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ASPIRATIONS OF YOUTH.
Deeper, deeper let us toil
What stronger breast-plate than a heart un
tainted; Thrice is he armed that hath his quarrel
just; And he but naked though locked up in
steel Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted.
He who hath light within his own clear
breast May sit i'th'centre and enjoy bright day;While he who hides a dark soul and foul
thoughts, Benighted walks beneath the mid-day sun; Himself is his own dungeon.
'Tis joy to do an upright deed,
'Tis joy to do a kind, And the best reward of virtuous deeds, Is the peace of one's own mind.
The green leaves waving in the morning
galeThe little birds that 'mid their freshness
sing The wild-wood flowers so tender-eyed and
paleThe wood-mouse sitting by the forest
springThe morning dew-the wild bee's woodland
hum, All woo my feet to Nature's forest home.
To the pure heart, 'tis happiness to mark
shine To hear thy song, thou cloud embosom'd
lark, Like that of some fair spirit all divine To lie upon the forest's velvet grass, And watch the fearful deer in distance pass.
0! gloriously beautiful is earth!The desert wild, the mountain old and
The craggy steep, upthrown at nature's birth, The sweeping ocean wave, the pebbled
shore, Have much of beauty all ; but none to me, Is like the spot where stands the forest tree.
There I can muse away from living men,
Reclining peacefully on nature's breast, The wood-bird sending up its God-ward
strain, Nursing the spirit into holy rest ! Alone with God, within his forest fane, The soul can feel that all save him is vain,
Here it can learn will learn-to love all
things, That he hath made-to pity and for
give All faults, all failings. Here he heart's
deep springs Are open’d up, and all on Earth who
live, To me grow nearer, dearer than beforeMy brother loving I my God adore.
When I go musing in this happy time-
play High banks, with the wood-sorrel's flower in
prime, And rich luxuriant herbage, with the rime Of night-dews slightly silver'd, when the gay, Light, young-leav'd branches all around me
sway ; And when I hear the old familiar chime Of chaffinch and wood-creeper, and that voice Of summer-night, the cowering corn-crake's
I can no more keep down the sudden leap Of my touch'd heart, thus bidden to rejoice, Than I could charm back Nature into sleep, And chill her bosom with a wintry pall.
Song should breathe of scents and flowers;
Song should like a river flow;