The Arbour. Thoughts, that do often lie too deep for tears. Wordsworth. O ’tis delightful, on a vernal eve, Within the tranquil and embower’d recess Of a green arbour to recline alone, While gentle rains, descending from the sky, Make pleasant music on the thirsty ground ; And there indulge that pleasing pensiveness, That languor of the meditative mind, Which broods upon the ocean of the past, Slow sailing onwards. O ’tis sadly sweet, To hear the small drops plashing on the stems Of succulent herbs, and on the opening buds, While, gently murmuring past, the west wind sighs To and fro, waving, in the twilight air, The broad expanse of melancholy leaves ; To see the swallow, ’mid the falling shower, Darting aloft, and wheeling ’mid the sky ; And buzzing home, the startled humble-bee, Journeying, in mazy flight, from flower to flower. Then doubly sweet, and doubly touching then, If, from the distant light-green groves, be heard Soft Music’s dying, undulating fall ; As if, again, the Pagan deities, Pan or Sylvanus, for one season more, Had sought the empires of their ancient reign : And, turning from the concord of sweet sounds, Gaze on the lovely blossoms, pink and white, Of pear and apple tree ; the varied bloom Of varied herb ; the many-tinctur’d flowers, Recumbent with the weight of dew, between Their girdles of green leaves ; the freshened coats Of evergreens ; the myrtle, and the box, And cypress, ’mid whose darkly-clustering boughs The blackbird sits. Such melancholy eyes Have nameless charms for me, too deep for words To utter and unbosom. Feelings dwell Deep, in the inner shrine of human hearts, And sheltered from the rude and passing shocks Of common life, that need the electric spark To fire them,—and at once the soul is flame ! To him, who sojourns ’mid the busy crowd Of cities ; where contention’s jar is heard For ever dissonant ; whose pathway lies Mid tumult, yet whose Poa hath passed away,— His earlier, better years—in privacy, Sequestered from the rude shocks of the world, Mid hills, and dales, and woods, and quiet lawns, And streamy glens, and pastoral dells ; to him, Who, every eve, listed the blackbird’s song, And, every morn, beheld the speckled lark Ascend to greet the sun ; to him an hour Like this, so pregnant with deep-seated thought, Thought kindled at the shrine of earlier years, Long quench’d, is more delightful than the mirth Of smiling faces, ’mid the perfum’d vaults Of echoing halls majestic, where the pride Of Art emblazoned forth, extinguishes The glow of Nature in the human heart ! Oh ! not the most intense of present joys Can match the far-departed loveliness Of vanish’d landscapes, when the wizard Time Hath spread o’er all their clefts and roughnesses His twilight mantle, and the spirit broods On what alone is beautiful, and soft, And pure—as summer waters in the sun Sleeping, when not a cloud is on the sky. Oh ! not the gorgeous splendour that invests The evening cloud, when, from his western tent, Resplendent glows the setting sun, and beams O’er earth, and sea, and sky, his glorious light, As if to show us, with derisive smiles, How sweet a paradise this world can be— Oh ! not the mid-day brightness, nor the blush Of crimson morning, have the deep delight, The state, the grandeur, the impressiveness Of this most intellectual hour, which draws The feelings to a focus, and restores— As native music to a wanderer’s ear, In foreign climes afar beyond the sea— The lightening vista of departed years. There runs a current through the ocean depths, A current through the ocean of the soul, Made up of uncommunicable thoughts— It is in vain, we cannot utter them— Like lava in the bowels of the hill, They dwell unseen—like lightning in the cloud, They hold no concourse with the passing thoughts Of common being, nor communion hold : With what is passing round us ; like the rays Of broken sunshine, they illume our paths ; Like relics snatched from paradise, they rise Before us, telling us of something fair, Which is not, but which hath been ; to the soul They are familiar, but we know not where, Nor when their first. acquaintance-ship began ; All speak a language soothing to the heart, Even from their voiceless silence ; the thin smoke Bluely ascending from the cottage roof, Through the still air; the sombre, quiet sky ; The shelving hills, whose green acclivities Rise in the distance ; the umbrageous woods, Forming a canopy of gloom, beneath Whose ample cope the sheltered cattle rest ; The paradise of blossom round ; the tints Of freshened flowers ; the dark and dewy ground ; The fanning of the zephyr in its path, Telling of perfume ; the melodious hymn Of birds amid the boughs ; and far away, Scarce heard, the murmurs of the cataract. Δ .