I.
This tranquil Sabbath morn hath hushed the earth
Into unwonted calm. The clear pale hills
Lie beneath level lines of sunny clouds,
Walling our prospect round. A hundred fields
Rest from their six days' tillage;--save where kine
Peaceful their herbage crop, or ruminate
Recumbent. Every vernal garden flower,
Crocus gold--bright, or varnished celandine,
Or violet, sapphire--eyed or bridal white,
Opens its bosom to the ascending sun.
One only looks not up, but ever droops,
Droops, but with matchless grace, and not to earth,
But, with firm stalk, its head alone depends,--
The snowdrop, lovelier than them all. Ev'n thus
Bow down, my spirit, with thy load of grief,
Bow down,--but be not crushed:--be yet thy stem
Upright and firm, on God's good purpose stayed.
But I no more can look into the heaven
As do yon gayer blooms: touched by God's hand,
''Mara my name, but Naomi no more:''--
For one lithe form I miss this Sabbath morn,
Which, full of life and joy, on days like this
Tripped o'er these walks, feeding on sight and sound,
Holding half--closed the holy book in hand,
And mingling with the loved and half--learned lore
Of parable, or sweet recital, gleams
Of nature's various life. O memory sweet!
O inexhausted fount of tearful joy!

II.
Once more among the rose--tree boughs, that trail
Athwart the cloudless sky, from where I sit
I see our little yearly visitant
The blithesome wren, run eager: now with wings
Outspread and fluttering, now with swiftest dart
At latent insect,--then with warbling trill
Of soft and liquid song, singing his hymn
Of purest vernal joy. But not alone
Such sight and music stir me:--one short year,
How short, how long! since thou, thy hand in mine,
Our breath in silence held, stoodst by my side,
Summoned from busy task to watch that bird--
I see thee now,--thy clear blue eyes lit up
With eager light of love,--thy frame, attent
And rapt to catch each note of that sweet song:
I hear thee whisper, ''Oh, how beautiful!''
Dear child of memory! on my lonely path
Bright are the rays shed from thee; brighter far
Than aught I find in men or books beside!

III.
I search the heavens and earth for news of thee,
But find them not. That sunlit continent
Hung in mid--air, that with transmitted light
Gladdens this peaceful night, is that thy home?
Abidest thou where bright and pale by turns
Her hills and plains gleam evident? Art thou
Among the thousand times ten thousand saints
There stationed, till He come, and we arise
To meet Him, when He brings ye in the air?

Nor shrink I from such questioning. His works
Who framed the wondrous universe, by rule
And due apportionment are fitted all,
Each to its separate use. And that pure isle
Of treasured light, journeying with this our earth,
Wherefore thus waits it on the world of man?
Say, to give light by night; but wherefore then
So scant, and intermitted? Say, to swell
The tides salubrious, and to air, sun--dried,
Restore its genial moisture. But nor this
Seems to suffice. Hath that fair--fashioned world
No tributary use for this world's lord?
Doth it no purpose serve for man? If life,
Life various and material, there were fed
As here below, then would the varying clouds
Dapple her argent surface, and pale belts
Of fleecy mist athwart her orb extend,
Which are not found. Material life and growth,
Nourished as here, is none. If living tribes
Are there, then live they by some law unknown
To us, whom tillage of the moistened soil
Feeds, on the succulent and annual growth
Of still decaying matter still renewed.
If there they live, they live without decay,
Unnourished, and undying. Beauty there
Spreads not the landscape with rich fields and woods,
Brown glebes, and errant streams: but spiry rocks
Burn in untempered sunlight, and wide shades
Invite to cool, and deepen into night.
Fit haunt for spirits,--for to local bound,
Though hard to set, all spirits are confined,
Save that unbounded One, who lives through all,--
Fit haunt for blessed spirits to abide,
In holiest intercourse and love unsoiled,
In sight of earth and heaven, their final bliss.
Nor let us dream of aught that might degrade
Our holiest Faith in this. He that was dead
And lives again, the bright and morning Star
Of all our yearning hopes,--shall any say
They dwell not there, because they dwell with Him?
He is, where sin is not. Among them there,
He, in the body of His glory, may
As once in Eden, walk: high Visitant,
Teacher sublime:--there may they humble sit
Beside His feet, and learn. Here let us pause:
Nor further licence give to Fancy's wing:
Ev'n thus, may some believe, too wide we roam.

