Innocence
OFT I have met her
In openings of the woods and pleasant ways,
Where flow'rs beset her,
And hanging branches crowned her head with bays.
Oft have I seen her walk
Through flow'r-decked fields unto the oaken pass,
Where lay the slumb'ry flock,
Swoll'n with much eating of the tender grass.
Oft have I seen her stand
By wandering brooks o'er which the willows met;
Or where the meadow-land
Balmed the soft air with dew-mist drapery wet.
Much patting of the wind
Had bloomed her cheek with colour of the rose;
Rare beauty was entwined
With locks and looks in movement or repose.
Beneath her sloping neck
Her bosom-gourds plumped mellow-white as spray;
Stainless, without a fleck,
The air which heaved them was less pure than they.
Strolling in evening's eye,
There came unto her airy laughter-chimes,
Nature's night-hymn and cry,
Leaf-stirring madrigals and river-rhymes.
The floriage of spring,
And summer's coronals were hers in trust,
Till came the winter-king
To droop their sweetness into native dust.
His sharp, embracing wind,
And wavering snow, or heaped in rimy hills,
She loved; ay! she could bind
On Fancy's brow his charmèd icicles.
The dingle and the glade,
The brown-ribbed mountains and tall, talking trees
Seemed fairer while she stayed,
And drank of their dim meanings and old ease.
Thoughts such as day unfolds
From starry quietude and noiseless sleep;
Scenes which the fancy holds
In easy thraldom in her joyous keep;
Visions of high delight,
And storied legends, cool as the dim eve,
Came thronging faintly-bright,
The habit of her inner life to weave.
Nor was she dead to pain—
Another's was her own; all griefs, all care
Which crush souls down amain,
She ever sought for, always wished to share.
And chiefly she did love
To soothe the widow's ruth, and orphans' tears;
With counsel from above,
Alleviating woe, allaying fears.
All these, and more, were hers:
What man may speak not of, but think upon;
What the pure soul avers
In secret solitude before God's throne.
There was a quiet grace
In all her actions, tok'ning gentleness,
Yet firm intent to trace
The paths of duty leading up to bliss.
He who created night,
Earth, and the biding stars, was all her guide;
She worshipped in his sight,
She sighed, she wept, she flung away her pride.
She thought of One who bore
The awful burden of the world's despair—
What could she give him more
Than blameless thoughts, a simple life and fair.
She was and is, for still
She lives and moves upon the grass-green earth,
And, as of old, doth fill
Her heart with peace, still mingling tears with mirth.
O! could we find her out,
And learn of her this wild'ring maze to tread
And, eased of every doubt,
Let deadly passions linger with the dead.
But truth is hard to find,
And simple souls are oft in error's thrall,
And faith too oft is blind:
We know a part and yet we know not all.
In openings of the woods and pleasant ways,
Where flow'rs beset her,
And hanging branches crowned her head with bays.
Oft have I seen her walk
Through flow'r-decked fields unto the oaken pass,
Where lay the slumb'ry flock,
Swoll'n with much eating of the tender grass.
Oft have I seen her stand
By wandering brooks o'er which the willows met;
Or where the meadow-land
Balmed the soft air with dew-mist drapery wet.
Much patting of the wind
Had bloomed her cheek with colour of the rose;
Rare beauty was entwined
With locks and looks in movement or repose.
Beneath her sloping neck
Her bosom-gourds plumped mellow-white as spray;
Stainless, without a fleck,
The air which heaved them was less pure than they.
Strolling in evening's eye,
There came unto her airy laughter-chimes,
Nature's night-hymn and cry,
Leaf-stirring madrigals and river-rhymes.
The floriage of spring,
And summer's coronals were hers in trust,
Till came the winter-king
To droop their sweetness into native dust.
His sharp, embracing wind,
And wavering snow, or heaped in rimy hills,
She loved; ay! she could bind
On Fancy's brow his charmèd icicles.
The dingle and the glade,
The brown-ribbed mountains and tall, talking trees
Seemed fairer while she stayed,
And drank of their dim meanings and old ease.
Thoughts such as day unfolds
From starry quietude and noiseless sleep;
Scenes which the fancy holds
In easy thraldom in her joyous keep;
Visions of high delight,
And storied legends, cool as the dim eve,
Came thronging faintly-bright,
The habit of her inner life to weave.
Nor was she dead to pain—
Another's was her own; all griefs, all care
Which crush souls down amain,
She ever sought for, always wished to share.
And chiefly she did love
To soothe the widow's ruth, and orphans' tears;
With counsel from above,
Alleviating woe, allaying fears.
All these, and more, were hers:
What man may speak not of, but think upon;
What the pure soul avers
In secret solitude before God's throne.
There was a quiet grace
In all her actions, tok'ning gentleness,
Yet firm intent to trace
The paths of duty leading up to bliss.
He who created night,
Earth, and the biding stars, was all her guide;
She worshipped in his sight,
She sighed, she wept, she flung away her pride.
She thought of One who bore
The awful burden of the world's despair—
What could she give him more
Than blameless thoughts, a simple life and fair.
She was and is, for still
She lives and moves upon the grass-green earth,
And, as of old, doth fill
Her heart with peace, still mingling tears with mirth.
O! could we find her out,
And learn of her this wild'ring maze to tread
And, eased of every doubt,
Let deadly passions linger with the dead.
But truth is hard to find,
And simple souls are oft in error's thrall,
And faith too oft is blind:
We know a part and yet we know not all.
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