as young, as brisk, as when from Heav'n
Before the Founder of the world she tripp'd
To Paradise rejoicing: the light breeze
Wafts to the sense a thousand odours; Hark!
The cheerful music which attends.
Would on thyself alone the awful doom
Of death had pass'd! It grieves me to the soul To think how soon the blooming year shall fade, How soon the leafy honours of the vale
Be shed, the blossom nipt, and the bare branch Howl dreary music in the ear of Winter.
Yet let us live, and, while we may, rejoice,
And not our present joy disturb with thought
Of evils sure to come, and by no art
Come hither, fool, who vainly think'st
Thine only is the art to plumb the depth
Of truth and wisdom. "Tis a friend who calls,
And has some honest pity left for thee,
O thoughtless stubborn Sceptic. Look abroad,
And tell me, shall we to blind chance ascribe
The scene so wonderful, so fair, and good?
Shall we no farther search than sense will lead,
To find the glorious cause which so delights
The eye and ear, and scatters ev'ry where
Ambrosial perfumes? Is there not a hand
Which operates unseen, and regulates
The vast machine we tread on? Yes, there is
Who first created the great world, a work
Of deep construction, complicately wrought,
Wheel within wheel; though all in vain we strive
To trace remote effects through the thick maze
Of movements intricate, confus'd and strange,
Up to the great Artificer who made
And guides the whole. What if we see him not?
No more can we behold the busy soul
Which animates ourselves. Man to himself
Is all a miracle. I cannot see
The latent cause, yet such I know there is,
Which gives the body motion, nor can tell
By what strange impulse the so ready limb
Performs the purposes of will. How then
Shalt thou or I, who cannot span ourselves,
In this our narrow vessel comprehend
The being of a God? Go to the shore,
Cast in thy slender angle, and draw out
The huge Leviathan. Compress the deep,
And shut it up within the hollow round
Of the small hazel-nut: or freight the shell
Of snail or cockle with the glorious sun,
And all the worlds that live upon his beams,
The goodly apparatus that rides round
The glowing axle-tree of Heav'n. Then come,
And I will grant 'tis thine to scale the height
Of wisdom infinite, and comprehend
Secrets incomprehensible; to know
There is no God, and what the potent cause
Which the revolving universe upholds,
And not requires a Deity at hand..
Persuade me not, insulting disputant,
That I shall die, the wick of life consum'd, And, spite of all my hopes, sink to the grave, Never to rise again. Will the great God, Who thus by annual miracle restores
The perish'd year, and youth and beauty gives
By resurrection strange, where none was ask'd,
Leave only man to be the scorn of time
And sport of death? Shall only he one spring,
One hasty summer, and one autumn see,
And then to winter irredeemable
Be doom'd, cast out, rejected, and despised?
Tell me not so, or by thyself enjoy
The melancholy thought. Am I deceiv'd?
Be my mistake eternal. If I err,
It is an error sweet and lucrative.
For should not Heaven a further course intend
Than the short race of life, I am at least
Thrice happier than thou, ill-boding fool,
Who striv'st in vain the awful doom to fly
Which I not fear. But I shall live again,
And still on that sweet hope shall my soul feed.
|