VI.

And other visions come at call-
The lover's walk at evening's fall;
The posy culled with pleasing care,
Το grace a bosom fond and fair;
The seat beneath the apple-tree,

Or mid high clover on the lea;
All the bright foolishness of youth,

When earth was heaven and man was truth.

VII.

These are thy gifts and liberal dower,
Gem of the wilds, ethereal flower;

I would not lose my love of thee,
For all the pomps of luxury;
Nor of thy sisters of the woods,
Companions of my varying moods;
All sweetly garrulous as thou,
Of past delights made present now.

VIII.

Yet, mighty Art, to Nature true,
Can clothe thy form with beauty new.
Lo! by the artist's powerful spells,
Amid thy leaves a spirit dwells-
A spirit with a gentle face,
Imbued with melancholy grace,

And downcast eyes that seem to say,

66

I love I meditate-I pray."

IX.

Triumphant Art! the spirit fair
Was no creation-she was there:
Thou didst but see with keener eye,
What blind materialists deny.

A living spirit breathes in all,
To teach, enrapture, and enthral;

Each tree that waves, each flower that springs,

Speaks high and spiritual things.

X.

And once by chisel, brush, or pen,

Evoked before the eyes

of men,

No future spell can disenchant,

The floweret or its habitant:

The beauteous visions breathe and move,
Like creatures of our daily love;

And, linked with sympathies refined,

Become immortal as the mind.

THE NAMELESS MOUNTAIN STREAM.

I

Up from the shore of the placid lake Wherein thou tumblest, murmuring low, Over the meadow, and through the brake, And over the moor where the rushes grow,

I've traced thy course, thou gentle brook :—
I've seen thy life in all thy moods;

I've seen thee lingering in the nook
Of the shady, fragrant, pine-tree woods;
I've seen thee starting and leaping down
The smooth high rocks and boulders brown;
I've tracked thee upwards, upwards still,
From the spot where the lonely birch-tree stands,
Low adown amid shingle and sands,

Over the brow of the ferny hill,

Over the moorland, purple dyed,
Over the rifts of granite grey,
Up to thy source on the mountain side,
Far away-oh, far away.

II.

Beautiful stream! By rock and dell,
There's not an inch in all thy course
I have not tracked. I know thee well;
I know where blossoms the yellow gorse,
I know where waves the pale blue-bell,
And where the hidden violets dwell.
I know where the foxglove rears its head,
And where the heather tufts are spread;
I know where the meadow-sweets exhale,
And the white valerians load the gale.
I know the spot the bees love best,
And where the linnet has built her nest.