IV.
Ev'n thus, may some believe, too wide we roam:
But roam we wider still. Yon orb of light
Daunting the heavenward eye with potent beam,
Serves it not, too, some glorious end for man?
Say, it were made to rule this nether day:
Almighty Power might with such sheen endow
Some point minute; nor spend a million worlds
To light one system of dependent orbs.
Say, it were built so vast, by central force
Those orbs to draw attractive, lest in space
Wheeling immense, the orbits far and cold
Of planets even now but known to man
Their common bond forget, and errant roam,
Yet,--be this so,--shall each dependent world
Be portioned out for bird and beast and man,
And this, the noblest, dreary all and blank,
Home of no life,--alone of all the band,
Though brightest, radiant with no love nor joy?
And grant that high Intelligences dwell
Within yon spanning belt of dazzling fire,
Whence, and what are they? Do they fall, as here,
By death, and feed decay? Do they, as here,
Sorrow, and sin, and toil, and hate, and pine?
Fades there the brightest? Has love there its frosts,
Its worms that gnaw the root,--its withering buds?
Our earth obeys its law, vicissitude:
One while, we bask beneath the genial ray,
One while, in grateful night our strength renew:
Winter gives nature rest,--the voice of Spring
Calls forth the buds,--Summer the bloom unfolds,
And lavish Autumn sheds the mellowed fruit,
And so we live by change. But there no night
Drops on the vales, nor visits them the dawn:
That orb serene eternal brightness clothes;
Nor seasons' varied course is known, nor march
Of years recurrent: fit abode for those
Whose life hath done with change, and rests in bliss.
What if each system have its sun, its heaven?
What if the sentient dwellers in its orbs,
Their course of conflict run, their goal attained,
Meet on those glittering spheres in joy and love?
And what if all, uncounted firmaments
Of suns, with angel habitants, around
The Central Throne, in mingling glory roll?

V.
Why day by day this painful questioning?
I know, that it is well. I know that there
(O where?) thou hast protectors, guardians, friends,
If such be needed: angel companies
Move round thee: mighty Spirits lead thy thoughts
To founts of knowledge which we never saw.
I know that thou art happy;--fresh desire
Springing each day, and each day satisfied:
God's glorious works all open to thy view,
His blessed creatures thine, where pain nor death
Disturbs not nor divides. All this I know:
But O for one short sight of what I know!

VI.
September 3, 1850.
Here take thy stand: within this chamber lone
That looks upon the unfathomable blue
Of the blest ocean, take thy stand awhile:
Ah, mournful task! and watch yon fading face,
So lately lit with love and eager joy,
Now blank, but beautiful! Trace thou those lines
Which death hath spared; build up that noble brow,
Part the fair hair, and mimic with thy brush
That curl, whose very flexure tells of him.
Precious thine art--God's gift--how often said,--
How never felt till now! This Autumn day
We leave thee here with him. Death, cease thy work!
Forget thy course, Decay! One favouring hour
Befriend our wish, how earnest, but how vain!

VII.
O sweet refreshment to the wearied heart,
This converse with the unalterable dead!
I know not where, nor rightly what thou art:
I only know that thou art blest and bright,
Unfading, and mine own: and thus I sit
Long pensive hours alone, scarce stirred in thought,
Scanning thy presence through a mist of tears.
Others may change, but thou shalt never change:
Forgetfulness, and distance, and neglect,
The chills of earthly love,--the stealthy pace
Of summer--stealing age,--these touch not thee:
That heart of thine, fresh well of living love,
Hadst thou been here, might in long years have failed,
Or poured on thankless fields its errant streams,
Or flowed away (such sad vicissitudes
We learn to look for, who live long on earth)
Else--whither in abundance, sparing here
Few drops and scant. But now, beloved one,
That everlasting fount is all our own.

VIII.
They tell me, that we soon shall meet again:
That some have heard the mighty chariot wheels
Roar in the distance; that the world's salt tears
Are cleaving their last furrows in her cheeks.
It may be so: I know not. Oft the ear
Attent and eager for some coming friend,
Construes each breeze among the vocal boughs
Into the tokens of his wished approach.
But this I know: HE liveth and shall stand
Upon this earth: and round Him, thick as waves
That laugh with light at noon, uncounted hosts
Of His redeemed: and this I further know:
Then shall I see thee,--amidst all that band,
Know thee unsought: and midst a thousand joys
Ineffable,--our own shall we possess,
Clasped heart to heart, and looking eye to eye.
O dawn, millennial day! Come blessed morn!
Appear Desire of Nations! rend thy heavens,
And stand revealed upon thy chosen hill!