Classic Poem

AS farther, farther from the town I go,
And on the loneliest haunts my steps intrude,
The hills in new-donned surplices of snow —
Hills, the old Priesthood of the Solitude —
From their uplifted altars, rent and rude,
Seem preaching to this slumberous grove of pine
Some homily that's wordless, yet divine,
Whereby my listening spirit is subdued.
Whilst, 'mid the calm and congregated trees
(Hooded like friars in their cloisters chill),
Whispers with reverent " Hush! " the languid breeze, —
Wanders away, and all is doubly still;
And I perceive — so Fancy says apart —
The full, perpetual throb of Nature's sleepless heart.

Hushed is the broad and beautiful expanse
Of moorland, mountain, woodland, vale, and fell;
The Earth is slumbering in a holy trance,
The gentle thraldom of a mystic spell;
Whilst from her bosom — as Asea-born shell
Sings to the ear — mysterious murmurs creep
Upwards, as she were moaning in her sleep,
And muttering marvels which she cannot quell:
Vague sounds and dubious syllables they seem,
As though a pensive nun, serene and fair,
Sighed through her veil for joys she cannot share,
Recalling of the past some pleasant dream;
Or like a virgin in her secret bower,
Who whispers prayer to God before the bridal hour.