哈瑞特·泰勒的三首诗

二、哈瑞特·泰勒的三首诗

Written at Daybreak

HUSHED are all sound，the sons of toil pain

The poor and wealthy are all one again；

Sleep closes o'er the high and lowly head，

And makes the living fellows with the dead．

The clouds of night roll sullenly away，

Humbly obedient to th'approach of day；

The fragrant flowers unfold their scented heads，

The birds with gladness leave their leafy beds—

But unperceived at first the orb of day，

Sending alone a faint and trembling ray；

The glowing east，streaming with floods of gold

The fleeing clouds a thousand hues unfold．

At last he comes majestically slow

Pouring Bright radiance on the world below，

And springing upwards from th'embrace of night

Gilding the heavn's with beams of orient light—

O beauteous hour to minds of feeling giv'ns

Filling the heart with purpose arise

And give the soul communion with the skies；

To Nature's God our highest hopes ascend

The bounding heart paints joys which cannot end—

Oh，if to mortals it could e'er be given，

To chuse the path the spirit takes to Heav'n

Guided by him，from whom my doating heart

Not opening heav'n itself could tempt to part，

Mind would ascend，on such a morn as this

On wings of glorious light to realms of bliss

And he whose love illumes this world of care

Should dwell with me in all the transports there．

To the Summer Wind

WHENCE comst thou，sweet wind？

Didst take thy phantom form

'Mid the depth of forest trees？

　Or spring，new born，

　Of the fragrant morn，

'Mong the far—off Indian seas？

Where speedest thou，sweet wind？

Thou little heedest，I trow—

Dost thou sigh for some glancing star？

　　　Or cool brow

　　　Of the dying now，

As they pass to their home afar？

What mission is thine，O wind？

Say for what thou yearnest—

That，like the wayward mind，

　　Earth thou spurnest，

　　Heaven—ward turnest，

And rest canst nowhere find！

Nature

MANIFOLD cords，invisible or seen

Present orpast，or only hoped for，bind

All to our mother earth．—No step—dame she，

Coz'ning with forced fond ness，but a funt，

Rightly pursued，of never—failing love．—

True，that too oft'we lose ourselves'mong thorns

That tear and wound．But why impatient haste

From the smooth path our fairest mother dreww？

'Tis man，not nature，works the general ill，

By folly piled on folly，till the heap

Hides every natural feeling，save alone

Grey discontent，upraised to ominous height，

And keeping drowsy watcho'er buried wishes．