And the bright beings, their own hearts' creations,
Bright, yet all human, here are breathing still;
Conflicts, and agonies, and exultations,
Are here, and victories of prevailing will!
Listen, oh, listen! Let their high words cheer thee!
Their swan-like music, ringing through all woes!
Let my voice bring their holy influence near thee,
The Elysian air of their divine repose!
Oh, wouldst thou turn to earth! Not earth, all furrowed
By the old traces of man's toil and care,
But the green youthful world, that never sorrowed,
The world of leaves, and dews, and summer air.
Look on these flowers! As o'er an altar, shedding
O'er Milton's page, soft light from coloured urns!
They are the links, man's heart to nature wedding,
When to her breast the prodigal returns.
They are from lone wild places, forest-dingles,
Fresh banks of many a low-voiced hidden stream,
Where the sweet star of eve looks down, and mingles
Faint lustre with the water-lily's gleam.
They are from where the soft winds play in gladness,
Covering the turf with pearly blossom-showers;—
—Too richly dowered, O friend! are we for sadness,
Look on an Empire—Mind and Nature—ours!"
Page:Felicia Hemans in The Winter's Wreath 1832 Original.pdf/8
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