Who is this, that with unerring step dares tempt
the wilds, where only Nature’s foot hath trod? ‘Tis Contemplation, daughter
of the grey morning! Majestical she steppeth, and with her pure quill on
every flower writeth wisdom’s name. Now lowly bending, whispers in mine
ear, “ oh! Man, how great, how little thou! Oh! Man, slave of each moment,
lord of eternity! Seest thou where Mirth sits on the painted cheek? Doth
it not seem ashamed of such a place, and grow immoderate to brave it out?
Oh! What an humble garb true joy puts on! Those who want happiness must
stoop to find it; it is a flower that grows in every vale. Vain foolish
man, that roams on lofty rocks! Where, ‘cause his garments are swoln with
wind, he fancies he is grown into a giant! Lo then, humility, take it,
and wear it in thine heart; lord of thyself, thou then art lord of all.
Clamour brawls along the streets, and destruction hovers in the city’s
smoak; but on these plains, and in these silent woods, true joys descend:
here build thy nest; here fix thy stuff; delights blossom around; numberless
beauties blow; the green grass springs in joy, and the nible air kisses
the leaves; the brook stretches its arms along the velvet meadow, its silver
inhabitants sport and play; the youthful sun joys like a hunter rouzed
to the chace: he rushes up the sky, and lays hold on the immortal coursers
of day; the sky glitters with the jingling trappings! Like a triumph, season
follows season, while the airy music fills the world with joyful sounds.”
I answered, “heavenly goddess! I am wrapped in mortality, my flesh is a
prison, my bones the bars of death, misery builds over our cottage roofs,
and discontent runs like a brook. Even in childhood, sorrow slept with
me in my cradle; he followed me up and down in the house when I grew up;
he was my school – fellow: thus he was in my steps and in my play, till
he became to me as my brother. I walked through dreary places with him,
and in church yards; and I oft found myself sitting by sorrow on a tomb
– stone!”
