二、哈瑞特·泰勒的三首诗
Written at Daybreak
HUSHED are all sound，the sons of toil pain
The poor and wealthy are all one again；
Sleep closes o'er the high and lowly head，
And makes the living fellows with the dead．
The clouds of night roll sullenly away，
Humbly obedient to th'approach of day；
The fragrant flowers unfold their scented heads，
The birds with gladness leave their leafy beds—
But unperceived at first the orb of day，
Sending alone a faint and trembling ray；
The glowing east，streaming with floods of gold
The fleeing clouds a thousand hues unfold．
At last he comes majestically slow
Pouring Bright radiance on the world below，
And springing upwards from th'embrace of night
Gilding the heavn's with beams of orient light—
O beauteous hour to minds of feeling giv'ns
Filling the heart with purpose arise
And give the soul communion with the skies；
To Nature's God our highest hopes ascend
The bounding heart paints joys which cannot end—
Oh，if to mortals it could e'er be given，
To chuse the path the spirit takes to Heav'n
Guided by him，from whom my doating heart
Not opening heav'n itself could tempt to part，
Mind would ascend，on such a morn as this
On wings of glorious light to realms of bliss
And he whose love illumes this world of care
Should dwell with me in all the transports there．
To the Summer Wind
WHENCE comst thou，sweet wind？
Didst take thy phantom form
'Mid the depth of forest trees？
Or spring，new born，
Of the fragrant morn，
'Mong the far—off Indian seas？
Where speedest thou，sweet wind？
Thou little heedest，I trow—
Dost thou sigh for some glancing star？
Or cool brow
Of the dying now，
As they pass to their home afar？
What mission is thine，O wind？
Say for what thou yearnest—
That，like the wayward mind，
Earth thou spurnest，
Heaven—ward turnest，
And rest canst nowhere find！
Nature
MANIFOLD cords，invisible or seen
Present orpast，or only hoped for，bind
All to our mother earth．—No step—dame she，
Coz'ning with forced fond ness，but a funt，
Rightly pursued，of never—failing love．—
True，that too oft'we lose ourselves'mong thorns
That tear and wound．But why impatient haste
From the smooth path our fairest mother dreww？
'Tis man，not nature，works the general ill，
By folly piled on folly，till the heap
Hides every natural feeling，save alone
Grey discontent，upraised to ominous height，
And keeping drowsy watcho'er buried wishes．
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