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all seasons shall be sweet to thee,

      Whether the summer clothe the general earth

      With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing

      Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch

      Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch

      Smokes in the sunthaw; whether the eve-drops fall

      Heard only in the trances of the blast,

      Or if the secret ministry of frost

      Shall hang them up in silent icicles,

      Quietly shining to the quiet Moon.

Fears in Solitude

       Table of Contents

      A green and silent spot, amid the hills,

       A small and silent dell! O’er stiller place

       No singing skylark ever poised himself.

       The hills are heathy, save that swelling slope,

       Which hath a gay and gorgeous covering on,

       All golden with the never-bloomless furze,

       Which now blooms most profusely: but the dell,

       Bathed by the mist, is fresh and delicate

       As vernal cornfield, or the unripe flax,

       When, through its half-transparent stalks, at eve,

       The level sunshine glimmers with green light.

       Oh! ‘tis a quiet spirit-healing nook!

       Which all, methinks, would love; but chiefly he,

       The humble man, who, in his youthful years,

       Knew just so much of folly as had made

      His early manhood more securely wise!

       Here he might lie on fern or withered heath,

       While from the singing lark (that sings unseen

       The minstrelsy that solitude loves best),

       And from the sun, and from the breezy air,

       Sweet influences trembled o’er his frame;

       And he, with many feelings, many thoughts,

       Made up a meditative joy, and found

       Religious meanings in the forms of Nature!

       And so, his senses gradually wrapped

       In a half sleep, he dreams of better worlds,

       And dreaming hears thee still, O singing lark,

       That singest like an angel in the clouds!

      My God! it is a melancholy thing

       For such a man, who would full fain preserve

       His soul in calmness, yet perforce must feel

       For all his human brethren -O my God!

       It weighs upon the heart, that he must think

       What uproar and what strife may now be stirring

       This way or that way o’er these silent hills -

       Invasion, and the thunder and the shout,

       And all the crash of onset; fear and rage,

       And undetermined conflict -even now,

       Even now, perchance, and in his native isle:

       Carnage and groans beneath this blessed sun!

       We have offended, Oh! my countrymen!

       We have offended very grievously,

       And been most tyrannous. From east to west

       A groan of accusation pierces Heaven!

       The wretched plead against us; multitudes

       Countless and vehement, the sons of God,

       Our brethren! Like a cloud that travels on,

       Steamed up from Cairo’s swamps of pestilence,

       Even so, my countrymen! have we gone forth

       And borne to distant tribes slavery and pangs,

       And, deadlier far, our vices, whose deep taint

       With slow perdition murders the whole man,

       His body and his soul! Meanwhile, at home,

       All individual dignity and power

       Engulfed in Courts, Committees, Institutions,

       Associations and Societies,

       A vain, speech-mouthing, speech-reporting Guild,

       One Benefit-Club for mutual flattery,

       We have drunk up, demure as at a grace,

       Pollutions from the brimming cup of wealth;

       Contemptuous of all honourable rule,

       Yet bartering freedom and the poor man’s life

       For gold, as at a market! The sweet words

       Of Christian promise, words that even yet

       Might stem destruction, were they wisely preached,

       Are muttered o’er by men, whose tones proclaim

       How flat and wearisome they feel their trade:

       Rank scoffers some, but most too indolent

       To deem them falsehoods or to know their truth.

       Oh! blasphemous! the Book of Life is made

       A superstitious instrument, on which

       We gabble o’er the oaths we mean to break;

       For all must swear -all and in every place,

       College and wharf, council and justice-court;

       All, all must swear, the briber and the bribed,

       Merchant and lawyer, senator and priest,

       The rich, the poor, the old man and the young;

       All, all make up one scheme of perjury,

       That faith doth reel; the very name of God

       Sounds like a juggler’s charm; and, bold with joy,

       Forth from his dark and lonely hiding-place

       (Portentous sight!) the owlet Atheism,

       Sailing on obscene wings athwart the noon,

       Drops his blue-fringed lids, and holds them close,

       And hooting at the glorious sun in Heaven,

       Cries out, “Where is it?”

      Thankless too for peace,

       (Peace long preserved by fleets and perilous seas)

       Secure from actual warfare, we have loved

       To swell the war-whoop, passionate for war!

       Alas! for ages ignorant of all

       Its ghastlier workings, (famine or blue plague,

       Battle, or siege, or flight through wintry snows,)

       We, this whole people, have been clamorous

       For war and bloodshed; animating sports,

       The which we pay for as a thing to talk of,

       Spectators and not combatants! No guess

       Anticipative of a wrong unfelt,

       No speculation on contingency,

       However dim and vague, too vague and dim

       To yield a justifying cause; and forth,

       (Stuffed out with big preamble, holy names,

       And adjurations of the God in Heaven,)

      

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