'Then let wise Nature work her will,
And on my clay her darnels grow,
Come only when the days are still,
And at my head-stone whisper low,
And tell me'--
Now, what would an ordinary bard wish to be told under such
circumstances?--why, perhaps, how his sweetheart was, or his child, or
his family, or how the Reform Bill worked, or whether the last edition
of his poems had been sold--_papae_! our genuine poet's first wish is
'And tell me--_if the woodbines blow_!'
When, indeed, he shall have been thus satisfied as to the _woodbines_,
(of the blowing of which in their due season he may, we think, feel
pretty secure,) he turns a passing thought to his friend--and another to
his mother--
'If _thou_ art blest, my _mother's_ smile
Undimmed'--
but such inquiries, short as they are, seem too common-place, and he
immediately glides back into his curiosity as to the state of the
weather and the forwardness of the spring--
'If thou art blessed--my mother's smile
Undimmed--_if bees are on the wing_?'
No, we believe the whole circle of poetry does not furnish such another
instance of enthusiasm for the sights and sounds of the vernal
season!--The sorrows of a bereaved mother rank _after_ the blossoms of
the _woodbine_, and just before the hummings of the _bee_; and this is
_all_ that he has any curiosity about; for he proceeds:--
'Then cease, my friend, a little while
That I may'--
'send my love to my mother,' or 'give you some hints about bees, which I
have picked up from Aristaeus, in the Elysian Fields,' or 'tell you how I
am situated as to my own personal comforts in the world below'?--oh no--
'That I may--hear the _throstle sing_
His bridal song--the boast of spring.
Pages:
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297