CLARENS. LARENS! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod,- To which the steps are mountains; where the Is a pervading life and light,— -so shown Not on those summits solely, nor alone In the still cave and forest; o'er the flower His eye is sparkling, and his breath hath blown, His soft and summer breath, whose tender pow'r Passes the strength of storms in their most desolate hour. All things are here of him; from the black pines, Which are his shade on high, and the loud roar Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the vines Which slope his green path downward to the shore, Where the bow'd waters meet him, and adore, Kissing his feet with murmurs; and the wood, The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar, But light leaves, young as joy, stands where it stood, Offering to him, and his, a populous solitude. Should e'er some keener sorrow throw A shadow o'er my mind; And should I, thoughtless, breathe to thee Forgive it, love! thy smile will set My better feelings free, And with a look of boundless love I still shall turn to thee. A populous solitude of bees and birds, And fairy-form'd and many-colour'd things, Who worship him with notes more sweet than words, And innocently open their glad wings Fearless and full of life; the gush of springs, And fall of lofty fountains, and the bend Of stirring branches, and the bud which brings The swiftest thought of beauty, here extend, Mingling, and made by Love, unto one mighty end. He who hath loved not, here would learn that lore, For this is Love's recess, where vain men's woes, He stands not still, but or decays, or grows BYRON. The True Lovers' Knot. 75 A PERFECT WOMAN. WOULD not be ambitious in my wish, A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times That, only to stand high on your account, But she may learn; and happier than this, SHAKSPEARE. |